And his name was Rancor the bear by Aaron Veldstra

It may have been my rookie treeplanting season, but it wasn't my first time out in the bush. I had spent summers previous wandering around BC. I was used to not being in a town, and well used to the idea of camping out in the middle of nowhere with potentially dangerous wildlife around. In fact the only thing new to me about treeplanting was planting and the tent. I had never bothered with a tent in the past, preferring instead to camp out in the open with a tarp and sleeping bag. The Camp we were staying at was anything but what I had imagined treeplanting camps were like. Friends of mine who had introduced the idea of treeplanting had never mentioned something like this before. They told me: camps were usually in an old gravel pit or some clearing in the middle of nowhere, and no one used the sub-par showers. This place was pretty much the opposite. This was an old logging camp with buildings, flush toilets, plenty of hot water, and 5 seconds from the highway. Sure the buildings smelt of mold. Hell, the foundations and buildings were sinking into the ground. But to a planter, well, it is much better than sleeping in any spring soaked tent. This was pretty much an opulent treeplanting resort relative to what I had heard. When I first arrived I decided to prove my hardcore attitude right then and there. Instead of finding a room in one of the cushy dormitories I set up my tent outside. A couple of crusty vets were doing the same. In doing so I was brought into a conversation on how this camp was going to make rookie marshmallows. I agreed and regaled them with tales of living in the woods out on Vancouver Island just to prove beyond a doubt that I was no jet-puffed-deelite. It worked and was my first step toward becoming something other than a pestering rookie--a great ingress to the fold if ever there was one.

It was a very nice evening all things considered. The second shift into the contract. After the snow day and before the seemingly endless cold rain. One of those anomalous days of early spring where the weather is just right. Dinner had been a delicious curry that warmed the belly as it spiced the soul. Dessert was chocolate covered frozen bananas which finished off the meal quite charmingly. Following dinner there was the standard smoke session outside. I stood in and listened to each person tell their stories. Lingering long enough to polish off about 2 or 3 cigarettes. Then left for my post dinner walk, usually around a 4 or 5 km stroll, just something to aid in digestion. It’s a habit I picked up when I was young. Some exploring had been done in the days prior. This evening's walk would prove to be ­a much more interesting stroll.

As I left camp a couple of dogs came out with me. Their names were Zeke and Sasha, owned by Arno Marx and Matthew Pilon respectively. This had been the norm since dogs are also avid walkers and can smell one of their kind. I noticed almost immediately that the dogs were more high strung than usual. They tore circles around me. Stopping periodically to smell and pee on things slightly less than usually. I am not much of an animal behaviorist, but I do know when a dog is following a scent. That is what these dogs were doing. Then BAM! off they shot, barking with mad fury. Not too far off I heard a surprised grunt, then a huff, the snapping of branches and claws on tree bark. When I got around the corner of the trail, there was a spectacle that seemed to be a scene from some slap stick cartoon from the '50s. An immense bear had clawed half way up a tree which looked ready to snap from the stress. It swayed unsteadily on the toothpick tree for a half a minute, the jaws of the dogs snapping mere inches from the bear bottom. The sight was ridiculous. This huge bear afraid of two little dogs, stuck in a tree that was far too small. It looked at me briefly with this look of "Oh shit what do i do now?"

I couldn't help myself. It probably wasn't the nicest thing to do, but I started laughing. The bear slipped a little ways down the tree. Immediately the dogs gave him a little pinch. It tried to jump back up. Instead... FFFHWUMP... down he came. The dogs easily skirted the rapidly descending buttock. Moving in, once lead-arse had landed, for a few quick nips. By this time I was laughing so hard that I wasn't paying as much attention to the situation as I should have been. The bear didn't stick around for long though. He was off and running seconds after impact. Then I clicked back too. Shit what about the dogs!!! I called their names but all I heard was barking fading off into the distance. So I ran back to camp to fetch the owners of the dogs. It wasn't too long until the dogs came back to Arno and Matt's calls, and everything appeared safe. We went back to camp and smoked a few more cigarettes. I told the story various times throughout the rest of the evening. Laughing about it a little more each time I told it.

When all the excitement faded from the story and the light bulbs started to dim, it is was time to turn the tin can in and go to bed. Probably the best time in any planters day. Off I went to my tent. Took out my contacts, got naked, and into the sleeping bag for a nice peaceful pass out. I must have slept for about an hour or so. As soon as I just settled into a nice dream of candy bars and cold beers I was startled awake by something. It sounded like an extremely loud pedophile huff accompanied by what sounded to be claws on plastic. I thought it was some cruel vet playing a mean trick on me. So I half whispered "knock it off." Hissing "I MEAN IT." When whatever it was did not stop doing what it was they were doing i I raised my voice a little. "HEY!" Now it sounded like tooth enamel on plastic. "KNOCK IT OFF." Then the hollow flop of plastic dropping a small distance to the ground. Then some faint padding around to the side of my tent. By this time I was damning my sleeping neighbors. I yelled "WHO IS F*CKING OUT THERE. THIS ISN'T FUNNY." I half knew at this point it was a bear. I was fully aware it was a bear when I heard a good chomp onto the side of my tent.

