wild things

A hoary marmot hibernates eight to nine months out of each year. I think this is a hoary marmot:





It may be the environment that makes him (her?) into such a sleepy little beast because last night, up there near the summit of Mount Robson I slept twelve hours straight. In the one and a half person tent no less (meaning, conditions weren’t ideal).

The previous night I fared less well. We reached our campsite just as the clouds spilled their waters on us. Things were wet and clammy inside the tent and at sunrise, the temperatures plummeted to below freezing. That night, for only the second time during this trip, I felt crying might not be a bad idea (the first, of course, was up there on the mountain ledge some days back).

Ed, of course, failed to see the reason for any expression of great sadness. Wet tent? What are you gonna do. Take out a book and read. My book was clamped shut from the water and I refused to pry open its pages.

The thing is, you have to expect sudden clouds and storms up there near Mount Robson’s summit. This is the highest peak of the Canadian Rockies and it makes up its own weather patterns. And, nearly 50% of the time the peak itself remains under cloud cover. So that on the approach the views are often like this:





But on Sunday, the clouds took a trudge. We had timed our final ascent well. Hugging the Robson River, milky aqua from the “rock flour” that it picks up along the way…





…we made it all the way up to the base of the glaciers racing down the mountainside.





Fine, they weren’t really visibly racing. But every once in a while you’d hear an explosion and a few feet of snow and rock would cascade down in your direction. Forget about fear of bears. I was certain an avalanche would happen if we so much as sneezed. I hated the two hikers who passed with double-duty bear bells. If you ask me, it was like an invitation for the snow and rock to come crashing down on us all.



courageous climber attends to hair for photo


Still, a preoccupation with the peak(s) leads you sometimes to neglect what’s there at your feet. These guys, swaying gently at the river’s edge – such a nice balance to the rocky summits surrounding them:





Or, the thin ribbons of water, coming together to form a lake:




Or the mosses and flowers. Please let me give due recognition to the gorgeosity of the little things that grow up there.








Alright, let me get to the pressing question. When you come back from a Canadian wilderness trip, people want to know about the animals that you encountered. Face to face. My score sheet:

Lots of marmots (see post below and photo above). And plenty of fat little red squirrels who ate anything that you would leave outside your tent. A coyote running across the road. Birds that swim underwater to get their grub (such talent):





And the dramatic elk who take such pride in showing me their rears.





The bears as well. Five grizzlies were frolicking on the beach near our first campsite. No photo taken. Moving closer just so you, Ocean reader, could see a grizzly at play seemed, well, foolish. Here we were spending money on bear mace to fend the beasts off --- the least we could do is not get in their face when they were gracious enough to leave us alone.

The showstoppers, according to me, were the mountain goats that we encountered just today. I violated the three-bus rule just for a second, and I could well have trudged even closer than the two and a half bus lengths that I did, so intent were they on nibbling on grass roots. They cared not at all about me being there and they’ll never know that I am awarding them the Ocean medal for cuteness of the week.





So, perhaps you want to know my final verdict on camping. A qualified thumbs up. Leaky tent is going out with the trash. New acquisitions: deep blue Fontana rain jacket, 10 degree REI sleeping bag were a make it or break it thing. They gave me warmth. They gave me comfort. I love them to pieces.

Canadian yellow day pack and equally golden toned walking stick were also a smashing success.





I know, I know, so American to find solace in these acquisitions. I tallied up the cost of the above, threw in the cost of my backpack and came up with a total that would just about cover one night’s stay at the Four Season’s hotel in some splendid destination.

Still, I would do it again for the feeling of accomplishment. For the push forward with the stick when the body says – no way, leave me alone. For the fantastically buoyant hair that is the result of a wash in the ice cold glacier waters of the brook. So cold that the head hurts after the first rinse. For the roasted garlic bread and the tomato, lugged to some desolate spot with a view that beats all. For the sweetly fragrant pine forests, for the animals crossing your path, the quiet, the incredible quiet – I would do it all over again.

