Copyright 1988, 1993, truth-or-consequences

Non-Fiction

 

B E A R

 

Every community has its own local hero, its personal, kindred legend...

A small logging community in the western North American Continent had theirs. Crazy Mike was less than affectionately known to the hard working, hard drinking, rough playing residents of those parts. He might have been referred to as the black sheep of the community, the awkward kid from the wrong side of the cat trail, the poor unfortunate child who simply did not fit.

--Not that Crazy Mike was to be considered overtly malicious in any way, or "dangerous", or even criminal as some may prefer to imply. It's just that even into his middle twenties, the years that normally reveal at least a small degree of conformism to the life and ways of peaceable, responsible folk, Mike just didn't see things the same way alot of other people did. He believed that life was far too short to take seriously, and so one may as well have as much fun as was humanly possible in the brief time allotted for that purpose. And to that end, Crazy Mike wholeheartedly, even brilliantly, committed his very existence.

Born to the dismal economic climate of a forested wilderness region in the fifties, it's not surprising that Mike's first encounter with the cold realities of earning a living found him employed as a simple logger in the mist shrouded coastal hills of the region. Crazy Mike had found himself a devoted --if not overly quick-minded-- individual to fill the heretofore open position of side-kick, for, as we all know, no living legend is entirely complete without an official right hand man, however thick of wit or slow of material intellect. We all called him Bob.

Mike and Bob went to work for another local boy turned businessman/logger/small-time tycoon, engaged in the hazardous operation of a helicopter logging show. The trees, having been selectively felled, would be stripped of branches and "chokered" with a short length of cable, sometimes to the tune of two or three logs together. And instead of being removed from the forest by skidders or cats, the readied product was attached to the cargo hook of a large helicopter and flown to a landing site, to be loaded onto waiting log trucks. In such an operation, the physical completion of the everyday task at hand is often considered heroism enough, but it's harder work still to stay alive, and it seems to naturally follow that the harder must one work, the harder must one play, and a tastefully executed practical joke was well appreciated as a welcome tonic.

The humor involved, while seeming somewhat crude and small-boyish, is actually well honed and precise. A solid, well-timed sock in the eye of the man next to you may be just what the doctor ordered to relax the men and put their troubles in perspective, especially if the man had been a little irritating of late.

Mike and Bob had been working steady for more weeks in succession than they cared to admit, and the appearance of responsibility was beginning to show--- It was an altogether unacceptable condition. Mike had become bored on other occasions too, but he'd always found some way to overcome the affliction.

I recall a particular occasion----

Mike had stumbled upon the remains of some unfortunate kitty and, politely out of sight of Church-going folk, he'd remove its head. With that furry fuzz ball tucked neatly under the flap of his coat-- so only its vacant eyes and cuddly ears showed-- Mike strolled innocently into a local tourist cafe. Taking a seat, he asked the young waitress if he might --that is if it weren't too much of an inconvenience-- buy a saucer of milk for precious Kitty. The shy, not unattractive country girl, a fanatical lover of all cats everywhere, stroked Kitty's soft chin and fondled Kitty's dainty snozz (always kept conscientiously under Crazy Mike's coat) and replied:

"Why sure, he's such a darling kitty; you just wait right there and I'll see what I can find."

She rummaged around the back room and even broke out a brand new milk container, so as to not disappoint her handsome new friend and his thirsty pet. She place it lovingly on the floor of the rustic cafe so Kitty could get his fill. The waitress then stroked Kitty's chin a few more times--- and Mike murmured softly,

"Now look, the nice lady has brought us a big bowl of milk....."

And as the girl smiled and cooed, Mike mercilessly jerked the cat's bloody stump of a head from under his coat and shoved it into the milk with a splash---

"AND THIS TIME", Mike growled through a maniacal grimace, "YOU'RE GOING TO DRINK THE WHOLE GODDAMNED THING!!!"

The waitress briefly joined in the screams of the on-looking Ladies Auxiliary and then silently fainted dead away. Mike made for the door at a dead run, leaving poor Kitty's gruesome head bobbing gently in the saucer, upside down.

But Crazy Mike had pulled the cat trick twice only last week, and it had somehow lost its appeal. Something new was needed....

