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Two Guys on a Mission

Three years ago in the fall I paddled up Whiskey Creek to witness the annual spectacle of kokanee salmon bottled up in the creek, waiting on uncertain rains for the chance to head upstream to spawn. I try to do this every year. It’s tradition. Reassuring, too. The world may be heading somewhere in a hand basket, but if those fish are still heading upstream, I’m hopeful.

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This time I took First Mate, Scout along. It’s a tight fit, accommodating an Australian Shepard in the cockpit, but we managed. We put in at the boat ramp. Water levels were high and we slid easily through the cave-like culvert that funnels Whiskey Creek into the lake. On the other side we carved a path through hundreds of kokanee darting away in flashes of red and green. A little further up the creek, shallower waters roiled with the frenzy below the surface. I beached the kayak. Scout and I hopped out. As I pulled the boat up, free of the current, I heard something. A loud splashing was coming from upstream, around a bend, hardly out of sight. Hmmm. Otters? – kinda loud for those guys. People? – water seemed a tad chilly. A bear, perhaps?

Scout and I proceeded quietly. We crossed the large fallen log, wet and slippery, that still spans the creek. Stream waters veered left. We pushed on through a curtain of willow branches. The splashing continued. Scout fell back – a major clue. She doesn’t like bears. Coming through the tangle of branches I got my first glimpse. Barely 40 feet upstream, a large black bear. Ursus americanus. Pushing 400 pounds, plus. A biggun’. The splashing ceased. I froze, knew I’d missed something rarely witnessed south of Fairbanks – seeing a bruin swipe his big paw through the water at fish stranded in the shallows. Still, I was feeling lucky simply seeing a bear this close. I took a step forward. Any moment now he would pivot and charge pell-mell thru the undergrowth. Damn! I’d forgotten my camera.

Things didn’t unfold quite like that. Go figure. On Whiskey Creek, Thanksgiving comes but once a year and this dude hadn’t sent out invitations. He stood motionless, front paws submerged in the creek, unblinking eyes open wide, ears pricked in my direction. My heart began to race. Somewhere behind me Scout barked a couple of times. The massive head began to bob. Nostrils flared, sniffed the air, the head swayed slowly right to left. Run, you big bastard! I knew the drill. If he charges, play dead. Serious? Seconds ticked away. I bent my knees, lowered myself slowly until hands could explore the rocky bottom of the creek. I came up gripping a large stone in each hand.

In the time it takes to suffer cardiac arrest, the bear plunged into the water, splashed across, climbed the other bank and pivoted to face me once again. He swung his head high and issued a loud “woof”. Then, finally, oh so casually, he turned, walked a few paces up the slope, stopped, looked back over his shoulder, walked a few more, looked back again. He vanished in the blackberries. With Scout leading the way, I got out of there.

OK, so I’m driving home, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I can barely contain myself. Someone has to hear about my close shave with “griz”. I went straight to Bill Siemer’s place. He, after all, was my primary hiking and kayaking buddy. “You shoulda been with me this morning…,” I began. This once, I had a story requiring no embellishment. Bill was mesmerized. No surprise to me, he had to see for himself. We decided to go back the next morning. Crack of dawn. We were going to see this brute. Intrepid bear wranglers. Get pictures. Damn the torpedoes!

I didn’t sleep real well that night.

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We met at the boat ramp. It was cold, murky, windless – the sun’s brilliant orb poised low in skies above Lassen. In 15 minutes, we shoved off in two kayaks, paddles dipping silently, cameras hanging from our necks, speaking in whispers. No dog this time. At the culvert all talk ended. We went to hand signals. In the shallows we paused. To spare the sound of hauling kayaks ashore we tied them to branches and let them drift. We rolled our pants above our knees and started wading up the middle of Whiskey Creek. So far, smooth as silk – like something out of a Bond flick. Two guys on a mission.

We were in the thick of it, parting willow branches, forging ahead, when I thought I heard the oddest of sounds. Sorta like voices. Pshaw! I said nothing. But a second later, there it was again. “Bill,” I whispered. He ignored me. (I suspect Bill had left hearing aids at home.) “Bill,” I said a bit louder. He looked. I pointed toward the jungle of blackberry vines up the bank on our right. “I heard someone,” I said. Of course, it was dead silent. “I did!” I said for emphasis. Right on cue a voice boomed from the thicket, “WHO ARE YOU?” There was someone out there and they did not sound the least bit pleased. Like we were trespassing or something. Was that possible? I scrambled for a plausible response, something better than, “We’re just a couple of guys wading up this freezing creek hoping to encounter the mother of all bears. Nice guys, by the way.” Evidently, I was too slow.

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“You Fish and Game, ATF, or DEA?” the voice boomed again. I’m not one to stereotype, but visions are visions. His drawl conjured up bare feet, tobacco-stained beards…the distinct sound of banjos. I glanced at my friend. Bill shook his head in disbelief.

“We’re walking up the…” I managed.

“Well, ya just *ucked up a good bear hunt,” he cut in.

Those were the last words we stuck around for. Bill and I headed downstream. Behind us, hidden somewhere, were angry men with guns. So much for photo ops with bears. But hey, we’d live to see another day.

* * *

This is one of many fond memories of my adventures with the late Bill Siemer. All were fun, some exciting, but probably none stranger than our run-in with the bear hunters.

Jim Dowling

Jim Dowling is a retired teacher and ex-railroad brakeman/conductor. He takes pictures, gardens and, on occasion, spins a decent yarn.

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