Ep. 185: THIS COUNTRY LIFE - Oh, Canada

I've been to Canada three times in my life. Each trip was the trip of a lifetime, all of them hunting trips, but each unique in its adventure and the lessons learned. We're taking a trip north of the border this week, but no need for the Rosetta stone. I'm semi fluent in Canadian. I'm going to tell you all about them, but first I'm going to tell you a story. Plans, suburbans,

and boats. Five of us with bear tags and one with a camera waited at a predesignated spot on an unnamed river that bled off the eight hundred square mile Wallaston Lake in Saskatchewan, Canada. We were one hundred and sixty three miles south of the Arctic Circle and over two thousand miles away from Arkansas. We'd rented a suburban when we landed in Saskatoon, and if that wasn't far enough, we were still a thirteen hour drive from the airport to where we now sat. I was there filming them

from my good friend Klay Knuckleman. It was back in the days before he or I worked for me Dieter, and even before the original Bear Grind East podcast. This film was in support of Bear Hunt magazine and we were on an adventure, an adventure that began the day before when I showed up at Clay's house three hours before we were supposed to leave for the airport, and he said, Man, I've been so busy getting the magazine ready to go out that I haven't even packed yet.

I laughed, but he didn't. Then I knew he was serious. Hold a cow, let's get to pack it. Thirty minutes later we were on our way to the airport with seven days worth a gear. He never broke a sweat, while I felt like I was having kittens the whole time until we were checked in and waiting at the gate.

I hate flying, not the actual physicality of flying. But the process of flying it used to be a relatively simple process, as those amongst us who have traveled by air prior to the tragedy of nine to eleven can fully attest. And I know the reason for all the changes, and I appreciate the redundancy of ID checks and screening. I get it. I'm all for it. But that's the

process that makes me anxious. There's too much responsibility on my end to have everything I'm supposed to have to prove to someone who doesn't know me that I am who I say I am. Plus I lose things often. Alexis is constantly saying, in her condescending mom voice, if you just put things back where they go instead of laying them down in random spots, you wouldn't lose them. She usually follows that up with have you seen my phone? I can't find my phone. Me and that gal were

made for each other anyway. There the five of us were standing in the middle of Saskatchewan, having survived the first two legs of our journey into the North. James Lawrence, Ryan Greb Carney Easter, and Clay Bold Nukem and yours. Truly it was June and we were all wearing jackets to cut the cold wind that blew off Wallaston Lake. We were waiting for the last mode of travel to arrive. In the last twenty four hours. We had been kept from walking by the engineers at Boeing Chevrolet and whatever

water vessel was that we now waited. That was forty five minutes overdue to our agreed upon meeting spot that was supposed to keep us dry on our ride to the Bear camp. It must be a big boat to carry us and all our gear. We had a ton of stuff. Hard cases with camera gear, bows, drones, and Duffel bags of clothing and hunting gear were stacked at the edge of a dock that looked like it had been built by the students of a beginner carpenter class

in the dark. The boats we were expecting to ferry us the last part of the trip had to be big, so we were wondering how in the world they were going to fit into this small area and this homemade dock. I also wondered where the boat was. There was no way other than using a SAT phone to contact the outfitter, since he was the one coming to pick us up and we doubted he'd be able to answer, so we

just waited. Another thirty minutes ticked by with us entertaining ourselves, before we heard the sound of an outboard motor getting closer. Then we saw the boats, two of them. One was what i'd call a ski boat. It had a console steering and a walk through windshield and a fifty horse power outboard motor. The second boat was a fourteen foot aluminum vehu with a forty horse power motor and a

tiller hand. Now, either those weren't our boats, or we weren't going very far, I figured, But they were our boats, and we were a long way from the end of the boat riding. Were fixing the tape I had figured wrong. The boat's coasted to a stop along the edge of Canada's version of a Beverly hillbilly's boat dock, each pile by a pair of strapping lads who ended each question or mildly facetious statement with a like been waiting long

a or pretty long trip ah. After all the introductions, we started bringing our gear down to the boats, and the outfitter suggested putting all the gear in one person in the bigger boat. He was driving that one, and the rest of us would load up in the smaller boat for the ride across the lake to the camp. James, Carney, Ryan and I opted for the lighter boat after packing the bigger one to the absolute gills with bags and cases, then covering it up as best as we could with

tart to try to keep it all dry. I asked that hockey loving cat who was minding the tiller how far we were going, and he said, oh, it's a ways, and he wasn't kidding. In Arkansas, you could hop in any conveyance available from attractor to a bicycle, heading any random direc direction, and in two hours you're going to be somewhere, somewhere where there was something something other than water, moss and trees and seemingly endless wilderness. Now, don't get