But there has to be a defined path, a rain-proof tent and an effective, pleasant smelling bug repellant.

And don’t forget a hiking companion who isn’t freaked at the same moment that you are by some incredibly dangerous (according to me) situation.
Will we get struck by lightening?
Hmm. Probably not.
Will I get eaten by a bear?
I don’t think so.
Isn’t that bear hair?
It’s tree moss.
It’s damn wet in here!
So it is. Read a book.
Will I make it up there to the top?
You can scream up and down a mountain faster than anyone.

Oh, and a decanted bottle of Canadian white. Not a necessity, but it helps.


It's Tuesday. Time to head back home.

wild things: unorthodox beginnings

There aren’t many who will begin a steep, four hour hike at 4:35 in the afternoon. I can offer excuses, but I think they are rather predictable. Blogging, morning rain showers, waiting to make sure Ed is up for a hefty climb, etc.

Maybe it isn’t the way to do a hike, but I am convinced that late beginnings can deliver some pretty nice surprises.

Yesterday we had an empty trail, a magnificent display of varied clouds and a receding sun, deer coming out of the forest to graze and, from the summit, this:





Still, I know when I will have the hatchet come down on me: if today I spend another morning on the computer and we get to the ranger’s station at the trail head too late to get a camping permit for the next two nights, I am sure to get that look from Ed that will dampen my day even more than the clouds over the mountaintops. So, just this quick post and an early start to the last three day hike of our trip.

wild things: from all sides

So how many wild things do you really see out there in the Canadian Rockies? Marmots, okay, but how about something larger?

I can deliver larger. Just north of Jasper I came head to butt with an elk. Luckily he was more interested in leaf munching than in charging. Me, I was fearless: I took a photo the requisite three bus lengths away (the law so states). [I was also, at the time, close to the car in case said elk decided not to like me.]





Also on this day I passed by this lovely scene: a mountain sheep keeping tabs on things from her (his?) perch up here:





And after my hike I nearly bumped into these guys. They were so close that I wanted to shout out – hey, keep three bus lengths away or I’ll get ticketed!





Ed was less impressed with the above. He claims he can see deer any time he wants to from his sheep shed outside of Madison. Ho hum. I happen to have visited his little farm a number of times and I have never seen deer anywhere near it. Besides, do we even know if this is a deer rather than a baby elk?

I definitely thought Ed should have been more impressed with the long-horn sheep, given his own sheep abode, but he hrumphed at that as well and suggested that maybe it wasn’t real. Ed, cameras don't lie. Besides, a few paces further, we encountered these:





I’m thinking Ed was just being contrary, due to the fact that he was quite sick yesterday, tough hiker that he is. Me, I’m fine. Ed, on the other hand, basically slept the day away.

Not that he didn’t try to get himself moving. It was obvious to me that it was a no go for him, but there he was with his hiking manual insisting that he was up for a two hour straight up climb to the summit of Sulphur Mountain. I nodded benevolently and said things like sure and fine knowing damn well that two steps into the hike he’d collapse.

Two steps into the hike he collapsed. You go on, he tells me, I’ll just go back and sleep in the car.

So what would a decent human being do?

Obviously any good soul would say – oh no, I’ll not hike either then. I’ll come back to the car with you and watch you sleep.

But I rationalized heading out without him thus: obviously he would fee so guilty and sad if I gave up this late afternoon little climb. Feeling guilty and sad would not help him mend. Therefore, ever so reluctantly I patted him on the shoulder, reminded him where the car was and resumed my climb.

The views were fantastic: a 360 degree panorama of mountains and vales.



blue flowers, blue mountains



yellow flowers






Of course, that 360 degree panorama meant that the wind came at you from every possible direction. My nifty blue windbreaker, setting off a carefully selected bright yellow day pack was much appreciated. Luckily, one other hiker made it to the Sulphur Summit at the same time and so I could ask him to document the blue and yellow combination for posterity.





