After the Philip Edward Island trip, I decided to do more backcountry camping. I ordered equipment from MEC in dribs and drabs and watched bemusedly as my place gradually filled up with things I didn't know how to use. Soon, I was as much an outdoorsman as consumer purchases could make me.
I pitched the tent in my apartment. I packed and unpacked the bear canister and backpack. I went to a Lawren Harris exhibition. I lit the tiny camping stove on my 21st-floor patio, boiled water on it, rehydrated a meal, and shoveled it from the package into my mouth with a MEC-branded spork. I thought, do I actually need to go now, or have I already had the experience?
I went over the checklist of the novice Torontonian camper: Do you have a toque? A heavy sweater? A compass, whether or not you can use it? Have you made a reasonable effort to care about Canadian impressionism? Have you shaved off any goatee or pencil moustache you might have and grown a layer of stubble, or, ideally, an ample, ungroomed beard? Have you read through ghastly inventories of bear attacks and bought a pile of dangerous junk to soothe your anxieties?
Internet sources are maliciously eager to explain the hopelessness of confrontations with predatory black bears. "Don't run; black bears can run at 45kph."
- I suppose I could climb a tree.
- They're much better climbers than any human.
- Fight?
- Heh.
- Swim?
- They're much faster in water.
- This is bullshit.
I bought bear spray. The man who sold it to me seemed to find the transaction depressing, as though he felt, rightly, that putting bear spray into hands like mine could only make the world a more uncertain and more dangerous place; that that wasn't what he had seen himself doing in life; that I'd posed a moral test that he'd failed by choosing his job over his principles. He asked me how much I knew about bear spray, sighed, showed me which way to point it, looked at my ID, had me fill out a waiver, and washed his hands of the business. For his sake, I asked only reasonable questions, so don't know the answers to any of these: Should I chase bears down and spray them pre-emptively? Is there any sort of online leaderboard for people who have sprayed the most bears? Is it good for discourteous children? Should I spray other animals I come across so they spread the word?
I also got a tiny air horn, which is actually probably more sensible: Cheaper, lighter, less dangerous, reportedly very alarming to bears, and multi-use, in that it can also be used for emergency signalling, to celebrate home runs, and to punctuate jokes. Both the spray and the horn have 'extreme danger' and 'explosive' warnings; I saw myself tripping and blowing up like a crashing helicopter in an action movie.
It's professionally embarrassing, this gear, because the risk is so remote. It's one we're not used to, mostly, and maybe it also has to do with our evolutionary history as a middle link in the food chain. Still, an epidemiologist should be able to ignore low risks, in the same way a physicist should be able to stand without flinching as a pendulum swings back.
One real problem was that of actually getting to Algonquin. If you live in the middle of a major city and have let your driver's license lapse, backcountry camping is, it turns out, about the dumbest enthusiasm you can develop. I've also had some Achilles tendon problems, which probably means I've achieved some rare trifecta of unsuitability.
I had a vague idea that I could take the Parkbus, a new venture that picks up people in Toronto, drops them off in distant provincial parks, and returns for the survivors a couple of days later. But conjunctions of Parkbus trips and vacant back-country sites turned out to be rare. I finally booked one for Thanksgiving weekend, and then waffled about whether to actually go or not (it would have meant skipping Thanksgiving at my parents' house). Todd and Shane predictably came to the rescue, agreeing to come up to Algonquin on the Sunday for an overnight trip. I'd been a bit uneasy about a solo trip, anyway. Now they could get me there, and, if necessary, write my melancholy epitaph ("he was so vigilant about bears, but then the muskrats got him.")
Algonquin park is a large green stain on maps of central Ontario, a vastness of woods and glacial lakes that dribble into one another through marshes and narrow rivers. We were coming in on highway 60, which cuts across the southern edge, separating a sort of southern panhandle from the vast rectangle above. Our site was on the Western Uplands trail, a huge network of paths looping north from the highway. The longest route is 88km, but our plan was to just hike 5km in, camp overnight, and come back.
We left Niagara early on Sunday. Along the way, we passed roadside buisinesses contending to supply the cottage market with RVs, burgers, gazebos, fireworks, and gambling opportunities; also, for some reason, a huge plaster dinosaur. Waiting for us at the park entrance was an alien invasion-sized traffic jam; the kind where people get out and walk along the side of the road. It took 3 hours to go the first 300km, and 2 hours to go the last 5.
