A Final Journey Of Remembrance I sit in my kayak at the edge of the water. Gooey soft rich-smelling mud surrounds me. I play a familiar game of waiting. The tide is beginning to rise and, within a minute or so, the water will surround me, then gently lift me free. I have played this game many times in the last five and a half years. Sadly, this will be the last time, my final journey into the heart of this island the Tlingit call Kootznoowoo, "The Fortress of the Bear." Kootznoowoo is located in southeast Alaska and holds the largest population of brown bears in the world. An estimated 2500 bears live on the island, far outnumbering the 700 people. Though most maps name the island Admiralty, in respect to the Tlingit peoples I choose to use their name. Storms born in far away waters howl out their fury upon the waters surrounding this island. Out front, in Chatham Strait, the waves often dance white before the wind. These back waters, however, have often proved to be my shelter from the storm. Today I will paddle in the midst of these sheltered bays and quiet waters, thankful that their very existence has allowed me to kayak many days when the winds and waves of the outside waters would not. For the past five and half years I have served as a pastor to the Tlingits of the village of Angoon. Though the work is filled with many rewarding moments, I have also watched a once magnificent culture slowly pass. Over the years this has been a heavy burden to carry ,both spiritually and emotionally. Through all those times of struggle this magnificent wilderness spread before me has been my sanctuary of refuge and renewal. Today with the rising tide, I make a final journey of remembrance into these majestic waters. The waters from the Pacific Ocean roll up Chatham Strait and funnel into Kootznoowoo Inlet. With some of the highest tidal exchanges in the world, the tides literally roar in and out. Twice a day the tide rolls in and twice a day it rolls out. When my father visited several years ago he loved to watch these tides ebb and flood. Having run a barge line on a river in West Virginia for 32 years, he was fascinated by this "river that ran both ways." At the entrance to the inlet sits Rose Rock, which splits the on rushing waters of the tides. As the incoming tide pushes me past this sentinel to the tides, I marvel at the blanket of kelp and barnacles which hang on and withstand the daily tides and frequent storms. I admire their steadfast strength. I paddle past the boat harbor and on up into the narrow passage that leads to Favorite Bay, a good name for a wonderful place. Favorite Bay opens up, revealing the incredible beauty of this island. Rich green forests of ancient spruce, hemlock and cedar paint the mountains. The sparkling waters are bordered by tidal flats teeming with life. In the distance Hood Bay Mountain stands in snowcapped splendor. These snowfields melt and flow down through alpine grasses, eventually gathering as a stream winding through the tidal grasses and blending into the salt waters of the Bay. I have made many trips up to the tidal flats at the head of the Bay. The stream is usually marked by a flock of Bonaparte and laughing gulls fishing and squawking at the mouth of the stream. The muddy tidal flats give way to goose tongue and beach asparagus, which in turn become tall wheat grasses. In summer chum and pink salmon return to spawn in this the stream of their birth. I remember one summer day paddling up these flats to watch the salmon spawn. Each shallow boiled with salmon snaking their way upstream and every pool rippled with fins of fish resting before resuming the journey. Farther up the stream the male salmon pushed and shoved, trying to position themselves directly behind the egg-laden females. Sometime next spring these eggs would hatch and the salmon fry would begin their journey out to sea to return one day to begin the circle again. Here in this remote wilderness, the circle of life played out before my eyes. Dead and dying salmon lined the banks. Some had been swiped out of the steam by the paw of a bear, others plucked out by the talons of an eagle. The gulls and ravens enjoyed the left-overs. It was a feast for both the bears and the birds. Life rising out of death. A new beginning born out of an ending. The scene was astonishing but the smell was terrible. "Chuk, Chuk " I yelled again and again as I walked up stream. "Chuk" is Tlingit for "get outta here" and the elders of the village taught me to always use this word in bear country. It worked for them for thousands of years before guns. The bears come down the mountain and feast upon these salmon, then sleep off their gluttony in the tall grasses. With this grass being chest tall, I did not want to literally stumble onto a bear. On the north side of the bay is a small island where a small ring of trees hide a wonderful little campsite. This site will always be special to me, as it was the first place I ever took my son camping. He was only 8 months old when we stuck him in the center of the canoe, along with a pile of diapers, and went camping. This was the beginning of sharing with my son my love for the wilderness, and it has always remained a powerful bond between