Guilt caught up with me up there on the mountaintop and so I basically ran down to attend to the ill one. I am good at fast descents. Ed says I scream down mountain trails. I like the image of a silent screamer.

We drove back to Jasper (on a slowly leaking tire, but neither of us wants to take the time to fix it; we simply pull into gas stations and pump it up every 100 kms or so) and I displayed my most angelic side: I volunteered to microwave organic chicken broth for the sick one. With water crackers for an extra special treat.

Then I went out and forced myself to eat at a place in Jasper that served excellent spicy shrimp with warm corn and tomatoes. With a small jug of Canadian wine.

wild things: the part about making my heart sing

North of Banff, in the Yoho National Park I encounter three marmots playing. They scuffle and roll over each other and eventually scamper away.



it's a lazy day...



hey guys...



playtime?



three in a tumble


It is scenes like this that push you up those steep inclines. Because out there on the craggy slopes, you may be lucky enough to run into marmots.

Our second hike up into the mountains was a knock-out winner. Yes, sure, there were the marmots. And the ptarmigans.



mama ptarmigan



...her chick


And the meadow of Alpine wildflowers, possibly the highpoint of the entire Canadian venture. Picture this: you have been climbing endless hundreds of meters, you have downed endless bottles of stream water, your backpack feels like it has a whole family of marmots in it. No, worse, bears –a whole pack of bears loaded in there. And so you are tired as anything. You want to stop for lunch, but where? You round the corner and suddenly you are intoxicated not by the wine that Nina lugged to the campsite the night before, but by this:




lunch spot



stretch out



...and inhale


This two day loop had other things going for it as well. The mosquito population is significantly lower up here north of Banff. And bear poop does not line every trail.

And since this is an upbeat post, let me give an A+ to the Canadian National Park System, because the trail maintenance up here is just superb. (Equally high marks for the people who hike and camp here. Not a drop of litter anywhere.)

We had been afraid that out here in the national parks (as opposed to the Provincial back country, where we had hiked the first days of our trip) we would encounter crowds. Not so. Yesterday, we saw not a single person on the trail. The campgrounds are empty during the week. The lakes, meadows and forests are all yours. A private viewing.



camping spot: empty Yoho Lake



these are everywhere: like having a bad hair day?


If you have the energy to get to the summits, you will get that feeling of being a tiny thing against the expanse of mountain, water and sky.



glacier, falls, flowers



little me (makes it to the summit!)



Ed faces glacier


But what’s a post without a few complaints thrown in! Okay, so the bug population can recede some more. And the weather could be more consistent – none of this sunshine one day and chilling rains the next. Oh, and forget about filling up on MaryJane’s organic mac and cheese. That tiny serving is called a portion and a half? You have got to be kidding. Maybe for the two year old in your group. And I have to repeat my suggestion that you do not go camping with a companion who is twice your size in height and body muscle and share with him a tent that is designated for a person and a half. You especially should not do that if said camping companion fidgets at night.

A few dos: decanting a bottle of wine into a plastic little jug is a great idea. Packing organic hot chocolate is an even better one. Dried mango pieces rule! A water filter for your bottle turns every babbling brook into a great new water supply without any old nasty iodine tablets. My list of 100 helpful tips for a successful camping experience in the Canadian Rockies is a work in progress. I can’t decide whether I should distribute it at a charge or whether it would be my contribution to the well-being of others. Maybe it would increase the number of Americans coming up here. Just about all the hikers we have encountered have been Canadians and European types (with a few Japanese in the more popular resort areas). Don’t quite know why. Certainly not because the views from the mountaintops are not grand enough for a trek up here.





