Last night, around 2 am, I was woken by the sound of banging on our shed. Coming out of sleep, it sounded like Paul was trying, unsuccessfully, to get in. Why doesn’t he just open the door, I thought in my haze. Then I came fully awake, and could hear him snoring softly in bed.
A bear, then.
I shook Paul awake, quietly so as not to wake the kids, and asked him to go downstairs and lock our front door. It opens out, but with the new handle we installed recently, a bear could potentially swing it open. A bear in the house is one of my greatest fears. I sometimes lie awake in bed, wondering what I’d do if a bear got in. Could it climb the stairs to the loft? What then? Could we jump out the window? Where would we go from there? I’d have to run back in to get the keys to the truck.
Stop. It will never happen.
Back to last night, and Paul and I standing in the kitchen with a flashlight, peering out into the rare darkness, watching the shadow of a big black bear lumber away from the shed and barbeque, in the direction of the garbage cans; heard the bear find the cans, knock them over, the “wildlife proof” lids no match for a bear’s strength; watched the bear lope off behind the shed towards the woods, dragging a bag of garbage with it.
Everything was quiet again. We went back to bed. What else is there to do? The bears are awake, curious and hungry. They’re not just a problem at our place in the bush: they are sighted in town, too, and on the hiking trails that surround town. As I drift off to sleep, I wish for a dog. I think about how the garbage cans are right by the outhouse, and of how I had to pee. If I’d woken with that urge just 20 minutes sooner, I might have encountered the bear in the yard, in the dark. Another of my greatest fears. Stash bear spray in outhouse. Learn to use a gun. Get a dog.
I’d intended to write about summer unfolding, and then a bear happened. It’s too good a story not to share!
The leaves are all coming out now: what was a buzz of new-green has become a roar. Wild lupin and bluebells push up from from the soil; the crocuses have already bloomed.
The ice has gone out on the river, and the ferry that carries people across has gone back in the water. Soon, the first tour buses will roll into town, covered in dust, off-loading people who will walk around town in matching jackets, all wearing name tags, standing in the middle of the road to take pictures of decrepit heritage buildings. They will creep past the bar, most too afraid to step foot in the local watering hole. The braver ones will find out we don’t bite and it is, in fact, the best time you can have in town. (But I’m biased).
I said I wouldn’t plant a big garden but of course I am busily getting all four of the beds ready, turning the soil, adding in sheep manure, digging out the grass that overtook two beds the summer we were in Ontario. In another week, I’ll plant potatoes, bush beans, sweet peas, radishes and lettuce. This weekend is the Gold Show, a mining trade show that has grown to include much more than mining: the local nursery, and the one from Whitehorse, will set up with bedding plants and herb and vegetable starts. I’ll buy flats of flowers and plant my pots the first week of June, hoping we don’t get a late frost.
We spend more and more time outdoors these days. Like with plants grown indoors from seed, I harden my children off, leaving them outside a bit longer each day until they can tolerate the elements, the change of atmosphere. They “help” me in the garden, or we kick a ball around or we walk in the woods. With bear spray. Singing loudly.
Summer here goes by in a flash: it is packed full of festivals, Saturday markets, friends, picnics, camping, and work. I try to slow down, savor each day. I hope you do the same!