Bear of a Honeymoon Page 6

"Well you know how to get me there," came the surly reply.

  "Yeah. Invite some horses to happy hour."

  Their bedroom door slammed.

  "Kind of fractures the mood," Matt observed, in an apologetic undertone.

  I sighed as he detached himself from my arms and switched on the light. The melancholy moment was short-lived.

  "Not them," I giggled, pointing toward the bed.

  In the precise centre of the duvet, two orange feline shapes nestled together like a pair of stacked saucers. One large. One small. Both round. It was heart-melting, a picture straight from one of those soapy calendars, the big fellow stretched full length with one enormous paw draped protectively over the sleeping form beside him.

  Matt reached for his camera.

  "Looks like Dudley's found a roommate."

  Chapter Six

  Despite the obvious inhibiting factors, the Craddock's guest room became a bona fide honeymoon suite early the following morning. Not surprisingly, our mutual preoccupation made us oblivious to the family activities beyond our door. The reverse implications didn't occur to me until we lay silently cradled in each other's arms. By then it was too late to worry. Too late indeed, I realised, as my lazily wandering gaze came to rest on the bedside clock.

  "We'd better get moving," I advised my tousle-headed spouse. He looked deceptively innocent drowsing by my side.

  "Can't," he mumbled, tucking me a little closer.

  "Why not?"

  "No energy."

  I snickered, just as our fellow guests would probably do if we failed to make an appearance at breakfast. And having gained a certain understanding of Matt's morning habits, I knew the responsibility for leadership was mine alone. With appropriate regret, I disengaged his arm and sat up on the side of the bed.

  "I think we disturbed our roommates," I commented, nodding in the direction of the side chair.

  Matt opened one eye long enough to observe Dudley assiduously grooming his diminutive friend. Our cat was too engrossed to notice our interest and the subject of his ministrations yawned extravagantly and rolled on her back, languidly extending her body its full hand-span length.

  "Serves them right," Matt groused. "If they'd spent the night over there, instead of pushing me off the bed, they'd still be dreaming of catnip and mice."

  "You know better than that," I said, taking advantage of the feline distraction to whip the covers back. It was the only way to get Matt moving. "Cats always sleep in the warmest and most comfortable available space, usually moulded to some inconvenient part of their human's anatomy."

  "I'd rather you were moulded to my anatomy," he leered, ogling my naked profile as he slid over to clasp his arms around me. "Any part," he added. "Convenient or not."

  "Later," I decreed, then struggled to my feet. The manoeuvre dragged Matt half off the bed.

  "You're a callous woman," he called as I disappeared into the bathroom.

  Callous or not, Matt was moving and breakfast was now a distinct probability. We puttered about, in accordance with our individual routines, still faintly strained in each other's presence. It was an interesting process, I thought, swiftly applying a coat of mascara, this joining of lives at the most mundane and basic level.

  "We ought to think of a name," came a disembodied voice from the bedroom. It snapped my reverie with head-turning irrelevance.

  "A name for what?" I demanded, trying to keep annoyance from my tone.

  "Not what—Who," came the reply. "Or is it whom? I'm never too clear on those finer points."

  My reflection broke into an affectionate grin. "Whom. For whom do we require a name?" I asked, glancing around the door frame. What I saw there quickly answered my question. But had the mirror still been in sight, I would also have seen my eyes pop wide. Obviously the "whom" was Dudley's little friend, now rapturously nuzzling my erstwhile spouse's neck. The rest of the person holding her was a complete stranger.

  "What are those?" I spluttered, gaping at his safari shirt and baggy shorts, each equipped with an array of pockets to warm the heart of the Artful Dodger.

  "Mountain Gear," he beamed, clearly enjoying the effect. "Perfect for a morning hike."

  "What's wrong with jeans?"

  "Why nothin' at all, little lady." The drawl was his standard John Wayne. "But we don't wanna go gettin' in a rut, now do we?"

  I cocked an eyebrow and sighed deeply. 'Til death do us part? If it weren't for the twinkle in those dreamy blue eyes, I'd surely be facing a murder charge. It was time for an about face of my own.