At the gate, well-organized park staff were marshalling the traffic and selling day-use permits to drivers. They told us to go inside for ours. I ran to get in line, and found no one else there; everyone else had waited just to come in for a few hours. I explained that I was there for a backcountry permit, and the bored woman at the counter knew who I was and what I'd come for. She was so knowledgeable I thought of talking to her about bears. "I understand the argument for conservation, but what do you think about ruthlessly extirpating them from any areas I'm likely to visit? Also, is it true you can stun them with paradoxes, or is that robots?"
The trail, when we got on it, led up and down steep hills, along squared-off logs — carved here and there with initials and hearts and dates — laid across swampy sections, over and under fallen trees, past a beaver dam, and over clear, rocky creeks. The ground and the trees were red and yellow with autumn leaves, though there's little to see: You're in the woods; above a certain scale, it's the same in all directions, like the universe. The map I'd brought lists four points of interest on the entire trail network: forest fire scars, a couple of railway remains, and a boulder (a "massive isolated glacial erratic", which is also a useful insult). There were squirrels and an unseen bird with a call like a sonar ping; the mosquitoes and black flies had died off long before, hopefully in agony and with their life goals unachieved.
The first site we came to on Maple Leaf Lake was empty, so we walked in and dumped our packs on it. There was a opening onto the lake, which was clear and warmer than the air. A short walk away was a sort of outhouse, open on the side facing the trail so you can salute passersby. I set up the new tent, pondered over the 'self-inflating' ground pad (did it need some kind of order or incantation?), and unrolled the worryingly thin sleeping bag.
The forecast had been falling day by day: when we left, the prediction was for -5. The bag was rated for +5, and I wasn't sure exactly what that meant — whether it was a 'comfort' rating or a 'survival' rating, and, if a survival rating, whether a survival guarantee or a sporting-chance-of-survival rating.
We busted open the bear canister, and Shane started chopping vegetables with a Swiss army knife. Todd and Shane are remarkable back country chefs. They made seafood chowder, and, the next day, pumpkin cake and scones (with nearly-frozen butter). My offer to bring dehydrated camping meals (I bought 'pasta Roma', which I've tried — it's really not that bad — and 'cheese enchilada ranchero', which I haven't found the courage to) had been received with a certain coolness.
The bear canister is a small food container that bears cannot open; its purpose is to frustrate bears and leave them casting about for alternative meals. MEC sells two kinds, but bear scientists are known to have cracked one of them. The other is a small black plastic barrel that still works, as far as anyone knows (though one MEC reviewer complained that it wasn't proof against wolverines). You open and lock it with a coin, which is easy enough, but it's not airtight, and so food needs to be packed into a plastic bag first; and it narrows at the opening in a way that makes it hard to pull the food out again. I felt like a bear trying. I fumbled at it with my big clumsy paws, sat back and looked at it in consternation, batted it about, wondered whether to just roll it into the lake and find a blueberry patch instead.
Sleeping that night required: a toque, a ninjaclava, a long-sleeve shirt, a heavy sweater, cycling tights, track pants, jeans, two pairs of heavy socks, two nalgene bottles full of hot water, four Heat Factory chemical heating packs, and a down parka spread over my feet. In the morning, there was thin ice on the underside of the tent fly and frost on the leaves of small plants, and the moss crunched underfoot.
We took coffee over to another nearby site. A bear bell lay on the ground; Shane picked it up, noted that there were no signs it had passed through a bear's digestive system, and gave it to me. I had seen these on the MEC site, but hadn't bought any. Their product description had said that they may cause bears to amble away rather than investigate and allow bears to avoid you if they wish. The implication being that they will scare off timid bears while intriguing bears that are more open to new experiences. The bear you want to avoid is the gastronomically adventurous bear; and it's not hard to imagine one of these becoming conditioned to react to the sound of bells like Pavlov's dogs. Bear-fixated survivalist types on the internet also suggest stringing them on a tripwire around your tent. (Top paranoiac engineers have also developed and marketed an expensive wire-fence 'security system' with an alarm that goes off if your perimeter is breached, for those who want to entrench every night like a Roman army in the field.)
Todd and Shane went off to explore the north side of the lake while I lay in the sun and tried to nap. A group of merry hikers laughed their way around the perimeter of the site without ever coming into view. Todd and Shane came back and we took a hike north — we weighed Shane's enthusiasm and my laziness and compromised on 90 minutes. After that, it was the trip out in reverse; we packed up and hiked back. I blundered off the trail, but only once. And we came on back to Toronto.
As it happened, the most dangerous animal we saw was a duck; but it was good to know that, had it tried anything, it would have gotten an ugly surprise. It could be argued that the lack of bears was a small illustration of the foolishness of bringing spray and an air horn in the first place, but I see it as a clear-cut case of successful deterrence. Further, pursuing the arms race with the bears has created a situation in which détente is possible and full normalization of Scott-bear relations a real possibility.
