Kent's Yarns

Birchy Bear

The dust got into everything - your hair, believe it or not even inside your suitcases. The worst was the grit in your mouth. It billowed around the car like clouds of steam from a pulp-and-paper mill on a sultry day. We were on vacation. It was 1970 and Dad had just bought a "new" used ’68 Meteor. The whole family (six of us - four kids and Mom and Dad) was stuffed into this rolling "boat." It was a huge car with a power rear window. We were on our annual pilgrimage to visit Mom’s family in Bishop’s Falls. In those days a trip from Corner Brook to central Newfoundland took all day, and in most cases required an "overnighter" at Birchy Lake (or at the very least a "cook-up").

The "old Grand Fall’s Highway" was a two lane, gravel (ball bearings?), no shoulders, twisting, turning, "up and down like a dog’s stomach", piece of road that traveled on the North side of Birchy Lake. Since the beach at Birchy was more or less "half-ways" from our place to Nan’s, we routinely stopped there over night. It gave us kids a chance to swim and play in the "icy" waters of the lake and gave our parents a much needed break. This year I was extra excited about arriving at the lake because I had just received a new fishing rod as a reward for "passing" grade two at St. Michael’s Elementary school. I could hardly wait to cast the new spinning rod and try my luck against "old Birchy".

Being a "city slicker" I knew little about fishing, but I did know good bait was the key. I managed to find a few "juicy" worms under nearby rocks and logs. I figured the long ones, that you had to pull "oozing" from the ground, were the best. I gathered the proper bribe for the trout, attached "a shiny red and white" lure to the line, pulled on my "long rubbers", and headed for the water. I was the "youngest", the "baby", and could sneak away while the "older" children were "put to work" putting up the tent, gathering drift wood for a fire, and generally helping fortify for the night ahead.

I found a nice place where a brook opened into the lake. I imagined huge, jumping salmon entering the mouth of the stream and swimming home to spawn. I knew this was "the spot." It was my lucky day, or maybe God "favours little kids with shiny new rods". In a short period of time I had caught a trout. Soon my yelling, "I caught another one! I caught a big one!" attracted my older sister. She knew how to properly kill a fish and string it, so I was thankful for her help. This was the second time I had ever caught a fish and the first one was a "spiny-tickle". The rest of the family, having finished most of the "making camp" chores, soon joined us and proceeded to "pull them in".

My father was suitably impressed with "the catch" and agreed to prepare them for our evening meal. I watched as he "cleaned and gutted" the trout knowing that soon, too soon for my liking, I was going to have to: "do it yourself." I never did acquire a true liking for the administrative side of "trouting". In later years I even learned to love cod-jigging, but I always tried to "make myself scarce" when it came time to do the filleting.

My Mom, being the real brains of the family, quickly pointed out that we had: "an awful lot of trout" for six people. She added, "... and we don't have any ice." - (remember this was ’70 - no service for the next 100 kilometres). Everyone agreed we would eat what we could ("b’y did we stuff our faces"), and leave the rest: "down the beach for the bears".

After our "scoff", it was time to dispose of the remaining trout. Well, I refused. I had "worked hard" to get those fish and I did not intend to "give them to no bear". Finally, having failed to explain the concept of "spoiling" and food poison to an overtired eight year-old, my Dad agreed to put the remaining fish by the side of the tent until morning. Now between you and me, I figure the plan was to get this whiny kid to sleep and then proceed with the disposal. Unfortunately, the long, exciting day caught up with everyone, and soon we were all "sound a sleep" in our sleeping bags.

It was a big tent, an "8 man" canvas "Woods" tent, and we all slept in "one room". At about "I don’t know what time it was", in the "middle of the night", I awoke to hear Dad saying, "Shush! I think its a bear. He’s after the fish." I lay there, full of fear. I knew we were going to be "mauled" by a black bear and worst of all it would be "my fault." I barely breathed, while outside there was a clanging sound, as the bears (I imagined there was a family of them all ready to fight to the death to feed the starving cubs) rummaged though our "belongings."

My mother had had enough. "Reg! Go out and get those bears out of our things! They’re making an awful mess!" My Mom is an "angel" and a most tolerant woman (she had to be with us "rowdys"), but there was one thing she should couldn’t "bide" and that was "a mess" in her kitchen (even if the kitchen was on the side of Birchy Lake). Now Dad is no "dummy". He said, "You go! I’m staying right here to protect the kids". By this time we were all awake, and I whispered, "I don’t even think bears like trout." Mom being gifted with "supersonic ears", told me to: "shut up and go back to sleep!"

As I pointed out earlier my mother was the true "smart one" in our family. She yelled, "Bears are more afraid of us then we are of them!", jumped out of her sleeping bag, grabbed a flashlight, and started banging on the center tent pole. It was an "awful racket" and scared us kids "half-to-death". It also resulted in dislodging the main support for our shelter. I don’t know what happened to the bears, but we started to laugh; actually it was my Dad who started and we quickly joined in. Mom eventually realized how "silly she looked": yelling, swinging a flashlight, and acting as the main tent pole.

The next day we continued our journey to Bishop’s in an uneventful (all but dusty) way, but to this day we still laugh when we talk about the "Birchy Bear."

Written by Kent Burt on December 7, 1996

Duty!

She stared out at the whitecaps. The wind had picked up again. The men would have to postpone the search until the sea was quiet. She stayed at the window until long after the moon had risen. She started from her half-sleep. She looked at the clock. It was 1:30 AM. She decided to spend the night on the sofa. It would be impossible to go to their bed alone. She lay there for hours, waiting for the sunrise, listening to the waves break on the rocks. How many times had she lain in bed and been lulled to sleep by the sound of the ocean - never again.

The sun rose. She watched it, wondering what this new day would bring. It was a promising day. The water was calm and looked as if it planned to stay that way. She hurried about the morning chores, as much to keep from thinking as out of any real need. She looked at her watch. It was 7:00 AM. The men would have been on the water for two hours now. She prayed today would be the day they would find his boat.

It had been three days, three long, seemingly endless, days, since he had not come in. She had waited by the window until just after dark. He had often come in late, and in much rougher weather. He had been on the water for fifty years. She was not worried. Finally, just after 8:00 PM, she made a call to her son. He lived down the cove. He said it was too bad to go out looking. He said "Don’t worry about Dad. He’s holed up in some cove with a boatload. He’ll be along in the morning."

When the morning came, and there was still no sign of him, or his boat, they called for all hands to search. The water was bad, but many still took to the sea. They came back empty-handed. They would look again in the morning. When the third day produced no sign, not even a capsized boat, she started to think the worst. He was not coming home this time. There had been other times when he had not come home for a couple days after being washed ashore, but this time felt different.

Now, she prayed they would at least find his body, so she could give him a proper burial. He had often said he wanted to be buried at sea, but she knew this was not what he meant. It was 3:00 PM when her son came through the door. She knew what he was going to say. "They found him, Mom. He washed up on the island. They found his boat too. It was broke in pieces. They never seen nothing like it before. He loved that boat."

"Bring him here, to the house," she said. "We have to get him prepared for the wake". Her son left to do his duty. She broke into pieces. She picked up the kettle and threw it at the wall. She screamed. It was a wail of pure anguish. Finally, she sank to the floor, sobbing. When her son came back with the body, she was bustling about the kitchen. There was so much to do. He deserved the finest wake the cove had ever seen, and she would make damn sure he got it.

Written by Kent Burt on June 2, 1996

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