Going back to the woods

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I thought about writing this month's column on the upcoming federal election, but the thought of commenting on how corrupt Chretien is and how dumb Stockwell Day is just bored me so much that I found myself drifting off into thoughts about my annual pilgrimage to the north woods to re-learn the laws of nature. So, rather than some tired political rhetoric about choosing between the lesser of two evil white men, or deriding your decision to play the white man's game and vote, I'll just tell a little story instead, and hopefully offer a few minutes' distraction from the noise on TV.

Up in northern B.C. near Babine Lake, my wife's cousin George and I were hunting moose. It was our fourth day out and we had seen a few deer and lots of bears, including a grizzly sow and cub that had run out right in front of us while we were coming up to the hunting spot. The day before, I had even walked right up to a two-year-old bear ready to fire, but backed off because he was still too young and stared me down showing no fear. But, we hadn't even seen one moose yet. We were getting impatient because of all the moose tracks that were around, and all the noise and calls we made were making them rustle in the bush. We could hear them, we could smell them, but they wouldn't budge from the cover because it was too early and warm and they weren't ready to mate yet.

Cousin George is a good-natured, born-again Pentecostal preacher who prefers to do his hunting these days from the front seat of his truck. Most of the guys (Carriers and white boys too) up north do it that way: cruise along logging roads in the 4X4 with their rifles hanging out the window until a moose is spooked, and then they shoot it from long range before it can make cover again. But we were being shut down.

The only moose we had seen was in the hunting camp of some white guys from Vancouver who got dumb lucky shooting a moose from a tree-stand at the edge of a lake, one that George and I had chased right to them the afternoon before. That's what we told ourselves, anyway.

The thing is, George had guaranteed me a moose. As a Wet'suwet'en in his home territory and a former hunting guide, he knew all the best spots. Besides that, he was a man of God: "a man of faith who trusted in the Lord Jesus."

All week we drove along for hours and hours with George praying out loud in English and Carrier for "the perfect moose, right there on the road around the next corner. JESUS!!, give us a nice fat cow moose and maybe even a calf too. That would be perfect, LORD JESUS!! Let our young Mohawk brother here, even though he hasn't accepted Jesus as his personal Lord and Saviour, yet, have good aim and be fast and shoot that cow moose and the calf so that we can fry up the sweet tenderloin TO-NIGHT, JESUS. God, I'm hungry."

All week, we were not worthy of that tenderloin. It was probably because I'm a born-again pagan and hadn't said the proper prayers anyway.

When it became clear to us that the Lord wasn't going to give us our moose so easily, George told me that I was going to have to do some real hunting.

This meant actually getting out of the truck and following tracks and trying to spook out a moose from the bush or sneak up on one feeding at a pond. That sounded good to me, and way more fun than riding in the truck listening to a "greatest hits" tape of fundamentalist preacher speeches all day long, straining my eyes trying to see Jesus gently placing a baby moose on the road up ahead of us. Getting off the road can be scary though.

I finally did see some moose tracks and we followed them along an old skid trail to some heavy brush cover that worked its way into a ravine (and, George thought he remembered a small lake a few hundred yards in). The hunt was on! Actually, George stayed in the truck and I went into the brush to try to spook it out or walk up on it for a close-range shot. Well, I chambered a round in my 30-06 and started following the tracks into the dense bus. The problem was the alder and willow brush was so thick that I couldn't see any more than 20 feet all around me, and the sound-deadening effect of wet young spruce boughs and thick ferns were total.

The ravine deepened real quick and I found myself going downhill steeply from the first few yards and in five minutes I was at the bottom. Trying to reach the presumed pond, where the moose would no doubt be feeding, by tracing a small stream at the bottom of the ravine I walked, then scrambled and then ended up crouched and crawling until I could go no further. The brush had become too thick for me to move through it. I looked down at my feet and saw all kinds of tracks here, but not only moose tracks. There were lots of fresh bear tracks and big scratches and digs too.

I had to admit to myself that it was a fearsome sight. One of the worst situations to be in is when you stumble on a grizzly bear's kill. They usually bury the moose or deer deep in the woods in a cleared area just like the one I was in and leave it for a while until it's good and rotten. Even a well-armed Mohawk does not want to argue about food with a grizzly.

That's when I heard breathing. It was very close, very hard breathing. I dropped to my knees and raised my rifle. I couldn't tell where the breathing sounds were coming from, and I couldn't see either, not only because of the darkness and thickness of the brush, but because my glasses had become fogged and dirty. My heart started to beat harder than it ever had before, and I could not keep still because my chest was pounding so much that it moved me. Trapped, blinded, hot and shaking, I stayed as still as I could, fearing that I had walked right up on a grizzly killing ground. The only thing I could do was wait in the ready position and do some praying of my own. I started trying to talk what little I could in Mohawk or Carrier- I just know animals understand Indian better then English - telling the bear that I was leaving, and, of course, eminding him that I had spared his young brother the day before. After a while, it was all quiet again and felt less ominous, so I scurried back to the road.

In my own nation's old teachings, we're told that when confused we should go "back to the woods" to relearn life's lessons. As Indigenous people, our cathedral and our preachers are nature itself. The Lord didn't give me and George a moose, but it turns out that that wasn't the point of this trip.

The pilgrimage was indeed rewarded: the Creator gifted me a true lesson in respect and humility as I was crawling on the ground listening to the animals in that forest shrine. Next time out, I'll carry the lesson with me and leave my fears behind.