June Column Winner

A Bubble Off Plumb

By Connie Burcham, Watonga Republican

I spent three weeks in Hell once. You might wonder how one gets to Hell. I rode in atop an 18-hand red mule named Moe.

Let me elaborate. You see, I had been hired as camp cook for an outfitter in Hell’s Canyon, Idaho. There is also an Oregon side, but I wasn’t up for that much Hell.

Hell’s Canyon is what the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness wants to be when it grows up. A rougher, steeper or more rugged place God never put on a map. Or if He did, I never heard about it.

The only ways in are on foot or by hooved ani-mal. No motorized vehicles, no roads only trails, no chain saws or electric lights or indoor toilets. Remote doesn’t begin to describe this place.

We packed in on my birthday in early October, cool, crisp sunshine everywhere. After a 10-mile jaunt, we arrived at the Log Creek Camp.

My only stipulation when I hired on was no bears. I don’t like bears. I have a pathological fear of bears. No reason why, but that’s the thing about irrational fears—they are irrational.

We dismounted to find a bear had ransacked the camp, especially the cook tent, where I was to reside for the next little while.
 
What a mess! It seems the bear had a particular fondness for Tang and ate a whole flat of pow-der. The guide I was with explained this was just a black bear, they didn’t have grizzlies in this part of Idaho. On the other hand, he had never seen a bear with a map. I was skeptical at best.

But life settled into its routine of starting fires and cooking on the wood stove and packing huge lunches for the hunters. Until a day or so later. About 2 a.m. I was snuggled in my down sleeping bag – it was about 20 degrees that high in the mountains –when I heard the zipper on the tent creep open. I sat bolt upright in my cot, a light in one hand and a pistol in the other. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a dentist from Michigan or the camp dog looking for a mid-night snack. 

It was neither. It was the bear. Did I scream or shout? No. I told the bear in a normal voice he couldn’t be there, and he had to go. 

Now, we are in a mid-sized square tent, probably 14x14. And the bear must have been as scared of me as I was of it, because it bounced off the corner of the tent, rolled over the top of the now-cold wood stove, ricocheted off the dining table and out the door.

I had gotten the mess cleaned up and was almost back to sleep when I heard the tell-tale snuffing and zipper-zip-ping noise again. The bear was back.

This time I was mad. He never gained entry. I jumped up and jammed my feet into my boots and went outside in my long handles brandishing my little pea shooter. 

The bear, who was probably little more than a yearling took off into the woods, with an angry cook in hot pursuit.

I didn’t catch the bear, which was probably good for me. I kept the camp dog in my tent for a few days. He growled a few nights but other than that all was quiet. The days grew colder and I’m sure Mister Bear went to sleep for the winter. 

All and all it was a great experience. I got to ride some breathtaking country and meet some wonderful people. I even made a little money.

And it gave me the perfect answer if some-one should tell me to go to Hell. I’ll just say “When can we leave?”