I’m writing from Jasper now – a northern town of about 5000. Jasper is linked with Banff via “the most beautiful road in the world.” Truly, it is that. If you have this thing against highways (as I do) – if they put you to sleep, or worse, if they bring up feelings of revulsion at the whole SUV-gas prices-fast-road-food thing, then do yourself the favor of driving this lonely stretch of road for the 240 kilometers that it takes to get from Banff to Jasper.

Called the Icefields Highway, it passes through the largest glacier ice field south of the Arctic Circle. And yes, you can get up close and personal to it. You can even trample over the edges, though there are signs telling you about instant death if you move up much into this melting, receding mass of snow and packed ice.



a few drive right up to the glacier...




...and hike up to take a close look



...and take a tentative step, just at the edge


But the ice fields are only part of the beauty of this road. The scenery changes constantly and each bend brings you to another spectacular mountain vista. And another. And another.





Of course, there are animals in that Canadian pine and aspen thicket. This is the land of caribou, of mountain goats and wolves and cougar. And don’t forget about the bears.

So am I done with the bear topic? No. Hiking here is all about keeping an eye toward a possible bear encounter. I’ve seen it all – people with bear bells, hikers clapping madly every five steps, mace in everyone’s pack. The forest rangers make you listen to the bear spiel each time you book a spot to pitch your tent. Shout “hey bear!” each time you round the corner. Do not look the bear in the eye. Back away. Store your food up in the bear poles. Watch out, where there are berries, there will be bears!





So you get a bit antsy out there in the woods. An odd shape ahead and you think – bear!





So far though, none have come near us. I’m plenty bear-aware, believe me, but somehow I cannot get myself to shout out “hey bear!” around each bend. And the more common tracks on the trail look like this:





Don’t know quite what they are. Mountain sheep? Wolf? I’ll let you know when I come face to face with whatever wild thing this may be.

wild things: broken on the mountain back

This is what adventure travel is all about, Ed tells me in the morning, as we sit in the one-and a half person tent, watching the puddles form on the floor, on our sleeping pads, underneath our backpacks. I am huddled in a small heap, trying to avoid the soggy, dripping surfaces. Everything around me is wet.

Still, I am feeling very lucky. The previous afternoon I was also sitting in a heap, near the ridge of a mountain, incapable of moving in any direction.

No, it wasn’t the bears that broke my spirit. Oh sure, there are grizzlies, including on our campsite. Their droppings are everywhere. But they are elusive. Yesterday, the ranger fired mace at one who advanced toward her on a trail, but typically they hide when they hear you coming. They certainly hid when Ed and I made our way up the trail. Not one challenged us in the dense forests of the Canadian Rockies.

And it wasn’t the length, nor the steepness of the hike that broke me. It should have crushed my spirit: the trail was unbelievably difficult. Fallen timbers blocked the path countless times so that we were forced to go cross country and make our way through the thick forest bed.



where is the trail?


Creeks were impassable, and the mosquitoes! Oh, the mosquitoes! You could not stop without having them zip in on you from all sides.

But no, it was not the climb, not the fallen timbers, not Ed’s busted water bottle, not the bears, nor the bugs – none of these were responsible for turning me into a weeping heap up there on the mountain.

So what happened?

We were on our second day. We had had a decent rest, having barricaded ourselves against the mosquitoes. We passed on cooking dinners or breakfasts, preferring to munch on granola and nuts, zipped in the tent to avoid the bug attack.

In the morning, I pushed back the tent flap to see this:





I managed an icy wash down by the lake. Amazing. Second day into the hike and I feel clean!





I’m spry and ready for the long trek up the mountain ridge. My backpack feels manageable, my back is not aching under its weight, Ed is playing with his GPS, configuring our destination so that we cannot get lost. Life is good.

Four hours into the climb and we are looking for a break. Life may be good, but we are hungry. One broken water bottle means that we have to ration water and we dare not stop until we find a stream. It takes us that long to come to one, high up, a cascading spray of water, straight from a glacier.

The views are magnificent!





