Bear necessities

I almost didn't write about my trip to Alaska because, well, it's tough to keep vacation stories from putting people to sleep or sounding as if there's one underlying theme: "I went to this cool place and you didn't. And, even if you've been there before, I assure you it wasn't as good as my experience."

So I'll try to stick to subjects you non-jetsetting commoners can perhaps just try to imagine.

Like mosquitoes. I don't know what the state bird is in the Frontier State, but the mosquito has most certainly bitten it innumerable times, pissed that it doesn't qualify for the coveted title because it's an insect (nevermind that the little sash awarded the winner is custom-made for feathered breasts).

I'm guessing their size, probably triple that of their Southern cousins, resulted from some evolutionary attempt to remind visitors they're in the biggest state in the Union (in case the hundreds of miles of open spaces wasn't doing it for you).

But give the winged bloodsuckers a Darwin award for not realizing the trade-off for their enormity is alerting prey to their presence, thanks to the bug equivalent of the stealthlike qualities of an elephant. At one point, when I was riding in my friend Stan's truck, I immediately felt it when one lit on my right forearm.

So I swatted it. Suddenly, it appeared like one of those moments in a cop drama, where a guy doesn't know he's been hit by a stray bullet until he looks down and sees the pints of lost blood. My arm and left hand were covered in it. Two paper towels later, I was clean again.

By week's end, Stan had purchased a Mosquito Magnet, one of those $300 contraptions that lures its victims with propane-powered carbon dioxide emissions, and we were seeing a noticeable difference around his property.

The worst part about all the mosquito bites, though, is how they make presentation a challenge for brown bears serving you to guests as the main course. They, like all of us, prefer a nice, blemish-free skin on their meat.

No kidding, the bears freaked me out. I wanted to see one, but I wanted it to be waaaay over "there" somewhere, about a half-mile away in a clearing, when I saw it. Maybe even sleeping. Declawed and defanged. Possibly in restraints.

I wasn't panicked about them initially, stupidly enough. I started out regarding them like wild animals that can harm you in the South (i.e., if you're not a moron and stay on trails and stay alert, there's nothing to worry about).

But after reading a couple of warnings from the park service, just as I was considering a walk in the woods by myself a time or two, it struck me: Though they're like rattlesnakes or copperheads in that they only bite when they're startled or threatened, the way they're most definitely not like snakes is their ability to outrun you, physically overpower you and then feast on your limbs and torso like a bag of Lay's (once you start, you can't eat just one).

Apparently I wasn't alone in my uneasiness about the bruins. While I was awaiting my order of seafood chowder and fish and chips at the Seaview Cafe in Hope, a couple from Europe asked our waiter whether it was safe for the two of them to venture out anywhere other than the businesses of the tiny village.

From the way they phrased it, I was impressed the two of them had risked the dash from their rental car to the restaurant. I figured, at this rate, they would be sleeping in their car, relieving themselves into empty soft-drink bottles and ordering all meals at drive-thru windows by trip's end.

However, the potential horror-movie moment came about an hour earlier, at a small rest area near the Hope turnoff from the Sterling Highway, where a 8.5x11 sheet of notebook paper had been duct-taped next to the men's restroom with this warning: "USE EXTREME CAUTION — GRIZZLY spotted in area."

The date listed was the previous day. Considering the restrooms' proximity to the woods, as well as the realization I was in the moment in the scene when the victim hears a sound and turns just in time to see nothing but fangs and paws, I suddenly was a little uneasy about making use of the facilities.

But I did. While inside, I heard two vehicles pull into other spaces outside. Thank God, I thought. One of these other tourists will be mauled, instead, enabling me to make it back to my car.

When I pushed the door open to exit, I found a woman standing no more than a yard away, reading the posted warning.

The problem was that she didn't expect to find me at that moment, her thoughts preoccupied with the image of a grizzly (likely roaring as fresh blood dripped from his chin) looming somewhere in the shadows.

It explained why she staggered backward about three yards as she let out a sort of gasp coupled with a scream.

"OHHH! I was just reading about the grizzly when you startled me!" she said, trying to regain a stable heart rate.

I smiled, looked toward her husband bending over the steering wheel in laughter in their truck (not outside it, the coward) and said, "Yep, I could see that."

Our collective uneasiness wasn’t unwarranted, judging from a parks service sign I saw posted at the same facilities later in the week, when I was driving back from Homer. According to the new warning, only 90 minutes earlier a brown bear sow and her two cubs had been spotted feeding from the dumpster about 10 yards away.

Before any of you go “awwwww, how precious,” keep in mind that a mama grizzly has only one thought when she detects another living thing in the vicinity of her cubs: protect. And her interpretation and your interpretation of that word probably don’t match.

You’re picturing Mama Berenstain’s furry arm across Baby Berenstains’ chests when she has to stop short in the Honda CRV. She, in reality, is in a full-on charge, all 300 pounds of her, knocking down trees in her path, to disembowel the creature that dares be within a mile of her “precious” babies.

Now I know why every Alaskan owns a truck, a big dog and a gun — to flee from, offer up a free appetizer to or kill a brown bear.

Signs about bear safety were everywhere in the state and national parks. But there was one warning even further prevalent throughout my travels: “one-lane traffic ahead.”

Roadwork took place everywhere, it seemed. Once, near Willow, I waited so long that I began to wonder whether they were going to go ahead and break up the old pavement, put down new asphalt and mark the lines before letting me continue on my journey.

The construction and patchwork only made sense, of course: For a significant portion of the year, the highway department can’t do anything because snow and ice are the focus. So crews have to take advantage of the summer months to do eight or nine months’ worth of road repair.

It did make me wonder, though, why they couldn’t follow what we do here in Georgia: work on highways at night. After all, it’s never completely dark in Alaska during the summer, so it seems like crews could work third shift, when fewer people are driving.

Which brings me to another question. With all the daylight Alaskans have in the warmer months, why are they still guzzling coffee? I can understand it during those dark, cold winters. But a town of 800 people supporting two tiny coffee shacks even during the summer sounds like a substance-abuse problem.

Come to think of it, maybe that “other” popular beverage in our little piece of Canada contributes to coffee sales. After all, there is that other use for the brown elixir besides warming your bones or fending off drowsiness.

Anyway, all joking aside, Alaska is beauty and unbridled nature beyond description, where around every curve waits a postcard view. Only its winters, with so much darkness, biting winds and feet of snow, prevent it from being absolutely overrun with new residents leaving behind the lower 48. I sincerely look forward to visiting again someday.

Comments

[Chris of Dangerous Logic]

Two things:

First, if I'm approaching a rest area lavatory and see a sign saying 'USE EXTREME CAUTION — GRIZZLY spotted in area' I won't have to use the facilities anymore since I will have just voided in my pants.

Second, that Euro couple should know that a properly motivated grizzly can peel open a car door in about ten seconds.