us. Today I paddle past the island toward a narrow opening in the northwest corner of the bay. A dark shape moves along the north shore - a bear! The bears of Kootznoowoo come in a variety of colors, from nearly black to blond. This bear is as dark as they come. Between his shoulders is the characteristic hump of muscle, attesting to his great strength. The tide pushes me silently past him. He browses on goose tongue grasses and is unaware of my presence. This is why I love seakayaking. The quietness and stealth of the kayaks allows me many close-up encounters with wildlife that those who chose noisy and smelly motors never see. A slow and careful rudder turns me sideways, so I can watch the bear as I drift beyond him. Now the water turns shallow. The tide runs late here and has yet to fill this part of the bay. I slowly drift over a dazzling array of tidal creatures. Dozens of sea stars inch across the muddy bottom searching for food. Hundreds of sea urchins, with their sharp purple spines protecting their soft bodies, lay in thick colonies. Mussels and goose neck barnacles cling to the rocks. White anemone extend their feathery branches in the flowing tide, snaring the day^Òs meal. Hermit crabs, carrying their borrowed homes, scurry in and out of the sea grasses. This extraordinary place is so alive! This is the land of the Tlingit, the tides people. For centuries they have paddled, fished and survived in these tidal passages. Long ago they learned to wait on the tides, to wait for the tides to fill these back bays and channels with water and fish. Now as I paddle with the rising water of the tide, I am in no hurry. Soon the tide will run fast and deep. The water quickens and rushes toward a small tidal rapid. I must be careful for, unlike interior rivers, these rocks are covered with boat chewing, scraping, tearing, gouging, ripping barnacles! Long, narrow seakayaks are not meant to maneuver such rapids, so I read the route carefully picking the straightest line possible. Thump! Drat! I hit a shallow spot and a few barnacles catch a souvenir of blue plastic as I pass. My boat carrries many other war wounds, each with it^Òs own story. At the bottom of the rapids the water broadens. I am now in a place the locals call "the Peahans," named for an old homesteader who tried to eke out a living here long ago. No one remembers much about him except his name. An amazing variety of birds live in these back waters. Hooded Mergansers, Greater scaup, Surf scoters, oldsquaws, harlequins, buffleheads, goldeneyes, marbled murrelets and more are here. I spot a blue heron fishing along the shore. Somehow these frail-looking birds endure the Alaskan winters. In the distance I hear the haunting call of a loon. I drift silently, listening with my whole being. Again the loon wails. Another answers. They join in a mystical chorus. If there is one sound that remind us of how much we have sacrificed, in walling ourselves off in our modern world away from the wilderness, it is this seductive call of the loon. On and on the loons call out; I close my eyes and feel their voices deep down in my soul. This is the voice of the wilderness, a voice calling us back to Eden where The Creator speaks so clearly. Uncounted time passes and the loons grow silent, as a gentle soft rain has begun to fall. Slowly I paddle on, still listening. To the west lies a small unnamed passage, one that teaches the paddler patience. This tidal passage doesn^Òt begin to flow west until near the end of high tide. Until then the paddler can either fight the current and eddy-hop upstream or patiently wait for the flood tide to float them through. I learned long ago to wait. The wait is worth it! A family of otters live here, scavenging the bottom for tasty sea urchins and shellfish. I have often watched them frolic and play while I waited for the tide. Now as the tides floods into it so do my memories. At the narrowest part of the passage a dead spruce hangs over the water. Often as I paddled through an old eagle would be sitting on this perch, watching for food. He never left his perch, but would glare at me as I passed 10 feet directly under him. Eye to eye we passed, with the eagle outstareing me every time. The narrow passage opens up into a small pond. Tall seas grasses resting on the surface tell of the shallowness of the water. Once as I came into this passage I found myself not 25 feet away from a bear. The current was pushing me toward him. Luckily my frantic back-paddling startled him and he ran off into the woods. Considering the shallowness of the pond, I would have been helpless if he had charged me as I sat so low in the water . The passage is a short cut back to Angoon, but I continue on through the Peahans looking and listening. All at once I hear a "whoosh" sound behind me. I turn to see the black shapes of a couple of harbor porpoise breaking the surface. I am reminded of a story a friend of mine told about how harbor porpoise saved his life. One winter day, when he was a young boy, his father took him hunting. They traveled up these back passages by boat and anchored in a small bay, then went into the deep forest. It had been a hard winter and the deer were scarce. After a couple of