We continue. But now, near the top of the mountain ridge, the terrain suddenly changes. The side of the mountain is a steep drop made up of stones and pebbles. The path is almost non-existent. Each time I take a step, the stones underneath shift and move. If I try to create a ledge, they release beneath me and tumble in a cascade down the side of the mountain. I cannot look down. I do not want to think of the sharp drop to the valley below.

I take one step, then, slowly, another. Ed tells me to lean into the mountain, but there is nothing to hold on to. The rocks keep falling from beneath and grasping for stones only dislodges more from above. Ed has a somewhat better hold. He can dig his heel into the mountain and form a small ledge that will support him. I cannot. The ground keeps falling away from me. If I slide with the pebbles and rocks, I am a gonner.



tumbling stones, no path


I try one more step. The rocks release and cascade down the mountain side. I know I can’t continue. I find a tiny ledge, bury myself into the mountain and cry.

I can’t do it. We are so close to the summit. The glacier is below us, the waterfall is crashing dramatically to the side and I am sitting on a narrow mountain ledge knowing I cannot go forward.

The problem is I cannot go back either. I am stuck. Frozen there at the side of the mountain, with a sheer drop below and a wall of loose pebbles and rocks above me.

Ed is making his way back toward me, coaxing me to rest a minute. A minute? I will rest forever there on that mountain ledge because I cannot move.

But I know I have to move. I have no choice. The risk of tumbling down into the cavernous space has to be balanced against spending the rest of my waking hours up there on the mountain ledge.

Ed tells me to abandon my backpack and to move back one step at a time, throwing my body against the mountain side.

I balk at that. Leave everything? All my belongings? Our one water bottle?

He then offers to carry it for me, but I know that I cannot let him do that. I see him, in my mind’s eye, crashing, rolling down with an avalanche of stones, all because of my backpack.

I strap myself into it and slowly stand up.

Ed reaches for my hand so that I can cling to something when the stones fall away from under my feet. Six inches at a time, we make our way back.

And because life heaps on drama by the plateful, I look up and notice that the clear sky has turned cloudy. Thunder is rumbling on the other side of the mountain.



the summit: so close, but not for me; and suddenly, a storm forms


We are retreating. Slowly but surely I am making my way down, until we are off the precipitous ridge.

We are safe. I collapse by the creek where we had stopped for lunch. We are both exhausted. It is late afternoon and we are up there on the side of the mountain with a storm heading our way. Ed wants to pitch the tent and wait it out. The thought of making the descent back through the forest, past fallen trees and raging brooks is overwhelming. He is tired. Rescuing me took its toll. If my pack is heavy, his is double that.



safe (though not yet from the storm)


It’s time for me to get spirited and peppy. We are now back in the dense forest and there is no clearing to pitch a tent. I don’t even care about the bear droppings, about the bugs, about the fallen limbs. I want us to try to make it back to our base camp.

Ed agrees and we navigate our way back, along the same horrendous track, in reverse.

Eleven hours after leaving our campsite, we are back, pitching a tent in the same spot, fending off mosquitoes, zipping ourselves inside just as the thunder crashes and the storm rolls in.

The next morning, we put on rain gear, pack up our soaking belongings and head to Banff to dry off.


Hiking in the back country. It’s appealing, it really is. Forests, silent but for the sound of birds, green glacier lakes, dazzling peaks, empty campsites – it is as beautiful as it sounds. But hiking the less beaten path can defeat you. It certainly knocked me down flat.

And we had come prepared. Ed is a seasoned hiker. He knows his stuff. And just to be sure, we had stopped to talk to the park ranger before heading out. He hadn’t warned us about the condition of the trail. He had spent the bulk of the time telling us what to do to ward off bears (forget the bell: wasted money – they wont hear it; but do pack pepper spray – it’s the only way to survive an attack).

