Bagging the python, I transported it back to the airboat, where I placed it into a storage compartment for the return journey out of the Everglades. Contacting a friend who owned a reptile park in Tampa, I was fortunate enough to be directed to a private herpetologist in need of a Burmese python, and arrangements were made for the snake to be collected. I breathed a sigh of relief, a great weight lifted from my conscience. I considered a well-fed, contented life in captivity for this snake preferable to euthanasia any day. Although staunchly conservation-minded, I am not entirely immune to bending the rules when necessary. I was well aware that, in the broad spectrum of things, it was just one snake; but it was my snake . . . the only Burmese python I had personally uncovered in the Everglades, and I did not want the making of this episode of my documentary series to be the factor responsible for bringing about the demise of this beautiful reptile. With a lighter feeling in my heart, I packed up my belongings in preparation for the long flight home.
As conservationists continue to devise strategies and organize python roundups in the wetlands of South Florida, it remains at this time still uncertain what the final outcome will be. The Everglades and surrounding wetlands are vast, providing endless refuge for introduced invasive creatures of numerous descriptions. As is always the case anywhere in the world, once interfered with, the balance of nature is not easily restored.
CHAPTER 19
GRIZZLY BEARS IN BRITISH COLUMBIA
It might be safe to say that I have some sort of affiliation with reptiles, especially snakes. The advantage of filming with reptiles is that, for the most part, I have a reasonable amount of control around the animal. I am able to approach a reptile, photograph it closeup, and, if necessary, pick it up and relocate it. This was of great advantage in making my first series, which revolved almost solely around reptiles.
With my knowledge of reptile behavior, I was able to prepare my team for what to expect from any particular species we might encounter, plan ahead for possible eventualities, and position ourselves accordingly. My natural ability and experience with reptiles made it just a bit easier to collect the footage we needed for the series, and I was basically given free run for the design of each episode. The shows being aired on television were proving to be very popular with the viewing audience, so the suggestion was that we may be on the right track for more.
However, film-series production is an expensive business and impossible to achieve without the necessary financial budget firmly in place. And it stands to reason that those investing the funds would want a major say in the design and making of the series. This is unfortunate, because most often those making demands do not possess the necessary knowledge concerning what conditions in the field might advocate. For example, it is one thing to suggest that we get a cobra to strike into the lens, but quite another to ask for a black rhino to charge at the lens. Whereas I have some semblance of control instigating a cobra strike, I have little or no jurisdiction over tempting a two-ton black rhino to charge into the lens. (At least not without killing myself and most of the crew all in one go.)
And while I can appreciate the sponsor’s desire for their man in the field to produce as much dramatic action as possible, it soon became evident that the more I achieved, the more was expected of me. Thus, when the decision was made that the new series be inclined more strongly towards mammals than reptiles, there seemed to be a general consensus that it would be business as usual.
By this time, everybody—from the directors to the editors—were accustomed to seeing Austin Stevens step up to a highly venomous snake of one species or another, bare handed and unafraid, and manipulate and control the scene through to a satisfying end. Why should it be any different with mammals? Throw in a lion or two here . . . an elephant there . . . and why not a grizzly bear for good measure? The possibilities were endless. What about the feared and revered spotted hyena, the most powerful pack predator in Africa? A pod or two of hippos . . . those two-ton amphibious creatures known to kill more humans in Africa than any other animal? And naturally, no such series would be complete without the appearance of the most elusive and cunning of all the African cats, the leopard . . . a stealth-killer without equal.
And should there be a call for an episode or two where snakes are encountered, make them big snakes of the variety that might be capable of at least strangling a human, if not actually capable of swallowing one whole.
Though to all of those mentioned above, I conceded with a certain stoic resignation, believing also that a certain amount of diversification was called for. However, I recoiled when glacial trekking in subzero conditions in search of the Canadian walrus, free-swimming with tiger sharks off the coast of South Africa, and deep-water night diving off the Baja Peninsular in search of the giant sea squid known to frequent those shores at certain times of the year was suggested. Here finally I put my foot down. I might sometimes appear to do stupid things, but I was not a fool!
