I spend all summer with bears – although I almost never see them. Each night before I retire to my room of heavy logs, three stories above the forest floor, I kick the crew out of the lodge and send them out to their tents and tepees. Then I make my daring dash to the generator shed. It’s at that time that I think most about bears. I know they are out there just beyond the circle of light, with slobbering jaws, big empty stomachs and long, long claws. I flip the breaker, and wait a couple of minuets for the oil to settle out of the engine. I pull the door shut – just in case. Then I switch off the generator and make a mad dash back to the safety of the kitchen door; the giant grizzly of my imagination lumbering behind me.
Now let’s talk about Timothy Treadwell. For thirteen years this “fellow” spent his summers sitting a few feet from some Alaskan grizzly bears. He claimed to be protecting them from poachers – though the park authorities who had charge of them say they were never in danger. And for five years he filmed the entire idiocy; a kind of Crocodile Hunter of the tundra. I have not seen the movie so I must quote from Louis Witting of the National Review Online’s article “Grizzly Love” Aug 24, 2005:
“He [Treadwell] crouches in the bushes as two behemoths tear each other apart, then creeps up on the loser, within easy range of a paw swat, and gives it his post-fight analysis. He crawls within whispering distance of the bears, calls them by their names – Mr. Chocolate, Aunt Melissa, Sergeant Brown – and tells them how much he loves them . . . At the end of his 13th summer among the bears, federal park rangers found the majority of Treadwell, and his girlfriend Amie Huguenard, in the gastrointestinal track of a male grizzly.”
Mr. Chocolate I believe – who had to be executed to retrieve the four garbage bags full of body parts.
I have four bears of my own, all dead. I love them – they make great decorations. Two are skulls; one at home the other on one of my classroom book shelves, and two are hides for hanging on the Lodge wall at camp. I also have a bear scalp, I souldn't forget that! I have eagerly contributed to the capture of two bears at Camp over the years. I enjoyed very much seeing them hauled off in traps made of chunks of culvert to parts of the forest where hunters would soon turn them into pot-roasts and wall hangings.
I spend a good deal of each summer keeping the bear attractants of 250 campers locked up in big steal boxes, and tamping bags of ash and rot into the bear resistant dumpsters a mile up the hill from my nice safe bed.
My point in all this – any eleven year old Boy Scout knows that bears are deadly dangerous – not cuddly friends for pet names and petting. Those who are dumb enough to make touchy-feely with grizzly bears will end up in garbage bags.
NOW THINK OF THIS – THERE ARE THOSE IN THIS COUNTRY WHO WOULD CONVINCE US THAT ISLAMIC FANATICISM IS SOMETHING WE COULD SNUGGL UP TO IF WE WOULD JUST BE NICE. GET OUT THE GARBAGE BAGS!!!!
1 month ago