Bears? What the heck are they doing all the way down here? No way!
Not that I’m any stranger to bears. Au contraire. My childhood summers were filled with bear encounters, thanks to my mom. Yes, the mom who taught me to embrace and celebrate storms and tornadoes. And to speak with ease to perfect strangers who just weren’t my best friend yet. And who instructed dad to “follow that bear!” down the dirt road as she piled the kids into the big red station wagon.
Bears. I’d had enough, sometime in late junior high.
As a background, what else do you do for vacation with five kids on a limited budget? As a mailman, dad earned several weeks a year during which we explored every National Park, State Park and most privately-owned campgrounds in the entire state of Minnesota, North and South Dakota, Wisconsin and southern Canada. Mom has a strong preference for the pines of northern Minnesota, the more isolated and rustic the campsite the better.
That’s because, well, bears. And other wildlife. Skunks. Raccoons. Chipmunks. We once parked on the side of the Gunflint Trail for a good twenty minutes watching a giant moose in the swamp as it watched us. A glimpse of a deer drew “oohs” and “ahs” from us city kids before they became more commonplace in the suburbs. Eagles soaring majestically took our breath away. And eight-inch leeches hunting little white crawdads didn’t stop us from playing in the water of a shallow lake. Just watch your step.
We made excursions to the Tofte Dump when they still allowed it. Come dusk, the perimeter filled with cars loaded with families and cameras. On cue, the big black mammals poked their noses out of the woods and pawed through the edible goldmine left by garbage trucks earlier in the day. Stay in the car! Well, maybe roll the window down. They weren’t interested in us at all. A few brave souls stepped out and sat on the hood or inched closer, always within running distance should the bear change its mind regarding the gawkers.
Back at the campsite, we’d look for signs it had been visited while we were away. Deer droppings were common. We occasionally found a big pile of bear scat. Score! We examined it for blueberries and other remnants of their last meal. Although the parks did all they could to keep them away, garbage cans were no match for their strength and claws. We’d listen for the loud crashing as the bears moved through the campground, methodically knocking over the cans and ripping apart the contents. We were poised and ready to go. Quick, now! Jump in the car. The lights flashed on. If we were lucky, we’d spot the black monster making all the racket. Following them down the road, we once saw two cubs and a mother scamper up a tree.
But one night up north did me in. We knew the rules and followed them meticulously. Absolutely no food, ever, in the tent. And we all went to sleep with a metal spoon and pot or lid nearby. That night, we had a visitor. We first heard the noise near the picnic table where there may or may not have been some leftover buttered popcorn. Once that was devoured, leaving claw marks in the plastic and a departing pile of poop, our guest began making its way right toward our tent! We could hear the soft padding of its feet and crackling twigs as the heavy body shuffled past. A mere wall of canvas separated us from the heavy breathing of the large bruin no more than two feet away. Did we freeze in fright? Oh no. Someone shouted “bear!” We all grabbed our clangors, banging and clanging pots and pans and lids and spoons, hollering at the tops of our voices, making enough racket to send any bear skedaddling into the next county. Our visitor lumbered off, unimpressed.
That was the last time I slept in the tent on our camping trips. Cars had bench seats in those days and they made a fine bed. I like a bit of excitement. But I’m not stupid. So, someone saw a bear recently just to the east of us and another sighting just to our west. Yup. Bring it on.
***Pam Collins and her husband, Steve, have lived in the country outside of Cannon Falls for 30 years. Their four grown children and eight grandkids love sitting on the porch with them. You can find Pam’s “From the Porch” columns read out loud on Spotify under “From the Porch with Pam” and on iHeartRadio under “From the Porch”.