My expertise lay in dangerous reptiles. While, to a lesser degree, I was familiar with most African mammal species, as well as having some knowledge of many exotic species from around the world, there were areas I felt I should not expose myself to. Aside from claustrophobia and spiders, some of my greatest fears revolve around extreme cold, man-eating sharks . . . and now that it had been brought to my attention, a giant squid at night . . . underwater . . . with its tentacles wrapped around my drowning body!
When all the kinks had finally been worked out and a program of exciting episodes had been designed and conclusively decided upon to the satisfaction of all parties concerned, I was confronted by Graham.
“The first episode will be shot in British Columbia, Canada, home of the grizzly bear.” Graham informed me, rubbing his hands together with some obvious delight. “You will be flown out to a remote ‘First Nations’ location, a place called Klemtu, where grizzlies are known to congregate a few hours upriver. We’ve timed the trip to coincide with the yearly salmon run, so we know you’ll find bears.”
Great, I thought. Nothing like throwing me in at the deep end. September was technically fall, the first of the progressing BC winter months, which I happened to know included freezing windchill conditions and rain. Add to this the potential of being face to face with the largest, most unpredictable predator occurring in the northern hemisphere, and one of my worst nightmares was quickly taking shape.
Grizzly bears are the second largest of the bear species after the polar bear, with large specimens recorded at 680 kilograms, and measuring nose-to-tail lengths of up to 2.7 meters. This is a seriously large and potentially dangerous animal, and I knew that, to make good TV, I would be expected to get as close as possible to one of these unpredictable monsters.
I had some experience working with young hand-reared brown bears in the park at Hartebeespoort, but this would have little comparison to approaching a full-grown wild grizzly—no way to manipulate such an animal to pose correctly for a photograph. Unlike with reptile photography, I would not be able to maneuver myself around the subject with my usual casual ease. Wild grizzly bears were not likely to take kindly to my prancing around with my camera trying to get a good angle for a picture, especially my favorite kind: the close-up.
“No problem,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt. “Can’t wait to get a grizzly in my lens.”
And the preparations began.
The region chosen for the shoot was on Prince Royal Island, located amongst the isolated inlets and islands of Canada’s ‘forgotten’ coast, in the heart of the Great Bear Rainforest. This is an extremely remote area of British Columbia, some 520 kilometers north of Vancouver. There are no roads or tracks enabling access to the interior, making the area accessible only by boat or by air. Trees here can tower up to three hundred feet and reach the age of fifteen hundred years or more. These coastal forests have evolved to their biological splendor because natural disturbances, such as fires, happen infrequently and are usually small in scale.
The Great Bear Rai
nforest consists of some two million hectares of impenetrable ravines, rivers, and forest. Back home in Namibia, I lived next to one of the driest and hottest deserts on Earth, rendering me somewhat inexperienced for the challenge that lay ahead.
Newly spawned salmon head downriver to the sea, where they spend between three to five years before returning to lay eggs in the same place they were spawned. There are many theories as to how they achieve this, but none are conclusive. It was a logical step to arrange my landing with that of the salmon migration, as this was a big yearly event on the bear’s feeding calendar. Bears would arrive and congregate from many miles around to take advantage of the plentiful salmon swimming up the rivers. By following the salmon migration to their spawning grounds, I would almost certainly be led straight to the bear activity I was seeking and, hopefully, to an opportunity for some nice photography.
To reach the destination base location in BC, my flights were scheduled from Walvis Bay Airport in Namibia to Johannesburg, South Africa, then on to London, and on to Vancouver, the trip to be completed by charter of a seaplane flight, which in two trips finally delivered myself and my team to the tiny outpost of Klemtu, situated on the edge of the Great Bear Rainforest. From here it would be a four-hour boat ride to the area where we intended to begin the operation. A helicopter was organized for two days in the event we were able to do some aerial filming.