I pitched the tent in my apartment. I packed and unpacked the bear canister and backpack. I went to a Lawren Harris exhibition. I lit the tiny camping stove on my 21st-floor patio, boiled water on it, rehydrated a meal, and shoveled it from the package into my mouth with a MEC-branded spork. I thought, do I actually need to go now, or have I already had the experience?
I went over the checklist of the novice Torontonian camper: Do you have a toque? A heavy sweater? A compass, whether or not you can use it? Have you made a reasonable effort to care about Canadian impressionism? Have you shaved off any goatee or pencil moustache you might have and grown a layer of stubble, or, ideally, an ample, ungroomed beard? Have you read through ghastly inventories of bear attacks and bought a pile of dangerous junk to soothe your anxieties?
Internet sources are maliciously eager to explain the hopelessness of confrontations with predatory black bears. "Don't run; black bears can run at 45kph."
- I suppose I could climb a tree.
- They're much better climbers than any human.
- Fight?
- Heh.
- Swim?
- They're much faster in water.
- This is bullshit.
I bought bear spray. The man who sold it to me seemed to find the transaction depressing, as though he felt, rightly, that putting bear spray into hands like mine could only make the world a more uncertain and more dangerous place; that that wasn't what he had seen himself doing in life; that I'd posed a moral test that he'd failed by choosing his job over his principles. He asked me how much I knew about bear spray, sighed, showed me which way to point it, looked at my ID, had me fill out a waiver, and washed his hands of the business. For his sake, I asked only reasonable questions, so don't know the answers to any of these: Should I chase bears down and spray them pre-emptively? Is there any sort of online leaderboard for people who have sprayed the most bears? Is it good for discourteous children? Should I spray other animals I come across so they spread the word?
I also got a tiny air horn, which is actually probably more sensible: Cheaper, lighter, less dangerous, reportedly very alarming to bears, and multi-use, in that it can also be used for emergency signalling, to celebrate home runs, and to punctuate jokes. Both the spray and the horn have 'extreme danger' and 'explosive' warnings; I saw myself tripping and blowing up like a crashing helicopter in an action movie.
It's professionally embarrassing, this gear, because the risk is so remote. It's one we're not used to, mostly, and maybe it also has to do with our evolutionary history as a middle link in the food chain. Still, an epidemiologist should be able to ignore low risks, in the same way a physicist should be able to stand without flinching as a pendulum swings back.
One real problem was that of actually getting to Algonquin. If you live in the middle of a major city and have let your driver's license lapse, backcountry camping is, it turns out, about the dumbest enthusiasm you can develop. I've also had some Achilles tendon problems, which probably means I've achieved some rare trifecta of unsuitability.
I had a vague idea that I could take the Parkbus, a new venture that picks up people in Toronto, drops them off in distant provincial parks, and returns for the survivors a couple of days later. But conjunctions of Parkbus trips and vacant back-country sites turned out to be rare. I finally booked one for Thanksgiving weekend, and then waffled about whether to actually go or not (it would have meant skipping Thanksgiving at my parents' house). Todd and Shane predictably came to the rescue, agreeing to come up to Algonquin on the Sunday for an overnight trip. I'd been a bit uneasy about a solo trip, anyway. Now they could get me there, and, if necessary, write my melancholy epitaph ("he was so vigilant about bears, but then the muskrats got him.")
Algonquin park is a large green stain on maps of central Ontario, a vastness of woods and glacial lakes that dribble into one another through marshes and narrow rivers. We were coming in on highway 60, which cuts across the southern edge, separating a sort of southern panhandle from the vast rectangle above. Our site was on the Western Uplands trail, a huge network of paths looping north from the highway. The longest route is 88km, but our plan was to just hike 5km in, camp overnight, and come back.
We left Niagara early on Sunday. Along the way, we passed roadside buisinesses contending to supply the cottage market with RVs, burgers, gazebos, fireworks, and gambling opportunities; also, for some reason, a huge plaster dinosaur. Waiting for us at the park entrance was an alien invasion-sized traffic jam; the kind where people get out and walk along the side of the road. It took 3 hours to go the first 300km, and 2 hours to go the last 5.
At the gate, well-organized park staff were marshalling the traffic and selling day-use permits to drivers. They told us to go inside for ours. I ran to get in line, and found no one else there; everyone else had waited just to come in for a few hours. I explained that I was there for a backcountry permit, and the bored woman at the counter knew who I was and what I'd come for. She was so knowledgeable I thought of talking to her about bears. "I understand the argument for conservation, but what do you think about ruthlessly extirpating them from any areas I'm likely to visit? Also, is it true you can stun them with paradoxes, or is that robots?"