hours fear began to grow in the pit of his stomach. He realized they were lost! He began to panic and cry, but his father quieted him down. "We must sit and listen," his father said. My friend said he didn^Òt understand why, but he did as his father said. They sat by a tree and listened. At first he only heard the frantic beating of his own heart, but then with the calming influence of his father beside him he began to listen beyond his fears. After a time in the distance they heard the "whoosh, whoosh" of harbor porpoise following the tide. The tide runs strong but silent in this land, yet the creatures therein sound upon the water. When his father heard the porpoise he stood up and walked toward the sound and the water. Once he saw the familiar bay it all became clear - where they were and which was the way home. I paddle through the Peahans and pass between a set of islands, looking for South Passage. Map and compass skills are necessary in these back waters, since many passages are dead ends except in the highest tides. South Passage is long and narrow, with the tide rolling quickly. Once through the passage I paddle into an area that reminds me of Tolkien^Òs Land of Middle Earth. Ages ago this area was covered under a massive glacier. Once the Ice Age ended and the glacier^Òs last ice chunk melted, the land rebounded quickly. The rock here is a very soft and crumbly sandstone, easily sculpted by the tides. The result is an array of fascinating sculpture. Most peculiar are the ^Ñmushroom stones^Ò. These are round stones, some up to three feet in diameter, perched upon a small stem of rock maybe a few inches high and less than a foot wide. They are bizarre and unlike anything I have ever seen. I half expect to see hobbits playing tag amid these stones. I paddle on towards Mitchell Bay, but once again must wait upon the tide. My path is blocked by a small spit of land. I have taken the long route to get here, but the tide knows a shorter route. Running east as it enters Mitchell Bay at Hemlock Point, the tide then hooks back to the west to flood the "Land of Middle Earth". I stop for lunch and watch the tide creep across a small spit of land until it reaches my kayak. By the time I finish my lunch, I have plenty of water to cross over the spit. Now, as I paddle into the sparkling waters of Mitchell Bay, the sun emerges from behind the clouds and bathes the earth and water with brightness and warmth. Three miles inlength, Mitchell Bay is surrounded by an ancient spruce and hemlock forest. The scenery is striking and alive. Soon I am greeted by a harbor seal peering at me with it^Òs deep dark eyes. A number of seals live in this bay and often sun themselves on Target Island. I peer with my binoculars and see several seals laying out on the rocks. Not wishing to disturb them, I paddle on at a safe distance. To my right is the entrance to Kanalku Bay, a long, narrow channel where the tides rush and roar. Any trip into Kanalku Bay must be timed with the tides. For even the strongest paddler the only choice is in with the flood and out with the ebb. The many tidal rapids in these waters requires careful planning. In addition to reading the tide chart, a lot of "local knowledge" is needed. In some places the tide runs one to two hours late, due to the distance from the sea and the underwater topography. It is easy to get caught here, either running dry or being trapped by swift current. I always carry survival gear with me just in case I am forced to stay overnight. On a couple of occasions I have paddled into Kanalku. The entrance, with the water narrowing so quickly, is like paddling into a funnel . A reef on the right side churns up menacing waves. For two miles the channel is narrow and fast, so I can sit back and just steer. Finally the bay opens up and another world is revealed. Kanalku is a long, narrow bay with a couple islands here and there. The most prominent is Burnt Island, which unfortunately gets it^Òs name from a runaway campfire that set the whole island ablaze. Slowly however the green of new life is replacing the brown of destruction. Thankfully one of the first plants to reclaim the island were berry bushes. One of the wonders of Southeast Alaska is the wide varieties of berry bushes, including salmonberries, thimbleberries, blueberries, raspberries and huckleberries. My kayaking trips are often interrupted by berry breaks. I continue paddling across Mitchell Bay. As I pass Diamond Island a small black shape runs along the bank - a mink! Along with marten and fishers, these furry creatures scurry along the tide line seeking out what mother nature has to offer. In the distance I see three white crosses placed high atop a rock cliff. Tlingit memorial markers tell a story of loss and tragedy. Stark reminders to all that travel these waters that, though they are filled with wonder, they are also unforgiving. I follow the rising tide into a small passage at the end of the bay. The current ripples over a barnacle-clustered gathering of rocks. You wouldn^Òt know it at first glance, but this is a magic place. Now the incoming tide creates a small rapid flowing north. Soon it will be a placid lake, the current lying still, not a ripple in