Starting with the “painful” in the title, I go back to my youth in Australia. The local bike mechanic, a family friend, had permission to take my older brother Frankie and me for a seaside camping vacation. As Mr. Gager set up camp carefully, he let Frankie and me go for a swim at that white, sandy beach.
We came back a lot sooner than he expected. While in the water, some blue-bottle jellyfish wrapped their long, skinny tentacles around our shoulders, neck and face stinging us severely. Yelling, we managed to get free of them and went screaming back to Mr. Gager. That thoughtful man had prepared for all eventualities. He dug into his first aid kit and pulled out some cream which was then applied liberally to the welts, dulling the pain and putting us at ease. I confess I don’t remember a lot more about that trip, except that we were able to stay the allotted amount of time at this pretty site, but I suspect we did not go back into that salt water.
From there, I move ahead several decades and across oceans to Great Slave Lake where I had a summer job as a waitress/housemaid. Having decided to call Canada my “forever home”, I was then attending university to upgrade my educational qualifications and get a Bachelor’s degree. So you’d think I would have had some sense in me, after 10 years of teaching previous to this.
Well, a black bear wandered into the resort where I was working, providing my first opportunity to see one in the wild. I grabbed my camera, and went chasing after it. Can you believe it? It was obviously a young one, or I wouldn’t be telling you this story, would I? It ran around the rocky headland with me in pursuit, and then circled back towards the main building. By this time, it was fed up.
When I actually realized this, I darted into the building and closed the flimsy screen door. One swipe would have demolished it, but, still either stupid or unaware (or both), I fastened the door by sliding a kitchen knife into the door jamb. Bear came towards me, growled, swung a black paw from just beyond reach of said door and me, and then left. At this point, I recognized my foolhardiness, and thanked bear for leaving me unscathed—and smarter.
Decades later, in August, 2014, I wandered from our motel in Topley, B.C. to a narrow bridge across the Bulkley River, there still in its infancy. The makings of a beaver dam told me it was occupied and soon a V-shaped wave approached me until the small critter saw me and headed for cover. Soon big-guy beaver came on the scene, dragging a large, leafy, willow branch; behind him was another young one. Daddy started chewing, initially hissing-cum-grunting at the youngster, but soon the two were supping at opposite ends of the branch. Next came a middle-sized beaver followed by the smallest one I had yet seen. These two made a bee-line to the dinner table and soon all four were munching and chewing non-stop, undisturbed by vehicles crossing the bridge.
Drivers grinned at me, obviously knowing what this tourist’s tiny camera was aimed at. Leavings of leaves drifted downstream and the branch was bare when I finally tore myself away from this domestic scene. I like to think I was watching Pop, Mom, last year’s kit and this year’s new arrival in this captivating scene as they consumed their evening meal.