The trail, when we got on it, led up and down steep hills, along squared-off logs — carved here and there with initials and hearts and dates — laid across swampy sections, over and under fallen trees, past a beaver dam, and over clear, rocky creeks. The ground and the trees were red and yellow with autumn leaves, though there's little to see: You're in the woods; above a certain scale, it's the same in all directions, like the universe. The map I'd brought lists four points of interest on the entire trail network: forest fire scars, a couple of railway remains, and a boulder (a "massive isolated glacial erratic", which is also a useful insult). There were squirrels and an unseen bird with a call like a sonar ping; the mosquitoes and black flies had died off long before, hopefully in agony and with their life goals unachieved.
The first site we came to on Maple Leaf Lake was empty, so we walked in and dumped our packs on it. There was a opening onto the lake, which was clear and warmer than the air. A short walk away was a sort of outhouse, open on the side facing the trail so you can salute passersby. I set up the new tent, pondered over the 'self-inflating' ground pad (did it need some kind of order or incantation?), and unrolled the worryingly thin sleeping bag.
The forecast had been falling day by day: when we left, the prediction was for -5. The bag was rated for +5, and I wasn't sure exactly what that meant — whether it was a 'comfort' rating or a 'survival' rating, and, if a survival rating, whether a survival guarantee or a sporting-chance-of-survival rating.
We busted open the bear canister, and Shane started chopping vegetables with a Swiss army knife. Todd and Shane are remarkable back country chefs. They made seafood chowder, and, the next day, pumpkin cake and scones (with nearly-frozen butter). My offer to bring dehydrated camping meals (I bought 'pasta Roma', which I've tried — it's really not that bad — and 'cheese enchilada ranchero', which I haven't found the courage to) had been received with a certain coolness.
The bear canister is a small food container that bears cannot open; its purpose is to frustrate bears and leave them casting about for alternative meals. MEC sells two kinds, but bear scientists are known to have cracked one of them. The other is a small black plastic barrel that still works, as far as anyone knows (though one MEC reviewer complained that it wasn't proof against wolverines). You open and lock it with a coin, which is easy enough, but it's not airtight, and so food needs to be packed into a plastic bag first; and it narrows at the opening in a way that makes it hard to pull the food out again. I felt like a bear trying. I fumbled at it with my big clumsy paws, sat back and looked at it in consternation, batted it about, wondered whether to just roll it into the lake and find a blueberry patch instead.
Sleeping that night required: a toque, a ninjaclava, a long-sleeve shirt, a heavy sweater, cycling tights, track pants, jeans, two pairs of heavy socks, two nalgene bottles full of hot water, four Heat Factory chemical heating packs, and a down parka spread over my feet. In the morning, there was thin ice on the underside of the tent fly and frost on the leaves of small plants, and the moss crunched underfoot.
We took coffee over to another nearby site. A bear bell lay on the ground; Shane picked it up, noted that there were no signs it had passed through a bear's digestive system, and gave it to me. I had seen these on the MEC site, but hadn't bought any. Their product description had said that they may cause bears to amble away rather than investigate and allow bears to avoid you if they wish. The implication being that they will scare off timid bears while intriguing bears that are more open to new experiences. The bear you want to avoid is the gastronomically adventurous bear; and it's not hard to imagine one of these becoming conditioned to react to the sound of bells like Pavlov's dogs. Bear-fixated survivalist types on the internet also suggest stringing them on a tripwire around your tent. (Top paranoiac engineers have also developed and marketed an expensive wire-fence 'security system' with an alarm that goes off if your perimeter is breached, for those who want to entrench every night like a Roman army in the field.)
Todd and Shane went off to explore the north side of the lake while I lay in the sun and tried to nap. A group of merry hikers laughed their way around the perimeter of the site without ever coming into view. Todd and Shane came back and we took a hike north — we weighed Shane's enthusiasm and my laziness and compromised on 90 minutes. After that, it was the trip out in reverse; we packed up and hiked back. I blundered off the trail, but only once. And we came on back to Toronto.
As it happened, the most dangerous animal we saw was a duck; but it was good to know that, had it tried anything, it would have gotten an ugly surprise. It could be argued that the lack of bears was a small illustration of the foolishness of bringing spray and an air horn in the first place, but I see it as a clear-cut case of successful deterrence. Further, pursuing the arms race with the bears has created a situation in which détente is possible and full normalization of Scott-bear relations a real possibility.