The bear had ­bitten and grabbed a hold of my guitar case through the wall of the tent. It started pulling. My tent fell down around me. I started yelling to my neighbors. "HEY RYAN, NICK, CARRIE, A BEAR IS EATING MY TENT." My tent moved what felt like a few feet in the direction of the forest. Then I heard someone cursing at their zipper and yell "I AM COMING MAN-- HOLD ON." At that point the bear dropped my tent. I lay there for a motionless moment. The zippers of two tents opened in sweet harmony. zzzzzzZZZZZZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP. I could see pools of light pass over the tent which was pillowed around me. "I don't see anything, Man... OH! HOLY SHIT, (silent pause) there is a bear." Others came out their tents, some clad only in underwear. They started yelling at the bear. I heard the bear slump off into some bushes. I took this as my cue to get the hell out of the entanglement I was in. I fumbled around for some glasses, put my pants on backwards and looked for the zipper. It felt like forever but was only a couple of minutes, a shock of chilly air met me outside. The bear was about 10 metres off standing at the edge of the forest. I recognized him, I could have picked that bear out of a line-up if asked. The same fat coward from before. He didn't seem as scared this time. In fact with the way he was huffing I would have said he was a bit pissed off. We threw rocks at him for a bit. Then some management came out and started a truck. They drove as close as they could to the bear and laid on the horn. He didn't budge. In fact, he even went so far as to sit his ass down and stare at the truck. His defiant stance was only somewhat startled by the use of bear bangers. Eventually he shuffled a little deeper into the woods. I went back over to my tent and surveyed the wreckage with a borrowed flashlight. Total chaos. There was a large hole in the wall and one of the poles had been mangled. After I folded it a couple times it was no big deal to drag it over to one of the buildings and haul it inside.

I slept on a couch in the rec hall that night, my gear bunched up in a shredded nylon bag that used to be a tent. Sleep was fitful for the rest of the night. I never got back to candy mountain or cold beer. Bear patrol was on for the rest of the night. Periodic horn blasts were heard throughout the night. The dogs remained locked in doors but were subject to fits of barking. I lay there thinking about what had happened, what a strange evening indeed. It made me rethink what I had thought earlier about this camp. This was pretty hardcore after all. I had spent plenty of nights prior to treeplanting out in bear even grizzly country. I had seen many bears before this encounter. Each time I respected them and kept my distance. Luckily enough they had kept a mutual respect for me and I never had any problems. Often times these encounters were when I was alone. Just me and the bear. One on one. No back-up but no real reason to fear each other. What was different this time? Eventually I dozed off for a few nods just before sunrise. In the morning I went out to see what might have fallen out of my tent the night before. When I arrived at the former location of my tent the ground was littered with evidence of bear. I picked up my water jug. There was a considerable hole in it, large enough to discount it as a vessel for bearing liquid. My hard hat was equally fondled, still functional in that it sat on my head. However the plastic had been compromised so much that it would never sustain an impact stronger than a swiftly swung nerf bat. My small nalgene that I carried around in my back bag was also rendered useless.

It ­had taken a crap next to my planting bags but did not chew them. My shovel handle had a few bite marks but nothing to render it useless. It was when I saw the sandwich that everything became clear. I had found the sandwich all squished up at the bottom of my block bag the day before, an ugly PB and J, I would have eaten it, normally. However the bag had burst and the sandwich had gotten all dirty. When I found it in there at the end of the day, I had immediately thrown it out side my tent with intentions of disposing of it properly later. The reason for chucking it out of the tent was purely to keep food smells out of the tent. Naturally I had forgotten about throwing the sandwich outside when it was time for dinner and proper disposal. I saw it now naked and unscathed. It had about as much radiance as is possible for brown bread to displace. It was a clue. This bear was not there to have a cheap snack at the expense of some dirty treeplanter, as we often dismiss most bear interactions with the planting population. This rancorous bear was out to do me in for laughing at it. I had hurt its feelings. It had sought me out for revenge, not my tasty waste. The evidence matched, the only things harmed were the things that would inconvenience me but not truly screw me over –my water jug and my hardhat. I have to thank the bear for not actually taking a crap on my stuff. Next to it was a nice touch though. The experience gave me a new insight to the lumbering oaf of the Boreal. We don't give these animals enough credit. They may be animals but they know when they are being laughed at, and brother they don't like it either.

The moral of this story:? Don't fuck with the bears, they are more vindictive than you think.