The Canoeist

Posted On February 27, 2021

“Beware! He’s Watching.”

**********

     His ears suddenly perked up. He lifted his head, put his nose to the air. He could smell it almost as soon as he heard the boat’s engine cut off.

     “Humans.” His keen nose soon confirmed it.  The mixed aroma of campfire smoke, beer, bug dope, human sweat and grilling meat filled his nostrils. Voices clamored and splashed as the weekend’s two-legged contingent began cracking cheap beers and bad jokes while they pitched camp. 

     “Humans.” Shattering his solitude. Uninvited intruders, invading. Blaring country music, offloading beer by the case.  Along with fishing tackle, assorted smokes, and several coolers filled with a variety of sweet-smelling goodies and slowly thawing raw meat.

      Then, above the ruckus, he heard something else. Both eyes came alert. He uttered one low growl. He’d heard that sound before. Unmistakable. The mixed gas/oil/sawdust whine of a chainsaw wreaking havoc on his lakeside forest.   

      He was holed up in his favorite hideout, downwind from the camp. His simple rustic lair was tucked in behind the trunk of a massive hemlock on the back slope of an outcropping of moss matted bedrock. From his vantage point, above the beaten path, he could survey his surroundings without being easily spotted himself. 

     Shadowed from human view, he sat. There patiently biding his time, listening, waiting out daylight as he plotted his next course of action.

      This was HIS land, HIS home, HIS domain. He faithfully patrolled it. As had his brothers and forefathers, before him. He stood silent sentinel, guarding his pristine wooded mountainside shores from these human intruders who came, camped, and without thought or regard, with one wave of their hand so cavalierly destroyed it.

     The afternoon sun grew hot. The camp’s alcohol fueled smoky tumult continued. Eventually, the chainsaw’s whine subsided. Several cedars and birches lay victim. The boat went back out. It returned just before dinner, reeking a mixture of sweat, beer and fish.

     He’d dug through his stores while he waited out the day. Rustling up a midday snack from his forage. Then he’d settled back into the shade for a snooze, waiting. Dinner smoke sizzled downwind from the camp.  The lake wind subsided. The music grew louder as evening shadows grew longer. Blackflies and mosquitos emerged. He sat up and scratched. It was nearly time to get at it.

     Sunset captured, then slowly released the horizon. He stood erect, yawned once more, and stretched. He could hear the camp’s voices gather close near the glow of the fire. Darkness crept in. He ambled slowly and quietly down towards the lake’s shore.

     The crackling campfire masked his approach. As the evening’s last beer cans emptied, fireside chatter dulled to a murmur, punctuated by an occasional belch.

     He slid in behind a tree overlooking the coolers, on a slight knoll above camp, unobserved. The fire died down.  Someone turned off the music.

     “Well boys. Don’t know about you all, but I’m ‘bout done for the night.”

     Tent zippers unzipped. Tent flaps opened. Then sleeping bags. Then zippers went silent. Soon snores, mosquitos and cricket chirps filled the night. He arose from behind the tree and cautiously approached the nearest tent.

     He stood.  Motionless.  Silent.  Listening to his quarry sleep. The moon came out. As he moved closer, a twig snapped beneath him.

     A form inside one tent suddenly bolted upright. A light flashed.

     “Hey! Who’s out there? Did anyone else hear that?!”

     Too late. He attacked. With a fury and power no weekend camp beer guzzler could match. Several loud screams pierced the night. Mayhem’s bloody carnage quickly followed.

      It was over in minutes. There was but one survivor. One lone figure quietly slipping back into the night.

     By the time the Rangers found them three days later, not much was left.  What the bears hadn’t dragged off into the woods, racoons, mice and coyotes had gnawed almost clear down to bone, right there on site.

     Several weeks passed. Police investigated the matter. Forest Rangers shot and killed a big black bear that had been seen roaming near lakeside camps in the area.

     “Case Closed: Bear.”

     Family members claimed what was left of the bodies and belongings. Funeral services were held. Someone retrieved the boat.

     Things on the lake eventually returned to normal. Whispers faded.  The whole incident slowly drifted to memory. It became just another in a long line of tragic Adirondack bear stories.

**********

Epilogue

     A nondescript old man sat quietly in the shade of a hemlock, on a moss matted outcropping overlooking the lake. No one took note of him. The rest of the world barely knew he existed. Which sat just fine with him. He wasn’t much to look at anyways, and preferred solitude, there by his lake.

     Then a motorboat shattered his silence. Voices clamored and splashed as the weekend’s two-legged contingent began cracking cheap beers and bad jokes while they pitched camp. Blaring country music, offloading cases of beer.  Along with fishing tackle, assorted smokes, and several coolers filled with a variety of sweet-smelling goodies and slowly thawing raw meat.

     Then, above the ruckus, he heard something else.  An unmistakable gas/oil/sawdust whine. His eyes narrowed. He uttered one low growl.

     “Humans.”  He muttered, quietly seething as he sharpened his hatchet and his hunting knife.

     He waited patiently.  The day slowly faded.  Darkness settled in. The lake went still.  The nondescript old man silently boarded his craft.

     Unnoticed by anyone, one lone canoeist slipped quietly into the night.

**********

Until Our Trails Cross Again:

ADKO