Roosevelt Harbor off Wrangell, through Zimrovia Channel, to Anan Bay

August 2, 2008: Onlookers at the black bears’ feast


The black bears’ feast

Zulu plied through Zimrovia Narrows, between Wrangell and Anan Bay, watching for the intricate path of red and green buoys, past Button Island, past floating trees that serve as respite for seagulls, past Indian fishing camps of old, up Clarence Channel to Anan Bay.


Plying through the intricate Simrovia Course

Bake a batch of nachos for the hungry captain and crew. Refried beans, cheese, hot salsa and ice cold Alaskan Amber or was it Full Sail IPA? Enjoy. Call out green and red ahead. Russ and Drew study the paper chart. We’re through. Drew takes a nap.

It was a misty gray day as we dropped the anchor in 33ft. We’ll test the holding ground overnight before leaving Zulu for the best part of the following day. Observe bears in the wild.
Lower the dinghy, lower the outboard motor. Russ turns the choke on and yanks at the starter chord.

“Piece of sheeat!” Russ uses his favourite expletive, which by now has lost is ‘unsavouryness’. He yells after yanking the starter chord has resulted in no engine purr.

We all piled in: Drew, Lucy, and myself. Russ started rowing toward the stream head. Drew took over trying to start the motor. Quietly pulling on the chord with no good result and no fiery expletives.

“The tide is going out and it will be hard rowing through the inlet to the lagoon,” Russ said.
They swapped positions and just in time the engine started its purr and we revved into the outflow, past the rocks, into the still lagoon. There were birds all around: seagulls, terns, and sooooo many bald eagles. Ravens. We tied the dinghy to a fallen tree and turned the motor off to listen to the call of the wild.


Soooo many eagles in the lagoon

“There’s a bear!” Russ called, pointing to the big bolder with iguana over it. Always he spots the bears.

A grizzly nonchalantly comes down to the water’s edge, scoops up a salmon and, carrying it in his mouth, moves into the long green grass—the bear’s highway. We sit in silence. Listen to the bird calls and the out flowing water swirl by. In the midst of a feeding ground. salmon battling their way upstream to spawn. Sitka spruces, hemlock, red bunch berries, blueberries, skunk cabbage, moss, fern the silent audience. Two curious seals and we, the interlopers.


Bunchberries at Anan Bay

The night on Zulu was calm. She held her ground well. I felt Russ roll out of the bunk at an early hour, heard the hatch slide open, then back under the feathers he crawled indicating all was well.
At the break of day, I awake to the melodic call of eagles. A pleasing, lilting song.

“There are about 45 eagles on the beach.” Russ reports as he sips a hot cup of Starbucks Ethiopian Sidamo coffee, a gift from Lucy. Drew, Lucy and I slowly emerge from our bunks to start the day. The tide is low. 17 ft below our keel. Play with the rode. We’re OK.

“I’ll take my new Nikon 40DX ashore this special day.” I tell Drew. But will carry it in my new slick Lowepro bag for safety.

We are adorned with rain jackets, a backpack with snacks and juice, and embedded cameras. We row ashore, prepared to disembark into the wet with Tevas on. We have our permit code—R57GDNNK—to present to the rangers. Drew and Russ carry the dinghy to high ground. We walk toward the board walk across the slippery rocks.

Blam!! I’m flat on my face atop my camera bag, carrying the precious Nikon. I lie like a beached whale on the wet rocks. I’m OK. Plum-pudding spill. Not a pretty picture. Up I get and follow the leaders along the board walk. Wiping mud and slime off me. Zulu is framed here and there by windows in the trees. Eagles are perched intermittently like sentries. Seagulls by the myriad claim one outlying tree on a rocky point. The hot pink crab pot buoys bob in the waters beyond. The forest is dank with huge mushrooms, moss, fern. Here and there is old bear scat.

We get to the rangers hut. She is a pretty young girl with a blond pony tail. Lucy has to show her where we are on the list a few times. The ranger is confused. Winston, the gun bearer and leader of another group of women from Wrangell, is also trying to sort things out for the young ranger.
He is slightly built with bright blue eyes and weathered face, a salt and pepper beard, cap, nicotine-stained fingers, blue jeans, and comfy coat.

The ranger starts her short orientation on what to do if we encounter a bear. She loses her train of thought twice.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what is wrong with me! I had a bad dream last night!” she apologizes.
Thoughts gathered she proceeds to warn: many people have been held up in the outdoor privy with bears standing guard outside. Talk loudly, be stern with the bears (ja sure ya betcha), don’t yell at them, never run from them, stay together. She comes across with little sense of authority. All snacks and juices are handed over to her for our safety.

Our group goes first. Winston called out in jest: “Lost souls!” He has the gun, we don’t. On we proceed like little red riding hoods in a bear fairy tale. Russ announces that I can’t keep stopping for pictures and lagging behind. Half heartedly I listen and see Lucy turning around several times to make sure the prodigal fairy tale figure is keeping up on the winding trail to bear land.
Fresh bear scat. Steamy bear scat. Hmmmmm. Keep a sharp lookout. I better stay together with the others. Be as one, the ranger indicated. I recall her words. Just one more picture of the bear scat ala berries. Salmon leap from the stream.