Is the trail impassible? No, not really. We talked to the one other group of hikers that made it to the top and back. They managed, but they used ice picks and walking sticks to keep their hold.

I am enjoying now the long hot shower at our Banff inn. I am attending to the scratches on my arms and legs, I am scrubbing off the caked dirt and tree sap. Our gear is just about dry.

We sit down to a dinner of cheese fondue. Ed takes out the guide books and reads out loud, excited about the hiking possibilities for tomorrow and the next day. I am amused at his enthusiasm. It rivals mine for the south of France.

We can’t fix the damaged, leaking tent, but the weather looks more promising. And we know to pick a more defined trail, where you can put your foot down and expect the ground to stay solidly there beneath you.



first warm meal in days: fondue in Banff

wild things: arrival

It’s past midnight but the airport still has people milling around. Doors painted like saloon entrances, posters of rodeos, a woman picks up her bag and pushes back her banner — she is Miss Rodeo Kansas.

A bus takes us to the hotel. The driver has a sheriff’s badge and a cowboy hat.
So you’re busy now with the stampede?
We’re busy all the time. We’re a boom town! You wouldn’t recognize Calgary from year to year!
It’s the oil thing, isn’t it?
Yes, we’re doing well. We have no provincial taxes and we still have a budget surplus!
So what’s there to see with the Stampede?
People really like the chuck wagon races. There’s a lot going on.

At the hotel we get a room that reeks of cigarettes. Ed asks for another. None to be had. A woman comes up out of nowhere. Blood is oozing from her cheek.
You can have my room. It’s a nonsmoking room but I don’t care. We want to be nice to Americans.

How does she know we’re Americans?

This morning I repack everything. Ed watches with amusement. I suppose my small baggie with shampoo, cream and gel looks ridiculous next to his one sliver of all purpose soap. And still I forgot things. A towel for instance.
You don’t need a towel. Use your t-shirt.

My Calgarian reader writes me: you’re lucky you’re here during the Stampede. Everyone is in Calgary for it. You’ll have the mountains to yourselves.

Mmmm… just us and the bears and charging elk.

wild things: stampede

Ed tells me: do you know we will be traveling for twelve hours just to get to Calgary?

Oh yes. We are frugal travelers and so we will indeed (within minutes, if I can tear myself away from blogging) sit on a bus for four hours to get to Midway Airport in Chicago and then fly south to Denver to pick up the flight there to Calagary. Why? Because Frontier Airlines requires fewer frequent flyer miles for free tickets and that is the route Frontier takes.

Besides, I think it is fitting to travel on Air France when I go to France and on an airline called Frontier when I head for the wild west.

I have no doubt that Calgary is part of the wild west – or at least that it likes to, for one week in July, view itself as such. We are hitting it during stampede week. This is what one guide says about the town we are to ramble around in tomorrow morning:

Every July, Calgary's perennial rough-and-ready Cowtown image is thrust to the forefront when a fever known as Stampede hits town. For 10 days, Calgarians let their hair down--business leaders don Stetsons, bankers wear boots, half the town walks around in too-tight denim outfits, and the rate of serious crime drops. For most Calgarians, it is known simply as The Week (always capitalized). It is a celebration of the city's past--of endless sunny days when life was broncos, bulls, and steers, of cowboys riding through the streets, and saloons on every corner. But it is not just about the past. It's the Cowtown image Calgarians cherish and the frontier image that visitors expect. On downtown streets, everyone is your neighbor. Flapjacks and bacon are served free of charge around the city; normally staid citizens shout "Ya-HOO!" for no particular reason; Indians ride up and down the streets on horseback; and there's drinking and dancing until dawn every night.

I am as certain as there are bears in the mountains that Ed will shy away from placing himself in the midst of crowds of people shouting Ya-HOO at each other. Me, I’m up for it. I got an email from an Ocean reader this morning, a Calgarian, who writes that this week may be somewhat of an exaggeration of what the townfolk are really like.

