The Bear

I’m going to string a tale here about how I became an honorary member of the Sioux nation. I was out last month stealing horses from the Double T ranch just below the South Saskatchewan River in the Great Sand Hills with my good pal Johnny Two Fingers.

I started following a set of tracks down into a coulee, leaving Johnny up on the plains. I followed for quite some time getting all kinds of wet, when in the distance I hear this menacing growl. Naturally my pony was some kind of spooked but I had with me a spring bear tag and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

I weaved in and out of a grove of large birch until I could smell the beast. There in front of me was a mammoth 700 pound sow with cubs at her side. As the chill escapes my spine, I am brought back to realty by this yelling coming from above me. The bear had chased two men up the tree. I inched closer, trying to avoid the bear when I realized that I knew the two guys up in the tree. One was a Cree fellow, Gerald three pennies. Gerald is a rotten man that I know from my days on the powwow trail this past winter with the Prince Albert band Thunder Rolls. Gerald is the kind a guy that steals your truck and leaves you stranded without any pants in the Shelbrook hotel at four in the morning, but that is a tale for another time. The other man was Ronnie Runs With A Fist. Ronnie is a well respected man from the Sioux nation, cousin by marriage to Gerald. Old Ronnie is a descendent of the great warrior chief, Crazy Horse.

Anyway back to the story. The two start yelling at me to save them. Now under normal conditions it is highly illegal to put down a mother with cubs at her side, but I was pretty certain that bear was about two minutes from a Gerald Three Penny sandwich, so I pulled my rifle from its case, put up the cross hairs and click. Click….. click….. The thing doesn’t fire. Now were really fucked. The bear is still raging away and is now starting to sway the tree back and forth and the two up top are almost in tears. Ronnie yells down at me, "Jeff, if you get me out of this, I will make it worth your while."

"Jeff, Do you remember Genie from the Black Hills powwow…." Now I remember genie. Five foot six with the shiniest black hair down past the curve of her… well you get the picture. Genie is a fox, a woman with the grace of God and the tenacity of a wild filly. Just the thought that a girl with Genie’s beauty will even glance at me is enough to get me out of bed in the morning. Well low and behold Ronnie offers to set me up on a date if I can solve this bear issue. As for Gerald, well Gerald…. He’d never give anyone anything and besides, the fucker owed me 600 bones for that ol’ truck of mine he stole and banged up. But then again I don’t ever want to see anyone die so I decided I would figure him into my plan as well.

Right then I remembered about my peanut butter sandwich in the pack. I was hoping to have it stick to my ribs in about an hour or so but that peanut butter sandwich was destined for higher realms. I began to formulate a plan. I would go around to the opposite side that the bear was on and on my signal Ronnie and Gerald were to run as fast as they could toward me. I relayed the plan to the boys, and while they seemed a touch tentative, they really had no choice. So I wheeled up some courage and yelled NOW! The only thing between me and my date with Pocahontas was a peanut butter sandwich. Out of the tree come Gerald and Ronnie running straight toward me, eyes ablaze. I closed my eyes and pictured Genie’s soft hair blowing in the wind and with that I knew I would not let down Ronnie. With the bear nipping at their heels I wound up and let rip the peanut butter sandwich. All those years tossing rocks into open grain cars at the rail yard had paid off. The sandwich was right on its mark. Like a homer at Yankee stadium the PB and J smashed right into Gerald’s face. In a sea of bread, jam and crushed peanuts, Gerald lost his footing and the bear was quickly on top of him.

Ronnie and I scrambled to my mount, escaping the ivory white jaws of the black bear. Away we went, riding towards town, sunset bathing our shoulders. Now luckily Ronnie was not totally a fan of Gerald anyway and was in fact so grateful I had saved his life that he vowed not only to set me up on that date, but to make me an honorary member of the Sioux nation.





So as with any story, there must be a moral. And the moral of the story here is that if you are ever in a bear encounter, don’t get so concerned with the bear, just get concerned about whoever you have to outrun.

Casualties of the River

The following were casualties of the annual spring Wascana creek trip-

-One Wiser's special blend mickey bottle- This was shot to pieces by flashlight.
-One Hollywood trucker hat- The wind on this particular weekend was strong enough to not only force the weary paddlers to portage a Northward stretch, but it was also strong enough to blow my favorite hat into the drink. Oh well.
-One toque, camera and cell phone- All destroyed when the canoe rolled while running into a four foot hole of swirling flood water.

I hope that at the very least my memory card in the camera was not destroyed. Everything else is extremely replaceable. Moments captured in time by photographs are not so readily replicated.

Now for the story of how I was rescued by a dog, shortly after a dog tried to drown me.

As me and Tanner paddled towards the infamous curve towards the end of our journey, it became apparent that there was a reason this stretch of river had a reputation. I have only flipped a canoe three times in my life and it just so happens that all three have come at the exact same place.

The bank at this spot takes a very sharp curve at a point where a large piece of bank had fallen into the river years previous. This "island" in years when runoff is small forces a small stream to its outside bank. In this year of the flood, what it did was create a 4 foot swirling hole of water. There was no avoiding it, like gravity the river pulled us straight to the vortex. The right side dipped down, took on water and in the instance of a moment our feet were no longer touching anything solid. My dog, terrified of his first water experience, tried to climb onto my head, drowning me in the process. I would have more sympathy for the bastard except that he also had a life jacket on. I tossed him away to gain my composure but he simply swam over to tanner and attached himself to the back of his head instead. Luckily Tanner is a stronger swimmer than me. Somehow he managed with paddle in one hand, canoe in the other, to navigate the boat and the dog to shore while I floundered helplessly trying to figure out my next course of action. My once helpful rubber boots now became anchors and useless flippers. I drifted down river cursing the fact that I could not swim because I was wielding a paddle. Then it dawned on me... Why do I not pretend I am a boat and paddle myself to shore. As I finally pulled my lifeless body onto terra firma 300 meters downstream from the vortex, I realized I made to the opposite shore that Tanner did.

While catching my breathe, friends Avery and Brett who had been behind us, pulled up on shore where Tanner was wrestling the canoe to upright position. Walking along the bank toward me they yelled encouraging words, "your on the wrong side!" As if I was blindly unaware of the problem. Now this really was a predicament. The canoes were right full of gear and the current was the strongest I had ever seen it. There was no way we could fit three in a canoe and no way Tanner could navigate my big blue machine by his lonesome.

So we came up with an idea. They would throw a rope to me and pull me across. One rescue rope was not long enough so two were tied together. After 4 painful tries it became obvious that no one had the strength to toss that rope across the raging canyon. Meanwhile, Brett's black lab had been standing inquisitively to the side watching our every move. Like a faithful companion he trotted up to Brett and we realized that Harley was here to save the day. The rope was tied to the dog but it was obvious it would not be long enough. As the dog would float down the river he would take more line with him (A squared plus B squared = something something something... science... I don't know). Anyway while Harley traveled down river, someone would have to run as fast as they could along the bank so that the rope would remain parallel to the shore bridging the shortest distance. Harley jumped into the river and with every meter of progress towards me the river took him four more down stream. We were quickly running out of rope. Also running along the river was me, shouting encouragement to the hound, hoping he would make it before the end of the rope would reach Brett. True to form, as the last knot of the rope reached Brett's hand, I threw out an arm and dragged Harley from the dangers of the water. We had one hand on each end of the rope as we praised a very proud dog.

I quickly tied the rope around my chest and with the strength of ten men, my three friends played anchor while the river swung me into home shore. At last I was safe in the arms of my fellow travelers. Needless to say the rest of the trip went off without a hitch, and I'm sure damn glad that pooch was with us.