  "Nell," I said.

  Matt's response was a blank stare. Reward enough.

  "Her nibs," I said, reaching out to stroke the forgotten morsel in his hand. "We'll call her Nell."

  "How come?"

  "Because it fits. Now let's get moving, I'm starved." I picked up my daypack and waited while Matt, having deposited Nell by Dudley's side, retrieved his gear. It consisted of a bandolier fitted with a startling array of lenses, which he draped purposefully across his chest like a journalistic Che Guevara, and an iridescent orange hunting cap, complete with fold up flaps. To my abject horror, he snugged this neon topper on his head and strutted out the door. So much for oneupmanship.

  Despite the notoriety of our progress to the dining room, punctuated as it was by hastily disguised sidelong glances and barely concealed smirks, a truce was declared. And by the time we joined our fellow hikers at the assembly point, Matt had agreed that our newest family member should be called Nell. The fact that he had never seen the insanely silly movie Dudley Do-Right (and thus the connection with the name of my red-coated, inept, yet sincere feline friend), left me to wonder what other serious lapses I might find in his shadowed past. But when he learned of the character Dudley's persistent, if bumbling efforts to protect and woo the fair Nell, he was convinced.

  It occurred to me that at some point in the near future I should have a word with Brooke to inform her of our intention of absconding with Nell on Dudley's behalf. Somehow, I was sure she wouldn't mind. After what we'd heard last night, I figured kittens were pretty low on her current list of priorities. For that matter, so were we. Neither Brooke nor Dan had been in evidence in the dining room this morning, and we hadn't seen Claire either. But, of course, she'd be off at school. And we certainly weren't left to feel lonely.

  It was like a reunion when we met our hiking companions in the lobby. Art and Belle Fisk were already there, along with half a dozen others, surrounding Liam, our biologist guide and Tovey, his assistant, whose blazing hair set her apart despite her size. Griff Moody called out cheerfully from the gallery as he hurried to join us. And even chippy Denise Pardue was in relatively amiable spirits.

  We learned that most of the travel agents had opted for a complimentary day on the links. The few who accompanied us proved to be specialists in nature tourism, mostly catering to overseas visitors, especially from Germany, and predictably, a friendly, gregarious lot. A highly companionable group tramped past the new cabins onto the logging road up Blue Grouse Mountain. But the camaraderie would prove short lived.

  "How long ago was this cut?" asked Hans, a long-established Bavarian transplant, pointing out a large, well-rotted stump.

  "Eighty or ninety years," Liam promptly supplied.

  "When people still had some sense," Denise declared, characteristic venom returning to her voice. "Before the multi-national criminals started clear-cutting. Look how far apart the stumps are," she insisted, stabbing the air with an accusatory finger. "Back then, only the choice trees were cut. They knew enough not to mow down the whole damn forest."

  "But I've read that there are advantages to clear-cutting," remarked another of the agents, sounding reasonable and conciliatory.

  Mother Earth was having none of it. "For the profit pirates, maybe," she sneered.

  "And the logging companies reforest the areas they cut," he persisted.

  "Great, then we trade forests for tree farms."

  "I don't know
about that," said Liam. "But there's not much doubt that clear-cutting contributes to habitat destruction—along with development for urban expansion, and agriculture."

  "And habitat destruction is by far the biggest danger to wildlife," his assistant concluded with vigour. "I've read that, in this country, the equivalent of 240 acres of natural habitat is lost every hour."

  Now there was a statement tailor-made to pique a journalist's curiosity. Follow-up questions were rapidly assembling in my mind when Belle Fisk derailed my train of thought.

  "Look up there," she cried, waving excitedly toward a swath of meadow a few hundred metres beyond the small ravine to our right. "See the deer?" she enthused. "See it?"

  "Mule deer," Griff Moody said quietly with the air of one who knows. "See her ears?"