Later in the month Mike and Bob were hard at work using their chainsaws to cut away an old, hollow log that was blocking their access to a dandy piece of timber, when they decided it was time for a break. The helicopter wasn't due for an hour, and it was unbearably hot, and they still hadn't thought of a thing to do for fun, and just as they turned off the saws there was a sound:

It was a kind of muted scuffle, then a sort of scratch. There was a faint, deep, rumbling sound of escaping air; then a grunt; then the log began to shake. Both men leapt back, perfectly aghast. There was something in that log! And it wasn't human at all---

Mike was torn between running and fighting, and while his mind raced to calculate the advantages of either, an undaunted Bob decided to have a look for himself.

A piece of overlapping bark was peeled back and four bulging eyes peered into the darkness, and the true potential of the situation smacked home: They'd hit the jack-pot. This, then, was the bear of their dreams. The possibilities? Unlimited! The potential havoc to be wrought? Absolutely endless--

There might, they simultaneously surmised, be a hot time in the old town tonight, for Crazy Mike and Dumb-as-Wood Bob had a plan.

They rigged short lengths of steel cables, which were normally used by the helicopters to lift the logs out of the forest, into two lassoes. If they could lure the bear to the opening in the log, and somehow drop the loops over his head, they figured they'd have 'im. The other end of the wire would be secured to a tree, preventing the bear from getting away. Just what was to take place then, they weren't rightly sure. They'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

Mike straddled the old log, and Bob let loose the bear. But to the amazement of both, he steadfastly refused to make his break, and no amount of coaxing or begging would bring him forth to be collected. In the next few minutes, their two overheated brains working collectively at critical capacity in trying to figure out a way to convince that bear to come outside, both men tended to forget the danger that lurked inside that dark hole, and relaxed their guard.

It was then that, without warning, the bear made his exit. Mike had been idly dangling the loop of his noose over the end of the log while he looked the other way, talking to Bob, and as the bear bolted from the entrance the loop caught the bear right around the waist-- tightening up snugly as he tried to get away.

Mike's hand was wrapped tightly in the cable, and five hundred pounds of angry bear is tough to stop with only two hundred pounds of frightened fool----and off they went, Mike sliding and crashing his way through the forest on his belly, unable to let go, the frenzied bear running for his life, struggling only to escape whatever unthinkable thing had ahold of him..

After a couple of hundred feet the poor bear began to run down, and finally he stopped. Bob was close behind with another cable, and made a lucky toss, drawing it fast about the bedraggled creature's neck. Now they had a tiger by the tail--- though a bear by the neck can be equally as awkward, and each man was bound and committed to the continued life of the other, for if one let go his cable, the other would be quickly devoured, and not a man on the hill would have argued the bear's God-given right to do so..

For awhile they danced around in this predicament, wondering just what had gone wrong with their plan... They were actually getting tired of the whole escapade, and might have been considering a plan for just letting the bear go, when there occurred a sound; distant, wavering, stronger now was the WHACK-WHACK of the approaching helicopter. And silently, fiendishly, as the two gazed into each other's eyes, they knew precisely what they must do.

The great thrashing machine circled lazily for a moment; then, spotting the bright clothing of Mike and Bob, zeroed in and dropped the cargo hook down through the thick brush, to be secured to a bundle of logs.

The pilot hovered precariously for a time, awaiting the signal from below that would indicate the load was hooked and to start the gentle ascent.

As the two waved him away, however, and the pilot sensed that the load was none too heavy, he glanced downward to see what manner of fish he had caught.

Mike and Bob could barely contain themselves as the equilibrium of the machine faltered momentarily. There were a few seconds hesitation as the pilot glanced cooly at his cargo, then, silently, his steady gaze met the daring stare of the two smirking men below.

The pilot drew in a long breath, let it out in a slow sigh, and with a quick resolution, he rose to the occasion. The helicopter pitched forward, up and away, and went hurtling helter-skelter down the side of the mountain, its precious cargo streaming behind in the wind like a herring on a hook.

Mike and Bob were ecstatic.

A whole mountain of weary loggers was more than mildly amused to see the writhing, snarling, snapping figure of a bear go soaring down the hill at a hundred miles an hour, and only a dozen feet above their heads. The extrapolated course of the spectacle spelled only one possible destination: the Able bar. And the realization by the crews was met with a kind of childish glee, an excruciating excitement, and an electric anticipation.