sight. Then slowly the tide will begin to fall and the current slowly turn south. Ripples will emerge then evolve into smooth waves which in moments will begin to curl and break. The white water will grow and barnacled rocks will seem to rise up out of the depths. A rock ledge slowly emerges and soon a small falls begins to roar. This is Salt Lake Falls coming to life with the falling tide. Twice a day the falls are born and twice a day they disappear. Just as remarkable is that two-and-a-half hours ago the tide changed at Rose Rock. Only now after it^Òs long journey inland will these waters begin to ebb. On the right hand shore lies a well-used camp site. I have slept here many nights, listening to the various moods of the waterfall. Tonight I will sleep here once again, listening to the song of the water. I spend the evening watching a river otter fishing. A rock just above the falls served as his dinner table. He dives into the water and a minute or so later crawls back up on the rock with a fish. Then he shakes off the water, makes himself comfortable and begins to chow down on the fish. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Otters are noisy eaters. A little bit up from the falls lies Bear Skin Cove, a favorite resting place for geese and mergansers. Also it is the site of a tale of war and conflict. Centuries ago two Tlingit clans were at war. One clan followed the rising tide and ventured into the unfamiliar territory of Salt Lake. They canoed into Salt Lake at high tide, never realizing the danger that lurked below. They raided the others clan^Òs fish camp, then beat a hasty retreat on the falling tide. Surprised by the falls, they flipped their canoe and drowned. The next flood tide floated their bear skin coats into the small cove. About half way across Salt Lake the Hasselborg River flows in. Before heading upriver I stopped to explore the old fish camp. For centuries the villagers from Angoon would come here in the summer to fish. The men would paddle upstream following the spawning salmon. Once they netted the salmon, the men would return and dump the salmon into large pools which had been dug out near the shore. As the men returned for more salmon, the children would wade into the pools and catch the fish by hand, then carry them to the women who would cut and smoke the fish for winter. I stood here with a elder one day as he reminisced about his childhood days spent here. He laughed as he remembered staying wet all the time from catching and carrying fish bigger than he was. Sadly he talked about how that old life style was gone, the time when his family worked as one to prepare for winter. Now his own children are scattered and buy their food from the store. His culture is fading and he worries about his children^Òs future. I begin the long two-mile paddle upstream. No rapids are encountered and the current is not too swift at high tide. Alder and birch line the stream, salmon and cut-throat trout swim below. The grass on the bank is trampled in many places, signs of the bears looking for fish. As I round a point, a deer and her fawn stand on the bank. The fawn grazes while the doe stands alert. In this land of the bear the task of protecting her fawn is an ever-present vigil. Her ears flick and she looks in my direction; I try to remain motionless but the current moves me slowly sideways. She has seen enough and turns to head into the woods with her fawn at her side. I wish her well. Eventually I hear the distant roar of the falls. The 25-foot cascade of Hasselborg Falls is impressive and after the long paddle the spray is refreshing. In the pool below coho salmon gather. For a while some will try to climb the falls, but eventually they will give up and spawn right here. Judging by the large return each year it is a good spawning ground. I floated down the stream and paddled toward the end of Salt Lake, to a small stream that leads to Freshwater Lake. Several years ago I helped lead a camp of 5th graders up this stream. Half-way up, while dragging our canoes through the shallows, a huge brown bear stood up out in the tall grasses. This was bad, as the kids were scattered along the stream and the bear could have his pick. The kids all started yelling "Look a bear." At this point the bear looked at the kids, turned around and raced off for the woods. I guess he was afraid we would make him a counselor! Later I learned from them how hardy Alaskan kids can be. It was early June and the ice on Freshwater Lake had thawed only weeks before. The adults gathered by the warm fire and watched as the kids swam in the ice cold waters. Then one of the kids ran up and excitedly said "Guess what? We found out that the creek is colder than the lake, so if you lay down in the creek for a while then jump in the lake the lake seems warmer. You want to try it?" "No!" cried the adults in unison, as we crept closer to the fire. My favorite memory of these kids was the lesson I taught them about camping in bear country. We had preached and preached to these kids about not having any food in the tents. Kids are kids however, so one night I heard a candy wrapper being opened as I walked by their tent. I knew that I need to teach them a lesson for their