  Once mentioned, the exaggerated feature was plainly obvious, yet did nothing to detract from the animal's elegant grace. She stood tall against the backdrop of spring-green vegetation, her coat golden buff in the morning sunlight as she tested the air with delicate nostrils. We stood motionless, fearing to break the spell. But our scent was on the breeze and the doe soon gambolled off to the covering forest. I heard the rapid click of Matt's multi-frame drive and hoped he'd managed some good shots, though no picture would be the same.

  "Beautiful," I breathed, with a feeling of absolute wonder. To witness such a creature first hand was a precious gift.

  And my reaction was not unique, for the group fell silent, with only the muffled sound of footfalls on hard-packed earth to mark our passage. It was Liam who finally changed the mood when he stopped by a shredded stump. "Black bear," he commented, as we all gathered around.

  "And recent," Griff confirmed, though that was obvious, even to rookies like us. The rotted black mass was split open like a cracked egg exposing a worm-eaten interior the colour of fresh sawdust. "Looking for grubs."

  "I thought they ate salmon," ventured an athletically compact travel agent of middling years who had introduced herself as Helen.

  "They do," our biologist-guide agreed. "And practically anything else they can get in their mouths."

  "Just depends on the season," added Griff, the long-time hunter. "In early spring, before there's much plant growth, they're more carnivorous. They'll eat carrion from winter kill, but they prefer fresh meat. So, they rip up stumps and push over rocks for grubs, ants, salamanders, beetles..."

  "Must be strong," observed a voice from the crowd.

  "Too true," piped up Tovey with feeling. "One of my biology profs tells a story about a field trip from his student days. Apparently, he saw a yearling backhand a three-hundred-pound boulder," her eyes grew wide, "with one paw!"

  A chorus of low whistles filled the clearing and I noticed Helen beginning to look distinctly edgy. Tovey correctly interpreted the travel agent's nervous glances and hurried on. "But you don't really have to worry," she soothed. "Black bears aren't usually aggressive toward humans—and they're mostly not around at this time of day."

  "Where are they?" Helen wanted to know. I was pretty interested too.

  "In their day beds," Liam informed us. "They like a nice mossy area or a mound of dried grasses, leaves, and needles raked into a pile, preferably tucked into an area of thick vegetation where it's cooler and hidden. Blackies often build them at the base of a tree because they're such good climbers. If there's trouble, they head straight up."

  "And they sleep all day?" someone asked.

  The three experts nodded. "Pretty much," the hunter confirmed.

  "An hour or two before sunset they get active and move about until around eight in the morning. Won't see 'em much during the day unless they're hungry."

  "Just when you want to see them," Matt quipped.

  "No kidding," said somebody else, and a ripple of laughter circled the group, though I thought it rang slightly hollow.

  "Not a problem this year," Liam assured everyone. "Spring's been mild and prospects are good for a whole variety of vegetation and berries. The bears switch from one to another as they come into season, though they'll abandon just about everything else for cherries."

  "Then catch Helen's salmon in the fall?" Hans asked, patting her shoulder as he spoke.

  "Along with apples and nuts and the like," the biologist confirmed.

  "And garbage," remarked Art Fisk. "We had one up in our subdivision last spring. Dang thing made a terrible mess, knocking over cans and pulling bags apart."

  Belle nodded. "Conservation officers had to come and shoot the poor thing."

  "Shoot it!" Denise, whose silence had been such a treat, was ready for another fight. "Why wasn't it live trapped?" she demanded. "Should have shot the humans. It was their fault for attracting the bear in the first place."

  "You're right about the humans being at fault," said Liam. "Improperly stored garbage can be a real attraction, especially in lean food years. But live trapping often isn't a viable option," he explained. "Garbage bears, ones that have overcome their fear of people and developed a taste for our food, get very persistent."

  Tovey's red curls bobbed emphatically. "Last year I heard about a park warden who relocated one bear three times in two weeks. Moved the bear ninety kilometres, in a different direction, each time. Within forty-eight hours, he was right back at the same spot. And even if they don't try to return, bears are very territorial creatures. A released bear is as likely as not to be killed in a turf-fight."

  "How big is an average territory," I asked, glad to finally get a question in edgeways. This was a tough group.