Two hundred rough and ready loggers had been sweating their lives away on that hill all the long, hot summer with scarcely a moments diversion from the strains and tribulations of the profession, and by God this was due and ample cause for some long awaited fun. The mountainside was alive with the whoops and cries of two hundred men scrambling down its face like a mass migration of leaping gazelles.

The pilot, a burly man of forty years with twinkling blue eyes and a mischievious smile capable of routinely charming the pants off the female population thereabouts, was not to be outdone by a pair of crude if comical loggers. This was his chance to make a name for himself that was not soon to be obscured by any greater feat. Jaw set in grim determination, hand steady on the collective, man, machine and angry bear rushed down the slope to meet---or manufacture---their destiny.

At a range of fifty yards from the Able bar the pilot stopped and hovered, just hiding the still squirming figure of a more than furious bear behind a truck in the parking lot. Sixty startled patrons of the tavern, mostly loggers of the "has been", "might have been" or "would be soon" variety were disturbed and annoyed at the interruption. After all, it was impossible to continue to drown one's sorrows with the windows rattling and the glasses tinkling from the deafening whomp-whomp of a laboring helicopter just outside. Irritated and determined to extract an explanation for the rude intrusion, sixty unsteady and largely intoxicated men emerged from the building, blurry eyed and squinting in the bright sunlight.

The pilot, meanwhile, bided his time, waiting, watching, just a little further now, he thought. And when the entire entourage of bleary-eyed drinkers was squarely in the center of the huge parking lot, he made his move:

The turbine screamed and the percussions of the rotor blades rose in frenzy as the machine climbed instantly up and bore down on the unsuspecting group.

The pilot poised his trigger-finger to the electric cargo release button on the cyclic stick and, there-----just about time-----yes, NOW!! ---And five hundred pounds of extremely agitated bear flesh was deposited squarely in the center of the wavering crowd.

The bear fell two feet to the pavement and seemed to explode, snapping and snarling, swiping and biting at the remains of his constraints around his haunches and whatever else might happen into range. He was a quarter ton of tightly wound rubber bands, now, all at once, breaking and unraveling like an explosion in slow motion.

The crowd of loggers and their lady friends of dubious repute were caught off guard, uncertain of the situation that had befallen them, but they quickly gained their wits---and their feet---and as the pilot was to recount later in the glorious tellings and retellings of the tale:

"I couldn't particularly make out any individual movement down there; No---it resembled more the parting of the Bloody Red Sea...!"

In three seconds the parking lot was silent and deserted-- All except, of course, the bear.

Eight minutes later the first of the crew from the mountain arrived from a dozen miles away. None of them knew exactly what to expect, but they'd all hoped to arrive in time to be witness to the ensuing mayhem brought about by the release of the bear. It appeared, though, they were somehow too late, for the scene they beheld as they rounded the last curve in the road was one of peace and tranquility, for the bear, now having overcome the ordeal to his satisfaction, sat quietly on his haunches, delicately licking his paws and casually sniffing the wind. There was not a human soul in sight.

As more loggers arrived, they decided that a thorough examination of the bar was in order. Certainly the bear could not have ingested all of the tavern's clientele. They entered through the open doors to assess the damage---or count the corpses---

But there, sitting alone in the middle of the deserted barroom was the accomplice: the pilot.

He was perched casually in the best seat of the house, a large, cool drink at his side, feet propped arrogantly on an adjacent table. He spoke quietly, and said simply, as he tipped his glass in salutation:

"Gentlemen..."

And among the whoops and bellows of congratulation, the party began.

At that we all settled down to the process of telling and retelling the story, with appropriate and necessary improvements and modifications where required, and presently the owner of the establishment came skulking back, along with a few of the less overcome prior patrons, and the bash was definitely on its way.

Crazy Mike and side-kick Bob finally made their appearance, and Mike, sporting a Cheshire Cat grin, sidled up behind the bar and announced in a commanding bark:

"BOYS-----"

And only when the crowd had hushed and he received the full and respectful attention of all did he continue in a soft and professional tone:

"Drinks...." he said, "...will be on the house...."

And to that the house erupted....

And there was indeed, a sizzling hot time in the old town that night....