own safety. I waited a little bit, then quietly crawled up to the tent. I took a dry stick and broke it sharply. At the sound of the crack, I heard the kids gasp. Then I began to make huffing sounds like a bear. The kids now began to whimper. Next I took my fingers, spread them out like claws, and ran them down the side of the tent while growling. Now the kids began to scream. I growled and huffed, then said "I want your candy bars!" Later, as I hung up the candy bars in a tree, I realized I would probably hear about it later from a parent, but I knew I needed to teach these kids a good lesson for their own safety. The next day it is time to paddle home, I spend the morning and afternoon paddling down to Hemlock Point. Not wishing to fight the current, I wait for the ebb tide to begin. I take a few moments to walk into the forest, where soon a massive ancient spruce is discovered. This giant^Òs gnarled trunk reaches to the sky and it^Òs base is as wide as my boat is long. How old is this elder of the forest ? Five hundred years or maybe more? How many eagles have lived out their lives in it^Òs branches? Oh, the great storms it must have endured. Howling winds, heavy snows and driving rains all assailed its mass, yet it survives. So much of human history has passed before it. Generations of people have come and gone, empires have risen and fallen, yet this tree remains. Humans have passed before it in hewn-out cedar canoes propelled by strong hands with wooden paddles, and in fiberglass hulls powered by gas and fire. In it^Òs youth it heard only the sound of the wind and the rain, felt only the touch of eagle talons. Now airplanes roars above and the scream of chainsaws echo across the forest floor. This magnificant tree is one of the few ancients remaining. So many have fallen to the saw and humankind^Òs need for wood. I wonder if this tree will live out it^Òs natural life or be sacrified in the name of progress. I have no answer, only hope. Finally the tide begins to flow toward the sea. Soon I am at a tidal rapids called "Scookum Chuk", meaning strong waters in Tlingit. At full ebb tide the current will churn through here and the swirls and boiling water below can easily flip a kayak or canoe. I remember one day walking into the village store and seeing 6 wet tourists sipping hot coffee, trying to get warm . I took them home for hot showers and a hot meal. Their story was that they had miss-timed their arrival at the rapids and chose to run it rather than wait for the slack tide. The chaotic currents flipped their canoes and they all took long, cold swims. Luckily a fisherman picked them up, along with most of their gear. Once past Skoocum Chuk I paddle toward Rose Rock. The tide is falling fast and the kelp whips in the current. A few harlequin ducks swim in the eddy below. A line of sea gulls work the eddy line for food. A couple of eagles circle above, waiting for a fish to rise to the surface. The magic of this place continues. I slip past my home cove and head out to Chatham Strait for a little whaling. Humpback, minke and orca call these waters home. The humpbacks especially like these feeding grounds. I have had many a great whale sightings in these waters, but one I remember was closer than I wanted. It was a late summer day and I was crossing in front of the village. For a couple of days a large pod of humpbacks had been bubble net feeding near the village. The whales swim in circles deep below and surround a school of krill with a net of bubbles from their blow holes. Then when the prey is corralled, the whales come up from below with their mouths wide open, gulping in the krill-laden water. No matter how long you watch the whales feed this way you can never predict where they will pop up. You just keep scanning the horizon, hoping you are looking in the right place when they surface. This particular day I had been trying to keep my distance, so as not to disturb their feeding. I thought I was far enough away for their comfort and my safety. I sat in my kayak, occasionally pounding my fist on the deck to let the whales know I was there. Suddenly I saw a bubble net form three feet in front of my boat. I quickly began to back paddle when I looked over my shoulder and saw more of the bubble net behind me! I was in deep trouble -- I was in the bubble net! I looked down to see a big humpback sitting in the water about 30 feet down! I paddled forward as hard as I ever have paddled and was less than a boat length past the net when it exploded with a dozen whales. I kept paddling until I came to a friend^Òs fishing boat about a hundred yards away. I was hoping that two boats were safer than one. It was quite a while before my heart slowed down. Today I see two whales in the distance and watch them for a while. Finally they raise their tails to the sky and disappear into the depths. I imagine them waving good bye with their massive tails. I wave back. Finally I paddle back and pull up to the beach. I take a couple moments to gather my gear and refold the map. When finally I finish and step out onto the mud, the falling tide has left me high and dry. Once again I have played the game of tides. I carry my gear, then my boat, to the house. Tomorrow I will put it all in boxes and get ready to load them into a U-haul van and move to a new home. Today I say goodbye to these magical and wondrous waters. The goodbye is sad for these passages, bays and falls have been my solace for five years. The memories though remain and they bring joy. *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. 