Personally, I am happy to be going at a time when people are out and about having a good time. Come on: encounters with savage bears in the wilderness, or bulls and steers and wild cows in a rodeo ring – which is more appealing?

It says a lot that Ed would pick the former and I the latter. But he did promise that, true to what the hiking books advise, first stop will be at a Walmarts (I kid you not) where bear mace is the rage.

wild things: I might get eaten by a bear

Message from a friend who camps up in Canada: oh, so you’re going to grizzly country…. Message from friend who has camped all her life: take the threat of bears seriously… etc etc

Read me that paragraph about bears again. I say this to Ed, who had been trying to be convincing about safety issues in hiking the Canadian Rockies.

It says that maybe one person in several years will get mauled by a bear.
One out of what pool? The world population? One of those staying at our desolate campsite?

It says that the fear has reached ridiculous and exaggerated proportions.
Maybe because bears eat people…

It says that charging elks are far more dangerous than encounters with bears.
Add to list: fear of charging elks…

It says it is more likely to happen if you walk quietly and startle a bear…
Ed, you walk quietly. We both walk quietly. No more! I am going to hoot and holler until the ranger chases me down to find out what my problem is.

It says that bears are scared of people…
Well, so now we are even. I am scared of them, they are scared of me. Guess who is likely to win that battle.

It says that only angry bears attack.
And what causes a bear to be angry? I would guess my presence in their environs would be high on the list.

It says that you should avoid going near their resting space.
How do I recognize their resting space? All I know about bears resting is that they like beds that are too small for them. Straight from that great source of wisdom – Goldilocks.

It says that you should hang your food up from a tree.
And does it say how I am to eat it, up there in a tree? And how bears might react to the wafting aroma of organic mac and cheese, with aged cheddar?

It says that they close trails when there are several sightings of bears.
Wouldn’t you say that that is too little, too late?


I’m not going to stand by and wait for the worst to happen. Off I go to Fontana sporting goods store. I am greeted there by a guy who looks like he knows hiking inside out.

Promise you wont laugh. I have a question: what would you recommend to fend off bears?
I suppose I would have been taken more seriously had I not been wearing my work clothes. Woman enters store in nice skirt, pretty French sandals and expresses concern about bears… Alright…

Where are you expecting to find bears?
Up in the Canadian Rockies.
Ah, grizzly country.
Is that a better kind of bear?
No… here, take a look: we sell bear bells. You ring them incessantly to warn bears of your arrival.





I can just see Ed glaring at me as I walk with a bell all day long.

What’s the alternative?
Bear-mace.
Great! Protection! How and when do I use it?
Well, it’s like this: grizzly bear charges at 40 mph; you swiftly reach into your backpack and without a second’s hesitation, pull out the mace, aim it at the charging bear and when he is within 30 feet of you, fire away. But you have to hit him in the eyes or it’s pointless.

Let me get this straight: bear is charging, I know in that instant that it’s mace or die and not batting an eye, I successfully navigate within my pack, take out and uncork the mace and hit (still charging) bear in the eyes?
I’ll take the bear bell. A disgruntled Ed seems less scary than an encounter with a disgruntled bear.
Hope to see you after the trip Stop by and tell us if it worked for you. If you can.

Now what did the Fontana guy mean by that?

Later, a quick phone conversation with Ed:

I bought an anti-bear bell.
Silence.
You are going to be jingling all day long?
Yep. Just pretend you’re hearing sheep. I’m an Alpine sheep, visiting the Canadian Rockies.
It says in the book that bells are ineffective...
Nice try but no bananas. A mere sheep with maybe a flask of wine and a bell.

I feel somewhat better, even if this afternoon, as I was saying good-bye to Tonya I asked her, as one does of a friend, for reassurance purposes—do you think I’ll get eaten by a bear? She hesitated, then answered: I can’t promise you that you wont.

A friend who tells it like it is.