Monday, October 16, 2017

Bring on the darkness



And so the year is winding down. An intense year with a multitude of new experiences that have left me emotionally and physically exhausted. Returning last week from an unplanned trip to Europe due to a family emergency, I stared down at the white emptiness of the Greenland icecap, Bylot and Baffin Island, and the stark beauty of the Barrens undulating below the plane. There is a strange kind of solace in that kind of untouched landscape; a promise that whatever happens, the land will always be there.


As I finally arrived home with over a thousand pounds of groceries and supplies, and the Beaver vanished back across the lake, silence seeped into me. Wilderness is mostly a very quiet place. It feels like it’s uncurling and unbending me, slowly coaxing back to life all the senses I can’t help but shutter when I am out in civilization.

C. is gone for the next few months, getting out to travel after playing hermit here while I looked after orphaned black bears. It’s just me and the dog in our solitary wild heaven. I begin to shape the days with the old familiar pattern: hauling water from the lake, chopping wood, going for long walks, looking for animal tracks, reading, writing. I’m still tired of the outside world. Bring on the darkness, let winter come.   


Friday, September 8, 2017

The constant buzz

... of wasps, hornets and yellow jackets fills the air and we encounter numerous dug up yellow jacket nests wherever we go.
They can't possibly all have been dug up by bears - we easily walk past 10 newly destroyed nests every day -, though there are a lot of trees with remnants of wasp and hornet nests where the scratch marks on the trunk tell exactly that tale.
The buzz that fills the woods tells a more complex story, though. This summer, a major outbreak of aphids and leaf beetles attacked the poplars, willows and even soapberry bushes in our area. Honeydew, a sticky sugary liquid secreted by the aphids as they eat the plant's sap, coated the entire understory of the deciduous forest, sticking to our hands, the dog's fur and everything else like glue. The leaves of fireweed and blades of grass turned glossy with the stuff.

Yellow jackets, hornets and wasps prey on leaf pests, so I assume their crazy number this year has a direct connection to the aphid outbreak - and the proliferation of wasp nests seems to draw more bears than we usually see into the area. Which in turn may have resulted in moose cows and calves keeping a very low profile. Maybe moose are also affected by the compromised browse and seek out areas that haven't been affected by the aphids? Either way, we hardly see any moose or even sign of them, which is very unusual.

The plague of yellow jackets even displaced us from our outhouse: I assume they are hunting for flies in the pit. Lowering bared sensitive body parts onto the seat and thereby sealing in stinging insects below is too unnerving; we've set up a temporary bucket system in our wood shed.

In mid-August, we paddled and portaged into a smaller lake and were rewarded with a reprieve from the waps, thanks to the prevailing spruce forest.
Our foldable canoe made the three portages easier:
 Our dog enjoyed living the easy life once again, getting conveyed across the lakes by his people and frolicking along the portage trails while we grunted and swore.
Golden sunrise after rain


Moose skull and antlers



Fall is colouring the trees now, who must be thorougly looking forward to shedding their poor sucked and eaten leaves. It's going to be an interesting moose hunt this year - are they going to return from wherever they've been hanging out?


Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Back into the wild

After ten months in civilization, I now can't get enough of wild spaces. It's almost like a hunger, a need to stuff myself with the sound of wind stroking the mountains, the sight of unbroken forests to the horizon, the taste of earth and wildflowers and trees.
 Is this how my bears felt when we released them? I crave the feeling of tussocks and rock under my feet, of sleeping with only a foamie between me and the ground, snuggling up to the earth.
We celebrated my return up north with a hike to Samuel Glacier in Tatshenshini-Alsek Park, close to Chilkat Pass (Haines Pass).
You can go for miles and miles here, accompanied by the warning whistles of gophers and marmots.
The nights were chilly even in early August; at least that gave us an early morning reprieve from the billions of bugs of every description that were overjoyed to find other blood than just that of gophers to suck.
I capped off the trip by taking the scenic way home.
A woodland caribou swam by my camp on the first morning:
 Back at home, our resident porcupine came by for an early morning visit.
It was still so dark out I had to use the flash. The porcupine knows us and isn't scared of us at all, but wondered what the flashing light was all about. She abandoned her breakfast and came over to me, quills down, to check it out.
When she was getting too close for my comfort, I moved a bit to indicate I was getting nervous. She immediately got the hint and turned around, quills still down, to resume her breakfast.
What a wonderful homecoming it's been!

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Saying goodbye



How to say goodbye to the animals I’ve lived, breathed and dreamed for almost ten months? It’s been a time so intense, uplifting and heart wrenching that I almost feel as if the little orphans ate me up and spat me out again in a different shape. I’ve never done work before where I cried so much – tears of sadness, happiness, exhaustion and frustration. The worst was when the animals cried as well: bear cubs, deer fawns and moose calves desperately calling for their mom, injured animals crying out in pain.

With each little orphan who came in I’ve wished there was a way to let its mother know that her baby was at a safe place now, that we would do our very best as foster moms, and that her little ones are loved. There are a lot of impossible things you find yourself wishing for when you are looking after orphaned wildlife.

But there is something that was better than anything I could have wished for: my co-volunteers Ludmila and Brooke. We were such an awesome team. Our wildly different backgrounds, huge disparity in age, and completely different personalities somehow turned out to be a strength. In our volunteer world that largely revolved around sorting through run off fruit and vegetables, keeping track of the consistency of animal poop, and keeping the feed kitchen clean, we came to see humour in completely unfunny things. We didn’t just wash the floor, we blessed it in a daily ritual with detergent (ah, that lavender smell!). Undoing the annoying rubber bands and twist ties around interminable bundles of radishes turned into unpacking greetings from our queendom, the big agribusiness farm that produces them.

With all the stress that looking after the animals can create, it was laughing tears with Ludi and Brooke in moments of utter silliness that often balanced things out and kept me sane. There was always one among us who greeted the at times overwhelming work load with the same war cry: “Okay, let’s do this!” 


And we did it. Plucking hair for DNA records from tranquilized bears (Ludi’s specialty), taking paw prints (Brooke’s expertise), taking garbage bins of compost away, sanding the icy driveway while using the sand buckets as walkers, hauling logs and branches, you name it. We were there for each other as much as we were there for our animals.

Wildlife rehab takes you outside your comfort zone, pushes you to your limits and sometimes beyond them. I came to Northern Lights Wildlife Shelter to learn more about bear behaviour and wildlife in general, and to help give orphaned animals a second chance. I leave here with incredible memories of my animals. Being allowed to share in so many intimate moments of their lives was a humbling experience; the most poignant being how these animals have managed to overcome sometimes horrific trauma and eventually embraced the good things in life again.

In wildlife rehab, we let the animals go once they are fit to survive on their own. Setting free who I have come to love is tough, it’s like tearing a little piece of my heart out and sending it afloat. But at the same time it’s beautiful because it feels like I have become part of something much bigger.
I am lucky to have had these experiences, and even more lucky to have had such incredible people to share them with. Thank you, Brooke and Ludmila, for the jokes and laughter, for letting me drone on and on about my favourite bears, and for letting me sleep. I love you guys.