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At 10:13 PM 12/11/02 -0900, Rev. Bob Carter wrote: >A Final Journey Of Remembrance > Just plain beautiful, Bob. Me 'at's off to the duke! -- Wes --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wes Boyd's Kayak Place NEW URL! -- http://www.kayakplace.com Kayaks for Big Guys (And Gals) | Trip Reports | Places To Go | Boats & Gear --------------------------------------------------------------------------- *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
Bob, yet again, another wonderful post!!! I'm curious, regarding the piece below about teaching the kids a lesson about having food in their tents.... you speculated that when you got home, you may hear from a parent.... so, did you? And, what lasting impact did it have on the kids? Did they learn the lesson, or did it fade? Just curious. Rick > > My favorite memory of these kids was the lesson I taught them > about camping in > bear country. We had preached and preached to these kids > about not having any > food in the tents. Kids are kids however, so one night I > heard a candy wrapper > being opened as I walked by their tent. I knew that I need to > teach them a > lesson for their own safety. I waited a little bit, then > quietly crawled up to > the tent. I took a dry stick and broke it sharply. At the > sound of the crack, > I heard the kids gasp. Then I began to make huffing sounds > like a bear. The > kids now began to whimper. Next I took my fingers, spread > them out like claws, > and ran them down the side of the tent while growling. Now > the kids began to > scream. > I growled and huffed, then said "I want your candy bars!" > Later, as I hung up the candy bars in a tree, I realized I > would probably hear > about it later from a parent, but I knew I needed to teach > these kids a good > lesson for their own safety. *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
Rev, A Final Journey Of Remembrance is a great story. I would like permission to pass it on to some of my friends. Where are you going next? I hope you can keep up the great stories you tell. You should think of writing a book, if you haven't already. Always, Ronnie *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
ronnie, I would like permission to pass it on to some of my friends. Sure, that would be O.K. Where are you going next? I hope you can keep up the great stories you tell. You should think of writing a book, if you haven't already. I have some other trips that in time I will right and maybe someday put a book together Bob *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
----- I'm curious, regarding the piece below about teaching the kids a lesson about having food in their tents.... you speculated that when you got home, you may hear from a parent.... so, did you? I was surprise but no one complained, I guess the parents knew that I was trying to protect their kids. And, what lasting impact did it have on the kids? Did they learn the lesson, or did it fade? I bumped into one of the kids, now a young man, a year or so ago and one of the first things he started talking about was how I scared them pretending to be a bear. What a way to make an impression Bob > >Just curious. > >Rick > >> >> My favorite memory of these kids was the lesson I taught them >> about camping in >> bear country. We had preached and preached to these kids >> about not having any >> food in the tents. Kids are kids however, so one night I >> heard a candy wrapper >> being opened as I walked by their tent. I knew that I need to >> teach them a >> lesson for their own safety. I waited a little bit, then >> quietly crawled up to >> the tent. I took a dry stick and broke it sharply. At the >> sound of the crack, >> I heard the kids gasp. Then I began to make huffing sounds >> like a bear. The >> kids now began to whimper. Next I took my fingers, spread >> them out like claws, >> and ran them down the side of the tent while growling. Now >> the kids began to >> scream. > >> I growled and huffed, then said "I want your candy bars!" > >> Later, as I hung up the candy bars in a tree, I realized I >> would probably hear >> about it later from a parent, but I knew I needed to teach >> these kids a good >> lesson for their own safety. > > > *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
[Moderator's Note: Content unaltered. Excessive quoting (i.e. headers/footers/sig lines/comments from previous posts, etc.) have been removed. Please edit quoted material in addition to removing header/trailers when replying to posts.] Hey, Melissa! I'm retired, living in Dayton, Ohio, and I'D like to move to "Southeast," say around Ketchikan... If you figure out how to do this, and what the costs of living are there, please let me know!!! :-) - Bill *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
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