Flying in over the BC wilderness, the aerial view was breath-taking, displaying a seemingly endless expanse of rainforest with dotted rocky islands of green scattered across the deep-blue ocean along the edge of the mainland. From my tiny window, cramped into the old twin-engine sea plane piled high with containers of supplies and camera equipment, I watched as the scenery passed below and marveled that anybody could ever survive down there. Living in a desert land, I was familiar with the dangers of being lost or stranded in vast wilderness, but the impenetrable tangle of ancient forest passing below seemed a lot more daunting. Through the scratched and weathered porthole, I took some pictures.
As could be expected, the weather was wet and cold, with a windchill factor adding to the misery. While awaiting the arrival of the next sea plane flight in with another load of supplies and equipment, a satellite phone call from Vancouver informed me that my personal baggage had not arrived. The matter was being investigated, and temporary replacement clothes would be bought and sent out to me. As it turned out, my main suitcase containing all my painstakingly selected clothing and apparatus necessary for an extended stay in freezing rainforest conditions did not arrive until two days before the shoot was completed!
For four weeks I was flaunted in front of the cameras wearing badly fitting clothes selected randomly by someone in Vancouver with no idea of my preferred style, color, or need. Everything was in black, the favorite color of every known species of mosquito. The pants were too baggy and long in the crotch, causing raw patches where it hurts most. The shirts were of a light, warm-weather design, with the jackets made of a scratchy waterproof material that irritated my neck. My usual soft leather boots were now replaced by an extremely heavy-duty make of cold-weather, low-cut boots that allowed no natural movement of the foot and were fitted with hard rubber soles that sent me crashing painfully onto my back every time I negotiated rocky terrain. It was not the most comfortable shoot of the series.
Soon after arrival at Klemtu, I was introduced to Burt, my personal guide, who immediately set about educating me in the do’s and don’ts of wild-bear encounters. Burt was of First Nations origin, slight of body, with a smooth face sporting a thin moustache. His face was serious as he gave me the break down to survival in bear country.
“You cannot run from a bear. A bear can run faster than you.” He stared at me intently, allowing time for this statement to sink in, then continued. “You cannot swim across a river to get away from a bear. Bears can swim faster than you.” Another pause, his dark eyes stern in their warning. “You cannot climb a tree to escape a bear. Bears can climb trees better than you.” Continuous serious staring, as I waited for more. After about a minute I realized there was no more. That was it! My mind turned over what I had just learned. Basically you meet a bear in the wilds of BC . . . you die. End of story.
Holy mackerel!
Seeing as there appeared to be no more to the lesson, I felt compelled to ask, “So what, in your experience, is the best thing to do if you come across a grizzly bear in the wild?”
Burt’s answer was matter of fact. “If the bear is very close and you cannot move away slowly, lie down on the ground, roll yourself into a tight ball, and cover your head. Chances are the bear will examine you, possibly nibble and claw on you a bit, and then lose interest.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “And if the bear does not lose interest . . . if the bear is aggressive . . . ?” my words trailed off despondently. I was not sure I wanted to know.
For the first time a hint of a smile appeared on Burt’s face, lighting up his eyes. “Bears kill about thirty-five people each year. Better not get too close to any bear.” He turned to rummage in his back pack, allowing me a few seconds to contemplate my now seemingly dubious immediate future. Finally locating what he was searching for, Burt displayed the object to me. It looked like a can of mosquito spray with an unusually large handle arrangement. “We do not carry guns here. This is your only last-resort weapon against a bear attack. I carry it with me at all times.”
Proudly he handed the can over to me to examine. I read the label.
BEAR REPELLENT (The ingredients being a powerful concoction of chili and pepper, loaded under pressure into a spray can.)