me wrong, I was digging it. I loved being in remote places, and getting there is usually a big part of the adventure. But for the past two hours I felt like my teeth were getting loose from the constant battering that the boat was taken and transferring to me. I hooked my legs underneath the seat as best as I could, and I had a gi Joe kung fu grip on the gun and the seat. My behind was

hitting about every other wave. The waves that didn't take me a foot off the bench washed over the bow and sides, and the strong wind was soaking me in my fellow Arkansas with the cleanest water I'd never wanted to drink. At this point, I looked out of the rain hood i'd pulled down tight around my face in a feeble attempt to keep the lake out of my clothes, and the bank to the Arbard's side of the boat was invisible, nothing but water, and it looked as big

as the ocean. I looked to the port side and caught it an occasional glimpse of Earth between the solo cups of water. Old Mother Wallerston was spitting in my eyes. I started using naval terminology in my thinking, as the voyage to the end of the Earth drug on past eternity. I figured, since we had all obviously been shanghaied by sailors posing his bear hunting outfitters, that I might as well learn the lingo. I looked back at our pilot.

He was wrapped up tight in his rein gear with nothing other than a small peepole where his eyes should have been. Occasionally a black tuft of hair would flip out, before getting soaked and seeking refuge back inside his parker. I caught him checking the GPS he had in his pocket and mouth of the words how long eh? That

was in my best Canadian accident. He yelled above the din of the outboard, in the crashing of the hull of the boat on the waves, that we were almost halfway, Almost halfway, for the love of humanity, was where we were going going to look any different than where we were it? It all looked the same as far as what I could see now from the boat, and the same I'd seen for the past one hundred and fifty miles the road before we pulled up to that dock,

big round rocks, jack pines, and moss. I caught a glimpse of Claybow's boat as it launched in the air between the waves, the foot being the only thing that stayed in contact with the water. My fund meter had pegged out. I was ready to hit the bank. Gordon Lightfoot,

Ontario borne balladeer and President of Canada. His greatest song ever, one of the personal favorites of mine was on repeat in my head, over and over it played in Three and a half hours later, we pulled up to a dock that looked suspiciously like the first one I'd seen fifty five miles earlier, when that whole ordeal started. Clay and the boss outfitter had pulled a head as we rolled into calmer waters and were waiting for us on

the bank. Clay was smiling, happy to be there, happy to be bear hunting, but mostly I think, happy to be alive. He walked out onto that unsteady dock. He reached his hand out to me to help me up, smiling, then he said, what do you think about that? When my second foot hit the top of that dock? I said, does anyone know where the love of God goes? When the waves turned the minutes to ours, Clay's eyes got

white and a surprised look came across his face. He squeezed my hand and said, Wow, did you just make that up? No, Clay Bow, Gordon Lightfoot died and that's just how that happened Old Canada. On my third trip to Canada, me and Clay Bow found ourselves in British Columbia. It was a stark contrast to the terrain of northern Saskatchewan. This was mountainous, thick wooded terrain and clearcuts. We were hunting black bears in the same woods where grizzlies lived.

I'd always wanted to see a grizzly. I've always wanted to go on an archery hunt for one, and like a lot of folks, I'm intrigued by I also have a lot of respect for him, which is a manly way of saying they scare the soup out of me. I'm not scared of much, and I have been in places and situations in my law enforcement job when I probably should have been scared at that time, but I was also focused on the mission hand and fear was

never a real factor. All that went straight out the window when we got to Jeff Lander's primitive outfit and bear camp. Jeff is a bow hunter. He and his wife, Lanta have become good friends of mine. They're good people and she's from Arkansas. Good job, Jeffrey. Anyway, glad I got to camp earlier than anticipated, and he said we could go out that afternoon. Since we had plenty of

light left to hunt. They decided not to use the electric bikes that they had out forced to travel down the gravel in the dirt roads for fear of rounding a curve and surprising Old Gribbs. Stories that include surprise and grizzly don't usually end well for either party. I liked his thinking. The last thing I wanted to do was surprise anything that had claws, teeth and was grumpy to start with and could run thirty five miles an hour. That's like fifty six in Canada. They're even faster up there.

