In the Valleys of the Noble Bey - John Zada Page 0,95
adds bitterly that another environmental campaign protecting wolves has caused them to explode in number, with the result that they’ve killed off all the deer and mountain goats in the region. “These environmentalists are swinging things all to one side,” he grumbles. “Just eat tofu and don’t do nothin’. That’s all they’re good for.”
Daniel too is not in the best of moods. He doesn’t speak much to me, and speaks even less to Leonard, with whom he seems almost angry. I get the sense he doesn’t want to be here. He glares at Leonard every time his father stops for a rest break.
As the trail ascends the mountainside we come across a group of four hikers—two women and two men—the first and only people we see on our trip. Leonard knows them and is drawn into small talk. Their eyes shift surreptitiously between Leonard, his shotgun, and then me. Leonard mentions he is taking me—”a writer from Ontario”—to his cabin. But the comment seems to only deepen their curiosity, shown on their faces.
“They were behaving strangely,” I say, after they walk off.
“Probably spooked by the gun,” Leonard grumbles. “They’re the sort of people who only carry bear spray.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask.
“It’s a bad idea. Bear spray only works at fifteen feet at most. If a pissed-off bear is that close to you, you’re in real trouble.”
“I can see that carrying a gun is a good idea. But doesn’t that also come at the risk of dropping your guard?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“I imagine with a gun there’s less need to pay attention and be careful. And so you’re more likely to have to use it in the end. And vice versa with bear spray.”
Daniel is standing with his back to us, looking into the woods, pretending not to listen.
I go on: “The bear-viewing operations I know of here seem to do fine without firearms.”
“How any bear operator, or tourist provider, can take guests into bear territory with just spray is beyond me. Anything can happen out here. If I don’t have a gun, I won’t go into the bush.”
“Maybe those people have learned how to behave around bears without provoking them.”
Though my comment wasn’t intended as a slight, I can see that Leonard has taken it as one. His tone turns didactic.
“What you need to know, John, is that those coastal bears are well fed and habituated to people. The guides and the bears know one another personally. The tours even give ‘em names, like Tom, Frank, and Susan—like they’re old chums. But if you run into an Atnarko grizzly, you’ll see how mean and grumpy they can be. I brought a group near here, and an old boar got too close. It was running near a cedar stump. To protect my guests I shot the stump and it exploded. You know what the bear did?”
“I can guess.”
“That’s right. The bear decided it had better walk away—and he did.”
I can see the episode running through Leonard’s mind, and a cool look comes over his face. “Lucky for him.”
Our hike to the cabin begins smoothly. But after a few hours, a set of worrying omens descends in sequence. The first comes when Leonard takes his fourth rest break in under an hour. He sits on a log by the trail, and lets out a long moan ringing with pain and relief. Daniel looks daggers at his father.
“What’s the matter?” I say to Leonard. “You’re always stopping.”
“I’m just outta shape,” he says, staring at his boots. “It’s nothin’.”
Daniel holds his own stare. “Ask him about his knee,” he says to me coldly.
Leonard looks up at his son with exhausted annoyance, and turns to me. “I had a little surgery in this knee here back in the spring. It’s just buggin’ me a little.”
“You should have mentioned that before we left,” I say, feeling a tinge of fear.
“I didn’t think it’d be an issue.”
Daniel cracks a patronizing grin. “Who’d have imagined the great Leonard Ellis getting his ass kicked on a hike. Let’s go, Dad.”
The second omen comes when we arrive at the mouth of Stillwater Lake, a long, narrow body of water hemmed in by steep, forested mountainsides draped with rockslides. Our plan is to borrow canoes at another cabin here and cross to Leonard’s property at the head of the lake. But when we find the boats, we discover they’re cracked and banged up.
“They’re no good,” Leonard says, with a tired sigh, before standing and looking out toward the lake.