Beatrice and I joined our friends Chris and Brett O. for a hike earlier today in the Kananaskis region of the Rocky Mountains. After journeying by car through the town of Canmore and up a steep mountainside road that wound often at the edge of precipitous cliffs (sans guardrail), we found ourselves at the trailhead.

 

 

Before proceeding, I checked inventory and established a few critical shortfalls in supplies: no guns, no mace, and no bear-bells. Not wanting to be the first to throw in the towel, I proceeded down the trail with my friends, completely unarmed in an environment where the top of the food chain no longer included us. I kept a sharp eye in the dense forested areas on either side of the trail, and I did my best to employ the “how to avoid a close bear encounter” tips provided by the sign. I was the chattiest of the group, and I projected my voice in all directions to ensure that bears within range of my most earnest efforts to provide security would be warned of our approach. Hopefully, upon hearing my incessant blathering, nearby bears would head away (and not too gumpily).

 

My friends were amused and often annoyed with me, particularly when I started singing verses of “I’m Henry the Eighth I am” again and again. My friends tried to dissuade me from making so much noise by warning me that my efforts would only lead the bears to our current location, but my resolve (to live to see tomorrow) could not be shaken. When my voice tired, I shook the ring of keys in my pocket in lieu of bear-bells. While quieter, this act continued to provoke my companions.

 

Finally, we arrived safely at the Karst, which is a waterway that springs out from a mountain. Water, mainly snowmelt and rain, seep into the mountain and settle in caverns. Once the water finds an exit, a complex system of streams form inside the mountain, which channels the water. Over time and due to immense pressure and erosion resulting from the intensity of the water’s flow, the stream system becomes very efficient. At this particular Karst, the water gushed from an opening in the mountain and descended quickly down the mountainside. The roar of the water could be heard all around, and the speed at which it forced its way made the water white with furry, splashing into rocks and trees and ricocheting back into itself. It was an impressive display of nature’s power.

 

After taking a short break, my friends and I made our way back through the deep woods, a.k.a bear habitat. We were all much more chatty about the sight we just saw, so I was content to let the normal course of purposeful conversation alert the bears of our presence. I felt more relaxed heading back, and it seemed I was taking in the gorgeous scenery along the trail for the first time. While I did let my guard down somewhat, I continued to fill in the occasional gaps of our conversation by shouting the phrase “Continuous noise!” which I borrowed from the tip sign, which read, “make continuous noise.” And then I would say, “this bear-be-gone security is being provided by Brett Bergie.” Oddly, this never prompted the (grateful) applause of my fellow outdoorsmen and woman. The mere fact, however, of not seeing a bear today makes me very, very grateful.