--- WARNING: CONTENT UNSUITABLE FOR THOSE OF A NERVOUS DISPOSITION ---
[BUT BEST READ IN DARKNESS IF YOU ARE BRAVE]
What seems fine during daylight hours can grow to fearsome proportions overnight.
This might be, after repeated warnings to avoid night buses in Ecuador and the Colombian border, finding yourselves unexpectedly on an Ecuadorian bus heading straight for the Colombian border through dense Amazon rainforest at dead of night.
Without warning, in the deep, desolate darkness of the small hours, the bus slows to a halt beside a group of mysterious figures loitering at the roadside. You don’t know what is going to happen next ...
[Amanda and Dave, Ecuador, November 2002.]
Or it might be crammed into a minibus full of Tibetan monks as you hurtle down a steep, forested mountainside inset with a frightening series of hairpin bends, huge vertical drops and no crash barriers.
Bad enough in daytime, now picture yourself in this minibus in thick cloud at night. And now consider that your driver, trying to save fuel, over-confident of his local road knowledge and unable to resist dangerous overtaking manoeuvres, refuses to switch on his vehicle’s lights, relying instead on a momentary headlight flash at every third bend in the road and the occasional glint of weak moonlight through trees onto the sudden, sheer edge of the tarmac.
But you are travelling with monks. You’ll be safe with them, won’t you? They seem relaxed in the knowledge that they will come to no harm. Or ... are they relaxed because they are content to enter the next life when called? Well, I’m not relaxed! Going over a cliff edge will be a terrifying way to die – and I don’t even know where I’m headed in the next life!
[Amanda and Dave, India, April 2003.]
But the following story, in it’s full glory, is set in Canada in August 2001. Read it slowly ... in the dark ... alone ... if you dare ...
In the north of the Canadian province of British Columbia, there is an area called the Hazeltons. Twenty years ago, it was little more than a small, isolated pioneer outpost co-existing in lonely First Nations territory where the road peters out into a sparsely-populated wilderness. I don’t suppose a lot has changed today. Dense pine forest and impenetrable scrub, backed by craggy, snow-capped mountains, are dissected by ravines and traversed by wide, fast-flowing, blue-green rivers.
At the confluence of two such rivers nestles a small campsite. Each night, a few large, motorised caravans arrive, moving on next day. But ours is the only tent and we have no car. We are storing our food away from animals in plastic carrier bags inside the little toilet block. It has been hard work reaching this special place by boat, bus and finally on foot, and we plan to stay for five nights to explore the area.
At first, all is pleasant and peaceful. Then it begins ...
It is our second night at the little campsite and, as we head into the tent to sleep, the deep, insulating silence seems somehow less agreeable than before, even a little eerie.
In the early hours, something – we are not sure what – suddenly awakens us. We lie still and strain our ears. There it is again: a light, cracking sound, like something large treading softly through the riverside undergrowth, snapping occasional twigs underfoot. Immediately alert, we both try to avoid the thought of what it might be, forcing ourselves to stay composed even as our muscles become tense and knotted. Eventually, the sounds tail off and we return to some semblance of sleep.
The next day, all is calm and we enjoy hiking the area, reaching the tiny village of Kispiox, eight or nine miles away, to visit its totem poles. It is easy to feel in control during daylight hours.
But, as evening approaches, we start to feel a little nervous and, without any transport, helplessly cut off as the darkness of night slowly, inexorably envelopes our tent pitch. The blackness thickens around us, and we both start to feel the same, unspoken dread as we climb into our sleeping bags.
Abruptly, at three o’clock, we awaken with a start as a loud, splintering tear rips to our ears from two metres away. Irrationally, our first thought is that a heavy load of rain has suddenly been shed from a tree branch above us. But it’s unlikely: the rain stopped hours ago.
Our hearts are pounding, our minds whirling. We don’t want to face the reality of what might be just outside our tent. But there is no avoiding the thought: it could be a bear.
