As most of you know, I spend large portions of my time working and living in the bush. This week was no different with six day’s flying out in Toba Inlet, 50 miles north of Powell River. Spectacular country. Glaciers, ocean, wildlife… the lot.
No matter how “hard core” some of us like to think we are when packing, there is one item that’s NEVER left behind at the hanger – toilet paper. The stuff is more important than Jet Fuel, seriously. Thus equipped, I was enjoying my week’s flying in Toba, despite recent weather.
Working on a $2 Billion power project has some benefits over lesser camps, mainly food, accommodations, and entertainment. However, strategically placed outhouses along the length of the remote 44km Toba valley road are added bonuses.
Bit of a strange sight come to think of it, just sitting there in the middle of nowhere, but one such “facility” is right at the head of the Inlet, on the estuary where we stage from occasionally. Perfect. Sure beats squatting in the swamp swatting flies. Or so one would think….
Complete with 2-ply toilet paper, foaming anti-bacterial hand soap, and that dark blue liquid in the bottom to eliminate the threat of infection and reduce odors – these aren’t your Grandfather’s splinter prone, wooden-seat-over-a-hole-in-the-ground crappers. No Sir, they are the Gold Standard. There is however one thing missing – a peephole. You know, like the one in apartment doors?
‘Why would you need a peephole in an outhouse in the bush?’ Logical question I suppose.
Once finished, and upon opening the unfortunately Butlerless door to the Ritz of out-houses, I found myself staring squarely in to the eyes of a 400lb Grizzly not 15ft away. Fortunately the “business” was already done… but in light of this little surprise, another “transaction” was just around the corner.
He’s looking at me; I’m looking at him… we shared a moment. Well, several actually. Almost quaint… Almost. I do feel fortunate seeing things most people don’t, even this, but when you can smell its breath, you’re close.
I’m fairly certain I shocked him as much as he shocked me. So, in regular Monty Python fashion - with what I’m sure was a classic Michael Palin stupid look on my face - I closed the door, sat back down, and quickly realized “death by Grizzly” might be preferable to being tipped over in said Cadillac of out-houses… Kill me now – please! Anything but that.
The thought of emerging dyed blue and covered in shit had me rapidly flipping through options in my head. Like any pilot, I’m into options. Lots of them.
Amazing how limited one’s options can be while trapped in an out-house by an underfed, presumably angry, and obviously self-confident Grizzly. Who knew?
I want to watch. I know that now. If it’s coming, I want to see it. Now standing in the blue plastic Port-A-Potty like some pre-wrapped sausage humming “If I had a million dollars…,” not knowing WHERE it’s coming from isn’t all that fun. Trust me on that one.
So, the bear starts sniffing around the out-house, nudging it a bit, pondering I’m sure, whether or not he should just eat right away, or have a little fun and tip the damn thing over, and show his buddies the screaming blue guy first?
At that moment, my radio mercifully crackles with the voice of a Foreman on the hill to whom I’m supposed to be slinging a 10ft culvert right about now. “This is Fred. We’re ready for the slinging” SAVED!
My children will indeed grow up with a Father! SAVED!!! Oh, wait, no children… Whatever, SAVED! none the less! The air – even inside - suddenly smells better, the blue plastic is bluer, the 2-ply softer! Saved indeed.
I’d forgotten about radio until this point. But now, realizing I could beat this beast into submission with superior technology, (well, I could call someone who could) hope returned. I might end up blue, and slightly more “chewed” than I started the day, but I’d come out of this little plastic prison more or less in one piece. Just let them know, they will come. “Um, Fred, I’m having a bear issue here…” surely, rescue was on the way?
Silence. Twelve guys out on the hill, all monitoring the same radio frequency, and not a single response to my cool and collected call for help. Fabulous. Might as well be Neil friggen Armstrong with a hole in my suit right about now… Now what?
By the time I got over the fact that not a single person deemed it necessary to send a truck racing to my aid, I realized Smoky had left. Wandered off, left, got bored, on his Blackberry, sleeping, contemplating the election, whatever - he was no longer there. But without a peephole, “how could I be sure?” Same question my Mother-in-Law asked when we got married by the way… but I digress.
Opening the door again, I felt very much like that gorgeous blonde in all those horror movies. Ok, I’m not blonde, nor am I gorgeous, but I KNOW why they always open the door now – you HAVE to. It comes over you like a wave, a voice in your head hisses “do it, open it! Come on you wuss, she did, open it!” So open it I did, mentally prepared for a fight to the death with my trusty Leatherman and Blundstones if need be!
Anticlimax of anticlimaxes. Let down of epic proportions. I was Dr. Bowman when HAL locked him out of the ship. Crushed.
Smoky was nowhere to be seen. Not slyly hiding behind the out-house waiting to pounce, not hiding behind the rock, or bushes, or the helicopter, or the goddamn road sign – gone. How disappointing, I was “ready!” This was my time…
A guy in B.C. beat a black bear sow to death with a stick in self-defense last week. I was ready to one up him and carve me up a fearsome 9000lb Grizzly with any number of items in my multi-tool. Had the knife not worked, I knew the scissors or Phillips head screwdriver would have – it was only a matter of time, can opener maybe? I’d have got him.
A true test of Man vs Nature, what more can one ask for??? It was not to be. He chickened out. I however win by default - these are the rules, it’s my ball and I’m going home.
Back to the helicopter, grab the camera and wait. Soon enough, a bear came out of the bush, so I took the attached pictures. However, I’m sure the bear in the photos isn’t the same one. This one is MUCH smaller, less fearsome looking, no fangs dripping with the blood of its last victim, and far too laid back to be my deadly, now vanquished adversary. A distant midget cousin destined for the circus perhaps, but you’ll get the idea.
Two things in this encounter stand out:
1) The squatting in the field with your head up, wind whistling around your ankles, and trusty role of 3-ply at your side method, is highly under-rated. Highly.
2) Cliché’s come from somewhere, and contrary to popular belief, when you’re staring death in the face, it’s not your life that passes before your eyes, but an endless string of “B” movie clichés. Really. Most unfortunate.
Afghanistan next month is starting to look safe.
stl
(no punn intended) That was hilarious! 
Great story. Obviously that pic must have been....uh...your bears cub... 
