Dan and I carried heavy duty marine radios used to communicate with the Star Queen, or one another, when we were out fishing. There were always staff on board the Star Queen, so at very least, we’d coordinate meal times and such.
All radio communication went:
“Star Queen, Star Queen, this is Star Queen Mobile (schzzrrrtchchs...) Do you read. Over”.
“Star Queen Mobile, this is Star Queen. Read you loud and clear”.
I admit it was a guilty pleasure and kinda felt like playing dress up—pretending to be in the military or just sounding official, but I always got a kick out of it anyway. And that’s how the Coast Guard talked, in case we ever got in trouble and had to call them.
Recon fly-fishing was probably my favorite part of the job. That’s where I’d get up before daybreak; hop into my waders and head to the mouth of a creek. I'd survey the water; catch a few fish; figure out whether we'd fish there or steam to new water.
That morning, fog lay thick on the fjord, just as the sky began to brighten. I couldn’t see the mouth of the creek, let alone the island. Normally, I’d have asked Dan, but he stayed home that week. Ken gave me a compass along with a look, like I was stupid. But I didn’t care. I’m no mariner. A compass and a map, hadn’t even occurred to me. And the thought of sneaking up on the island, with only a compass heading, in an eight foot Zodiac was too compelling for me to be bothered with Ken.
My gear was light. My radio was strapped to my chest. I had my fly-rod and one box of flies. I didn’t bring the rifle—a cannon—the biggest of them all: a .458 Weatherby Magnum. If you had to shoot a bear, you would want to drop it, immediately. And we were trained to take a shoulder shot, instead of a heart or head shot; that was supposed to stop the bear first. You could kill it after it stopped charging you. But I didn’t like carrying it. I loved the bears and hated the idea of ever shooting one. So, I’d bring bear mace.
I fished right at the mouth for thirty minutes or so. The fog had begun to lift. And I turned and walked up the center of the creek, looking for some pools and some fish. In the flats, I'd stomp to startle the fish; it was an easy way to spot them so long was it was shallow enough that their backs would break water when they'd bolt. Then, abruptly, I heard:
“Star Queen Mobile, Star Queen Mobile, this is Star Queen, copy”.
I grabbed my handset. “Copy, Star Queen—Mobile One”.
“Mobile One, be advised: 600lb. Black Bear followed you up the ravine. Repeat. Large Black Bear behind you. Advise caution”.
“Copy, Star Queen. Over”.
Well, that came from a visiting guide from the East Coast and he was full of shit. It was enough I didn’t like him. I didn’t appreciate the attempt at humor. There were no 600lb Black Bears. Hell, half of the black bears looked small enough to wrestle; it surprised me. The others weren't all THAT intimidating by their sheer size. Not like a Grizzly or giant Kodiak bears or even a Coastal Brown Bear. They looked like really big dogs. Like giant Rottweilers. 250lbs. You looked down at them, not up. Biggest I’d seen was maybe 400lbs. But I'd keep an eye out.
Then, sure as shit, big daddy came trompin’ right up the creek, right at me. And the fucking thing was nearly as a big as a Brown Bear—every bit of 600lbs. He was huge, and he stared right at me and sorta grumbled and snorted as he walked. And he didn’t walk like a Black Bear. He had the swagger of a Grizzly; the air that says “They call me Big-bear; Who the fuck are you”? There was no trail or opening and no obvious way to yield the right of way. I dropped my hand to my bear mace to click off the safety, then realized I’d left it on the Star Queen. So, I backed up, slowly and let him amble right on by. No big deal. He seemed friendly enough. But, still. I was scared. Just because he was so fucking big.
And it turned out that the first and last thing that full-of-shit, New England guide said to me, that wasn’t total horse shit, was “there’s a 600lb bear, right behind you”.
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