So, what is it going to be? The Pacific Ocean, lapping dark beaches of British Columbia with its cool tongue? Or the remaining giant Douglas and Sitka spruce trees, fluted Western red cedars and feathery hemlocks, which somehow survived the assault of chainsaws whirring just over the hills?
An Aussie volunteer at the visitors' center of the Pacific Rim National Park Reserve on Vancouver Island tells us about a small fish hatchery on a nearby creek: a big run of Coho and Chinook salmon is about to begin, trailed closely by hungry black bears. We grab a tides' tables booklet and head toward Ukluelet, a small coastal village tucked among mossy trees, then turn into a rough gravel road and follow it down to the sea.
A few rough sheds, a cyclone fence, and a narrow boardwalk crowd the dark stream, but the other side of the estuary presents a beautiful multi-hued tapestry of thick rainforest, and further up the creek a circle of black volcanic rocks shelters two meager waterfalls, foaming and spluttering as if someone had turned the upstream taps off and left them dripping. The mouth of the river, swollen with high tide, ripples with big fish, already stacked up to swim upstream and spawn but held back by the drought: there is not enough water for them to attempt to jump the falls.
We hunker down and wait. After the hatchery crew leaves for the night, we watch first bears appear in the gathering darkness, black animal cutouts patrolling the banks. Suddenly there are many bears: females with small cubs, a big boar, and several youngsters no longer protected by their fierce moms, yet not strong enough to rule the river. All are hungry: we see how quickly they move and search for scraps of fish. They pay scant attention to salmon circling a pool gouged by the current: prior to spawning, the fish are still strong and fast, and any bear who jumps in and tries to catch them in deep water would waste his precious energy.
The night comes and we can no longer walk around safely, so we scoot inside our camper and try to sleep. But the dark outside is vibrating with sounds, and soon a strangled roar a few yards from our truck wakes us up: it is as if the whole forest growled and could not stop. John whispers: "Do you think someone got a fishbone stuck in his throat?" and we listen for a long time, mesmerized. Morning comes with heavy mists and more growls, so I stick my head outside and watch one of the mums dragging a big squid up the tree next to us, with her small cub following.
All day long, we watch the tapestry of woods across the stream, a diorama alive with bears. One pokes his nose out of the green foliage, takes a deep sniff, and disappears. Another enters the creek, a fuzzy black shape parting shimmering reflections. A small but aggressive mum feeds on a huge Chinook she catches in the shallows, and then leads her spring cub into the creek. The baby catches another salmon by the tail and looks perplexed: what do I do now?
The mother does not assist, and the cub loses the slippery fish, lunges to grab it -- again by the tail -- and then drags it up a steep slippery chute all bears use to walk above the falls. The big fish slams against the cub's chest and short legs, the little bear loses his balance, and the salmon slides to the bottom of the chute. The cub tumbles down and grabs it again by the tail, but this time he figures it out: he climbs backwards up the steep slope, dragging his pray.
Toward evening, I see the pair again: the female climbs the boardwalk and strides toward me, while the cub waits. She is bold and not afraid, not predatory but definitely preemptive, and seems to consider the boardwalk her space and not mine. I am alone -- John is on the beach, watching small waves in many shades of gray -- and realize I cannot climb the cyclone fence on my left, slide down huge mossy boulders to the creek on my right, or ignore the fact that a quick retreat to the falls -- and then, what? -- is not possible. So I walk toward her, growling in a low voice: get back, get back, NO! NO! NO! and she gives me a look of disapproval and retreats.
And the rain? There is Richard, the manager of the hatchery, and Larry, a photographer who just retired from CBC, and Jean, who works with the fish as well. They assure me a real deluge of several inches is coming any time now, and then I will be in true bear heaven. The rains come one evening in wet sheets and drumming waves which last for three days, and all the Chinooks and Cohos finally swim up to the falls. The hatchery workers come out in force, fill their dipnets with wiggling fish, and after removing their eggs and milk drop the bodies on the grass, a great smorgasboard of protein and fat. But the bears are no longer hungry: they could not wait, and in the last few days found enough fish in the shallow creek.