We remember being told, weeks ago, to speak out – loudly, deeply, calmly – should we ever encounter a bear, to alert it to our presence and avoid a conflict. But the creature is so close that we fear we may provoke it. Our hesitation is only momentary: we urgently assert how big and strong we are, whilst mentally check-listing that our tent contains no food, toothpaste or other scented items attractive to bears. Surely I removed that little strawberry lipsalve from my rucksack pocket?
We dare not breathe. We listen for the slightest sound in the black stillness. Where is it now? Is that a light scuff of claw on pathway, a muffled growl? The waiting is the worst.
Thirty seconds – or perhaps a lifetime – later, we hear another crashing rip, this time from twenty metres away. We listen tensely. After a few long minutes, dogs bark furiously in the nearby village as the animal moves away. We fall into a sporadic, restless sleep.
The fourth night, we are nervous, putting off bedtime for as long as we can ... but the night proves unexpectedly still and uninterrupted. We are thankful that the animal seems to have left the area. We will be able to finish our time here in peace.
As dusk descends on our fifth and final night, we feel mildly on edge, but manage to chat and laugh a little. The quiet relief of the previous night means that the worst is now be behind us and, anyway, we only have one more night to get through.
We are sleeping deeply. At two-fifteen, muted barking from the village dogs stirs us. We try to ignore them ... but, this time, they signal the animal approaching. It was a false sense of security – the horror is beginning again.
After a few minutes, twigs snap intermittently along the riverside. The sounds draw slowly, inevitably closer, stop directly opposite our tent and start to turn towards us.
There is no doubt now that it is a bear: but which type? Our minds are in overdrive. If attacked by a black bear, we must fight back as they like their meat fresh. But, if it’s a grizzly, we must play dead – there is no chance of success in fighting a huge grizzly, but they like their meat gamy so, if we remain still, the bear might bat us about, pee on us and partially bury us, but it probably won’t eat us right away. We feel sick with fear. Both types of bear have recently been spotted in the area ... but how can we tell them apart in the darkness, even using the narrow beam of our tiny pencil torch?
An awful silence prevails. Suddenly, we remember that, earlier on, a caravanner threw his barbequed salmon leftovers in a nearby bin, which the bear can surely smell. Frantic realisation dawns: the bear might not be after us, but we are in its direct path and it may come investigating and lumber straight over us.
Senses tingling, we alternately speak out to notify our presence, then remain silent, listening, hardly breathing, to try to locate the bear. A long silence, then we hear a hefty smash against the metal, salmon-filled bin just metres away, but on our other side: the bear has gone around us. There is stillness, then another crash, slightly further away.
For forty minutes, terrified and alone, we are tormented as the bear moves silently around the campsite, stopping every now and then to smash against metal bins in search of food.
Finally, to our relief, a caravanner awakens, opens a high window and screams at the bear – we are no longer alone in our nightmare. The relief is short-lived: we hear the bear make a startled shudder, then begin a blundering gallop – straight back towards us! We huddle and brace ourselves for certain impact.
Seconds later, branches crack loudly by the riverside; somehow the bear has missed us. Within minutes, and from nowhere, rain starts to fall. It gets heavier and all other sound is drowned out – how can we hear where the bear is now? But the rain gradually eases to a steady patter and brings comfort in our powerlessness and, at last, we drop, exhausted, into a short, fitful sleep for the remainder of the night, thankful that we are leaving first thing tomorrow.
At daybreak, we rise and survey the campsite’s badly dented bins. We can smell bear. Along the riverside, we see the giveaway paw prints, the stripped, fleshless carcasses of several large fish, and a shrivelled, signature piece of berry bush.
Epilogue
We never discovered whether our visitor was a grizzly or black bear: both types frequent and had recently been seen in the area.
We spoke with one of the caravanners next morning, making light of some of our vivid fears from the previous night, such as having a bear gallop over us. But he told us that it had happened to him many years ago. He’d survived the terrifying ordeal, but never camped again.
Despite several further nocturnal bear encounters in North America, we are yet to see one of these magnificent animals by day.