  "Depends on the gender," Liam replied. "In studies of animals live trapped and radio collared, we've found that females only range about ten to thirty square kilometres. But males are real roamers. They'll use a local site for two or three days then move on, often because they smell something interesting. Blackies are just walking noses." The biologist grinned. "Along with good hearing, their sense of smell makes up for poor eyesight. There are lots of amazing examples—sixty kilometres to a stand of hickory nuts, a hundred to a blueberry patch. Males may cover a range over eight hundred square kilometres. You can see the problem with relocation."

  Meaning most of the so-called problem bears are shot. It was a sobering thought, which reduced our little band once more to silence as we advanced ever deeper into the forest. The road hugged the terrain without benefit of rock cuts to flatten hills or straighten curves. We climbed each little rise, descended into defiles, and stepped across a rock-strewn creek. Many of the trees were red-barked ponderosa pine, but we also passed through copses of fir with skeletal lower branches draped in wispy sprays of black witch's hair, and stands of aspen, their spring-green leaves dancing in the slight breeze. The angled sun cast long shadows across our path turning the road into a giant bar code.

  "Where do the bears go to hibernate?" I wondered aloud. "This doesn't seem like the sort of area where you'd find many caves."

  "They don't use 'em," Griff Moody responded. "That thing about caves is pretty much a misconception. Caves are too big to warm with the bear's body heat. Mostly they just den up in a hole they dug themselves, just big enough to squirm around in, usually at the base of a tree or in a clump of bushes where the roots can act as a support to keep the roof from collapsing. They drag in a deep pile of grasses and leaves to insulate them from the ground on the bottom and the bushes and leaves trap snow on top. Of course, some of them go for hollowed out trees where they use the wood shavings for a bed. And I even heard of one fellow who denned up under a cottage. Chewed half way through the supporting beam to get his wood chips."

  "You certainly know a lot about these animals," observed Belle, with admiration.

  "Gotta know 'em to hunt 'em," Griff replied. "Along with the pros like Liam, here, hunters know more than anybody about life in the wild."

  "Yeah, so you can massacre helpless creatures."

  The former hunter never flinched. "Actually," he replied, calmly directing his words toward the raging Denise Pardue, "I don't personal
ly hunt with a gun anymore, because I've reached a point where I don't like to see the animals die. But those who do shoot have a vested interest in conservation. Hunters contribute huge amounts of money to wildlife preservation, both through their organisations and on licenses and fees."

  Denise gave a derisive sniff, though she chose not to contest the point further.

  "Seems ironic," Matt mused in her place. "Hunters saving animals to kill."

  "Ironic maybe. But for the animal, a gunshot's a long sight better than starvation. Hunting quotas help keep numbers relatively stable. You know," Griff said philosophically, "left to her own devices, Mother Nature is often a very cruel parent."

  That was a perspective I hadn't considered. I didn't much like the idea of hunting for any reason, except for food. I knew that many people in rural communities depended on bagging a deer or moose each fall to supplement the family grocery supply. And, of course, for Indigenous people it was a cultural tradition. But the conservation angle hadn't occurred to me before.

  "Is bear hunting very popular?" I asked.

  "Oh sure," the expert replied. "But it's sort of a newcomer in terms of big game hunting. Until recently bears were considered varmints just like coyotes and wolves. You could shoot 'em any time. They didn't get big game status until the '60s and now the hunt is very controlled. Seasons are short, there's a bag limit and you can't shoot a sow with cubs."

  "I should hope not," Belle stormed, her grandmotherly features a mask of righteous outrage. "The cubs would surely die, too."

  "Most," Griff confirmed. "And that's an even bigger deal than you might expect because bears are pretty inefficient reproducers. But that's Liam's bailiwick."

  "For the last few of months, at least," our biologist-guide agreed. "This winter I was making recordings of den noises, and after the cubs were born, in January and February, getting some video as well."

  "All right!" Matt's eyes lit up like a couple of high beams. "How did you do it?"

  "Oh, for Pete's sake," I groused, rolling my eyes in exaggerated frustration. "Forget the shutter-bug stuff. We want to hear about the cubs."