They take trial runs toward thrashing salmon still entering the current but soon stop and walk away. I watch their warmly furred bodies disappearing in the forest and see they need to rest. We need a change of pace, too. Our camper is leaking, staining sleeping bags with wet rivulets. It is time to start our trek south, to some warmer and drier places. Yet after days spent in the green light of the stream reflecting dark animals, boiling clouds and the shimmering salmon, something changes, and Pablo Neruda's words come:
I walked around as you do, investigating
the endless star,
and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,
the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
An Aussie volunteer at the visitors' center of the Pacific Rim National Park Reserve on Vancouver Island tells us about a small fish hatchery on a nearby creek: a big run of Coho and Chinook salmon is about to begin, trailed closely by hungry black bears. We grab a tides' tables booklet and head toward Ukluelet, a small coastal village tucked among mossy trees, then turn into a rough gravel road and follow it down to the sea.
A few rough sheds, a cyclone fence, and a narrow boardwalk crowd the dark stream, but the other side of the estuary presents a beautiful multi-hued tapestry of thick rainforest, and further up the creek a circle of black volcanic rocks shelters two meager waterfalls, foaming and spluttering as if someone had turned the upstream taps off and left them dripping. The mouth of the river, swollen with high tide, ripples with big fish, already stacked up to swim upstream and spawn but held back by the drought: there is not enough water for them to attempt to jump the falls.
We hunker down and wait. After the hatchery crew leaves for the night, we watch first bears appear in the gathering darkness, black animal cutouts patrolling the banks. Suddenly there are many bears: females with small cubs, a big boar, and several youngsters no longer protected by their fierce moms, yet not strong enough to rule the river. All are hungry: we see how quickly they move and search for scraps of fish. They pay scant attention to salmon circling a pool gouged by the current: prior to spawning, the fish are still strong and fast, and any bear who jumps in and tries to catch them in deep water would waste his precious energy.
The night comes and we can no longer walk around safely, so we scoot inside our camper and try to sleep. But the dark outside is vibrating with sounds, and soon a strangled roar a few yards from our truck wakes us up: it is as if the whole forest growled and could not stop. John whispers: "Do you think someone got a fishbone stuck in his throat?" and we listen for a long time, mesmerized. Morning comes with heavy mists and more growls, so I stick my head outside and watch one of the mums dragging a big squid up the tree next to us, with her small cub following.
All day long, we watch the tapestry of woods across the stream, a diorama alive with bears. One pokes his nose out of the green foliage, takes a deep sniff, and disappears. Another enters the creek, a fuzzy black shape parting shimmering reflections. A small but aggressive mum feeds on a huge Chinook she catches in the shallows, and then leads her spring cub into the creek. The baby catches another salmon by the tail and looks perplexed: what do I do now?
The mother does not assist, and the cub loses the slippery fish, lunges to grab it -- again by the tail -- and then drags it up a steep slippery chute all bears use to walk above the falls. The big fish slams against the cub's chest and short legs, the little bear loses his balance, and the salmon slides to the bottom of the chute. The cub tumbles down and grabs it again by the tail, but this time he figures it out: he climbs backwards up the steep slope, dragging his pray.
Toward evening, I see the pair again: the female climbs the boardwalk and strides toward me, while the cub waits. She is bold and not afraid, not predatory but definitely preemptive, and seems to consider the boardwalk her space and not mine. I am alone -- John is on the beach, watching small waves in many shades of gray -- and realize I cannot climb the cyclone fence on my left, slide down huge mossy boulders to the creek on my right, or ignore the fact that a quick retreat to the falls -- and then, what? -- is not possible. So I walk toward her, growling in a low voice: get back, get back, NO! NO! NO! and she gives me a look of disapproval and retreats.
And the rain? There is Richard, the manager of the hatchery, and Larry, a photographer who just retired from CBC, and Jean, who works with the fish as well. They assure me a real deluge of several inches is coming any time now, and then I will be in true bear heaven. The rains come one evening in wet sheets and drumming waves which last for three days, and all the Chinooks and Cohos finally swim up to the falls. The hatchery workers come out in force, fill their dipnets with wiggling fish, and after removing their eggs and milk drop the bodies on the grass, a great smorgasboard of protein and fat. But the bears are no longer hungry: they could not wait, and in the last few days found enough fish in the shallow creek.
They take trial runs toward thrashing salmon still entering the current but soon stop and walk away. I watch their warmly furred bodies disappearing in the forest and see they need to rest. We need a change of pace, too. Our camper is leaking, staining sleeping bags with wet rivulets. It is time to start our trek south, to some warmer and drier places. Yet after days spent in the green light of the stream reflecting dark animals, boiling clouds and the shimmering salmon, something changes, and Pablo Neruda's words come:
I walked around as you do, investigating
the endless star,
and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,
the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
©Yva Momatiuk
