I've stayed in bed until 9.30am today, if I can dignify my decrepit camp bed with that name.
It is getting colder and colder; the brief Alaskan summer is coming to an end.
After getting up, out come the binoculars. From the camp, nothing can be seen moving in the valleys, at least, nothing that I am interested in. We have seen a lot of caribou from our current campsite, as we did from the previous one; the main reason for this is that their hunting season is over, and somebody has probably told them. Now they feel safe.
Yesterday I shot my baribal; today we have seen three more.
But not one moose or grizzly.
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To be precise, we have seen a grizzly, all day yesterday, and again today.
It is our pet grizzly, and I'm thinking of cal ing him Balambér, as in the Hungarian children's story.
It is about 2mi. from us, as the crow flies, but, if we were to try and walk there, we would have to walk around 12 -15mi. over some of the toughest mountain terrain, including two river crossings, hacking our way through primeval forest. John says that it would be a three day journey there and back, and if Balambér decided to move on, a couple of hours after we'd set off, we'd only find out the next day because of the unevenness of the ground. Which means that Balambér is safe, and knows it. He's standing quite brazenly in open ground, not bothering to try to hide.
Today we've decided to keep it simple. We go along the ridge for about a mile, stopping now and then to use the spotting scope. We check the area thoroughly, but, apart from Balambér, there is not a grizzly in sight. Let alone a moose. I don't think we are going to shoot a moose here. We are going to have to try somewhere else.
Our late breakfast is followed by an afternoon lunch. We leave our tents again at 5.00pm. Once more, there is a bear at the moose's carcass. It isn't the one we saw yesterday; it looks a bit bigger. My rucksack is packed and ready - I'm always prepared - so we start the descent into the valley without delay. We probably haven't even got 150ft. when the grizzly heads for the shelter of the bushes. John swears softly. Has the Curse of the Valley returned? John thinks it has; the bear had probably noticed the smell from the camp earlier, but after we'd opened the flaps of both our tents, and stepped outside simultaneously, the smell must have been too much, too strong for the grizzly. Whether that's what really happened, or is just an excuse that John has made up, I can't say. We rush back up to the Gallery to try and follow the bear's trail, but we can't see it anymore.
Balambér is perfectly safe and happy, thank you very much. Through the spotting scope we think we can see him nibbling blueberries, just like his smaller cousin that I shot yesterday.
This hunt is becoming difficult.
I'm making some calculations, and so is John.
We both think that there is still enough time, but it is starting to run out. There might just be enough left for a grizzly and a moose.
I can't complain about conditions in the camp. Here I am, in the middle of the wilderness, in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Our home is a pair of lonely tents. We have virtually no contact with the outside world as John doesn't have a satellite phone. His walkie-talkie has only a limited range. If he happens to hear a passing plane he takes it out to chat with the pilot up above us. We are living here like the early Alaskan pioneers.
Though our guns are better, even if they are not much use to us at present.
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Second Bearhunting Spike Camp