I didn't want a surprise one, but I did want to see one. Jeff hooked us up with our guide Gary. That's a good dude, and old Gary knows his way around the wilderness, and those bears both kinds playing. I got our stuff ready in short ordering. Before we knew it, we were heading down a one lane dirt road that was about twenty minutes away from the camp. I was quizzing Gary on his exploits and grizzly bears and wondering

if we'd see one before the week was up. He said it was a good possibility, but there was no guarantees. They're as scared of us as we are them, he said. The road we were easing down in Gary's truck wasn't much wider than a one lane of a two lane highway. Alder maple and pine trees that were thick on each side, thick enough that you couldn't see but a few feet past the edge of the road. But up ahead, about three hundred yards that's two hundred and seventy four into

Canadian the road opened up on each side. The sun was shining and lighting up what looked like a big hay pasture, quite a contrast to the darkness that stood on each side of the road. I'd learned two things about Gary in the short twenty minutes i'd known him. He was a religious man. I liked that. And he also toted it a a three point thirty eight la poor rifle that was secured in a spot beside me

in the back seat. I like that too. Used correctly, both of those can get you out of a tight spot, one quicker than the other and one for longer than the other. Gary said, we'd walk the last one hundred yards down the road and slip up to the edge and peek down the woodline to see if we could catch a black bear feeding on the ankle high grass that they loved this time of year. Good plan, he said, he'd done this many times. Found a bear, initiated a

stalk and got within bow range. That's what we wanted. We might as well fill the tag on opening day. We were in a single file line until the last few steps. That's when Gary motioned for us to be quiet and to stand beside him as we crept the rest of the way to see down the edge of the woods clay in the middle of me. On the far right, he whispered, Now, you guys, look down to the right. The woodline goes down a lot further than it does on this side. I'll check over here on

the left. We eased along almost in cadence. Two more steps and we'd be able to see all the way down the field edge. I strained to see anything that remotely looked like a bear. I was laser focused on everything that was going on around me when Gary whispered, don't anybody move. The tone in which he said it made me hear look over here at the grizzly bear that's about to kill us. All slowly and methodically, I turned my head to see two grizzly bear cubs and

a south stand fifty yards away. The sow was chomping down grass like they weren't making it anymore, and the both cubs were staring at us. The one in front and closest to us was standing on all fours, and the one behind him and nearest to the south stood up on his hind legs to see over his sibling and so he could see what we were. They both bolted at the same time and ran away from where we were standing, and passing right in front of the nose of Mama Bear. And looking back on it now,

she didn't pay them any attention at first. I'm sure they did that, playing and chasing each other all the time. It was when they hit the woods and didn't stop that she looked at the way they'd left and realized they were running away from something. Then she looked back to see what they'd run away from, and there we stood, all three of us, side by side, looking like a big bear hunting oreo with the double stuff On the

right hand side. Mama Bear stood up on her hind legs and stared at us for what seemed like a week. I'm not sure what that translates to, and time wise in Canadian but in reality it was really only for a few seconds. She woofed loud when she stumped her front feet down on the ground, and it rattled the stuff in my pockets. In my mind immediately calculating the number of clean sets of drawers I had back at the camp. Should I live through this, for I was

going to need some. Then as quickly as I processed all that, she was gone, disappearing through the same hole in the woods her cubs had gone. It was absolutely magnificent. She was beautiful, and so were her cubs. I felt privileged to have seen them and to have lived through it. Clay doesn't remember it being as significant an event that I do, which proves my adage of if you want want two different accounts of a singular event, get two

eyewitnesses to the same thing. To the individual perception is reality, and mine may have been biased by my innate fear of standing unarmed within the rock chunking distance of Asil Grizzly and her cubs, my only defense being my inability to look like I tasted bad. Clay barely remembers the event, and Gary, the guide with whom I spent a week spotting in stalking barriers all over British Columbia, probably doesn't even remember us being there. Did I manufacture the events

and how they unfolded? Did I add some spice or use poetic license and telling that story about my first encounter with a grizzly bear? Absolutely not. Were my perceptions of that close encounter romanticized or clouded by how I interpreted her reactions to our surprise meeting. Absolutely I don't know what was going on inside that bear's head. But while lie biologists tell us that for them it's fight or flight, and I'm glad you chose the latter, perception

is as individual as the cat doing the perceiving. That's something we can all learn from, and that's your challenge this week. Listen to folks tell their own bear stories and try to see it from where they were standing. You don't have to agree with them, and just as important, they don't have to agree with you. It's not a new concept to be respectful of another's viewpoint, but it's

one we're all a little out of practice. Up. We're all neighbors on this spinning rock, or, according to some folks, this humongous flat thing we're surfing through space. On either way, your neighbor is your neighbor. I'm leaving my second trip out for now, and I'll talk about that on another day. That was a special trip, and part of the reason I'm able to talk to you now is a direct benefit from that excursion. It's a good one and it literally changed the life path for both Clay and me.

We got some fun content coming out soon on the med Eater YouTube channel. Be looking for that announcement in This Country Life. We've got a few surprises there too. Until next week, this is Brent Reeves, sign it off. Y'all be careful.