Do not use indoors.
Do not get on hands or skin.
Do not get near eyes.
Do not inhale.
In case of accident seek medical attention immediately!
I turned the can around to read a second label printed in large red letters.
OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS
Remove safety pin from trigger mechanism.
Hold can at arms length downwind towards bear and pull trigger.
Expel contents into bear’s open mouth and eyes from close proximity.
Maximum range three meters.
So let me get this straight. One has to make sure the attacking bear is downwind from you, that its mouth and eyes are wide open to receive the spray effectively, and it is not more than three meters away. Sounds like a suicide mission to me. But then as Burt pointed out, bears can outrun you; outswim you; and outclimb you . . . so what have you got to lose? Line the monster up and blast away!
Oh Lordy, I thought to myself. This could be dicey to say the least. In Africa when you render yourself into close proximity with a lion, leopard, buffalo, rhino, elephant, or any potentially dangerous wild animal—even from a vehicle—you are always covered by a guide with a rifle . . . not a can of repellent spray! What makes a bear any different from the above mentioned? Especially the grizzly, with its huge size, powerful jaws, claws, and indeterminate disposition. If ever there was reason to have a gun on hand, this was surely it!
Don’t get me wrong. I have never shot a healthy wild animal in my life, and hopefully will never have to. But when passing through a wilderness region where predatory animals are prevalent, without the potential protection of a gun, you could find yourself sadly lacking in defense. And one only has to see the film Grizzly Man to appreciate how easily things can go terribly wrong.
Voicing my misgivings, Burt assured me that, in the instance of the few human deaths recorded from bear attacks in the area, it all happened too fast for the person to realize the situation and fire upon the bear. He stared at me stone-faced, totally oblivious to the irony of this statement. I sighed deeply. This was my lot; I would have to take my chances and hopefully survive to tell the tale.
During the weeks spent exploring the Great Bear Rain forest by canoe and on foot, we came across not only grizzly bears but black bears as well. Within the densely wooded forest itself, most times the rough terra
in, with its slippery, moss-covered rocks and long-fallen dead trees, made it impossible or too dangerous to attempt a closer approach. On open grassland areas, the black bears would usually spot us approaching and systematically maneuver to keep the distance between us and them. Just once we spotted a rare “Spirit Bear,” an animal held in great esteem by the native people of the area. The Spirit Bear is in fact a black bear, but sporting a white coat. The female we came across had two cubs with her, one white and one black. The mother, instinctively protective of her cubs, quickly scurried them away into the forest, she herself disappearing right after them, giving me barely a chance to even raise a camera.
There were many minor adventures along the way. Canoeing the fjords, a humpback whale one day appeared from out of nowhere. Surfacing from the tranquil black depths close to my canoe in an explosion of froth and vaporized water from around the blow hole, it emptied its lungs, simultaneously nearly giving me a heart attack, as I floated in my flimsy canoe. On another occasion, a pack of six wolves briefly exited the forest to stare at my passing, and then disappeared back into the dark of the woods as quickly as they’d appeared. A raccoon raided my camp one night while I was sleeping, digging around presumably in search of scraps. Another near heart-attack, as naturally my initial waking thoughts screamed . . . bear!
Crossing a strongly flowing stream one day, its bottom a cauldron of smooth, rounded rocks, I slipped and tumbled headlong into the freezing water, my full back pack taking me straight to the bottom. By the time I had regained my footing, my carrying weight had doubled as the water saturated every bit of my clothing and equipment. The cold took my breath away, and I suspect that, for the third time in this particular expedition, I came close to a heart attack—this time for real—as the cold knocked the breath out of my body and seemed to freeze my very soul. With the weather threatening rain, and cold mist smoldering at ground level, it took many hours of fireside maneuvering to finally get everything more or less dry again, but it was the beginning of a bout of bronchitis that hampered me for the rest of the shoot and all the way back to Namibia. Never a dull moment.
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