3000 years ago, the Tlingit Indians fished in Anan Bay. The fish traps have proved time by changing little today. At low tide rock walls were built into a ‘V’ shape with a basket at the apex. The fish would get trapped in between these walls at low tide, and then swim out the opening when the tide came in and get trapped in the baskets. Eagles were considered a pest by early Americans who put a bounty on them for awhile. It felt like we were intruders in a time from long ago.

We arrived at the observation deck built to overhang a rocky ledge overlooking a cascading waterfall. A ‘blind’ was built at a downward slope, well camouflaged for perfect photo opportunities.

We have arrived! Bears! Only black bears! A mom and her two cubs are under the deck eating fish. A medium-sized cuddly-looking bear up a tree a few feet away with a salmon dangling in its claws peeks at me for the picture.

Sweet! Up and down the tree he went carrying a fresh fish each time.


Upstairs dining

It was my turn to go to the blind. A National Geographic moment. A sow with two cubs, ever following her. She would go down to catch the fish at the fall base, white water churning. The sweet teddy-bear cubs would slip and slide on a higher rock waiting her return. Mama bear would return to her cubs, writhing fish in mouth. Up the steep fallen tree trunk she would climb, with little ones at her apron strings—bound for higher places to dine.


Waiting for mama bear to return with the fish

She has a fish. Or is it “he” has a fish?

Looking for more before he is finished what he has caught

Big papa bears lurked on low-lying rock shelves plucking fish from the water like cherries. Shaking off the wet, silver light flashing on a doomed salmon, pink flesh torn. Look up for a respite. Gnaw more, tear at it. Growl at another more docile bear who gives innuendo to sharing the rock. He slinks back being the least to greed. Another big bear snoozes in a cave. There’s another mama bear with one cub.

“Two days ago, a male boar killed her other cub” Winston said. The mother left the dead cub on a log. The male bear ate it. If her cubs are killed she immediately goes into esterase.” He explained further. He must have read my shocked expression, even though I am from Africa and understand well the food chain.

“That’s men for you!” he concluded with a wry smile.

Oh no!!! I see my camera setting is on ‘S’ for shutter and not Auto! Most of my pictures taken from the blind are blurry! I tell Drew. He looks at me with empathy and a touch of what I think. Jolly fool.

Fall on the slippery rocks. Take the National Geographic photo ops with the wrong setting. What else could happen?I shoot eagles in flight now with my camera and Drew takes a few more shots at the bears. The mom and cubs crawl out from under the deck. She catches a salmon and goes into the forest. All three climb a tree to enjoy.

I shoot eagles with my camera

Winston proceeds.

“At some point, when the bears have had their full of silver, they disappear into the forest to feast on berries—to balance their diet.” He says. “Black and brown bears don’t sit at the same dinner table. If brown bears appear—black bears disappear.”

He goes on to describe thousands of eagles in Wrangell who catch small fish called Eulagins—pronounced hooligans.

“Thousands of eagles. I’m not kidding you! I love to eat Eulagins like popcorn. Fry them up and eat them—ten, twelve at a time.” He grins showing yellowed nicotine-stained teeth.
I change the subject saying I could stay here for days.

“Yes some people come and leave after a half an hour. Can you believe that? Others come and eight hours is not enough.” He exclaims.

I lean on the railing, taking in the black bear’s feast. Something smells fishy. An eagle ‘dropping’ between my elbows. Near miss! It is time to go.

One more look at the rocks and the ledges, the cascading white water, the fish, the ravens and seagulls, the eagles, the black bears, Winston. We turn around and very slowly begin our walk back. I wave goodbye.

I see lots of new bear scat. Stop to photograph the bunchberries, the golden eagles, the bald headed ones, the ferns. Lucy, Drew and Russ in single file through the forest.

Russ, Drew, and Lucy walk through the forest

CRASH!! I hit the ground again. This time hard! My Nikon lens hits first. Reality. It has to be broken. Slowly I lift my hands full of trodden wet black dirt. I curl up and cry. My pants are ripped at the knee and a good-sized abrasion oozes blood.

“Help me up.” I ask.

Drew pulls me up.

Let’s carry on. I’m still sniffling and teary eyed—eyeing my periphery for bears in search of bloody knees. Lucy carries my camera. The rim around the lens is scraped, but luckily it is intact.

On I limp through the forest, carefully across the rocks, onto the wet tideland. Untie the dinghy, watch as the guys carry it to the water’s edge. We row out to Zulu still at anchor—awaiting its Captain and somewhat ragged crew.

Wash my leg with clean salt water on Zulu’s transom step. Rub it with Bactine, tape it. Crawl under my feathers for a nap while Drew and Lucy get dinner prepared. Close my eyes on this day of all days, in a forest wilderness, by waters cascading, with salmon leaping, struggling against the odds, ravens and eagles and seagulls waiting in the wings and we, onlookers to center stage, at the black bear’s feast.