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Tip o' the Day

Today's topic will be the efficacies of bear sprays.

First off, what is "bear spray"? It's generally recognized as "capsaicin," a bitter chemical compound (CH NO) derived from cayenne pepper. It causes pain to the nerve endings of the eyes and nose. It temporarily robs the creature to whom it's been applied of their senses and causes pain. But there are no long-lasting effects.

All the above sounds clinical. But I'm here to tell you there's nothing dispassionate about getting hit with the stuff. I once "test-fired" the canister I routinely carry while in bear country. Fired beautifully. The wind was wrong. What happened next wasn't beautiful. Mine was a diluted dose, but a troop of maddened grizzly bears careening my way would've been the least of my problems.

Jane carried a spray canister on her belt for so many years that the can corroded and began to leak. She noticed strange burning sensations along her waist. At last the culprit was identified and she disrobed while I, being ever the gallant, helped her, then carried the clothes to the creek for a thorough soaking. When I returned, my hands were burning. The day was hot and I pullled off my cap to wipe sweat from my head. My bald spot began burning! Then I soaked my cap in the stream because whenever the bill was handled, the hand started stinging.

It's bad stuff, capsaicin. In my view, it's far more certain than a magnum handgun in the hands of a scared user during a surprise bear encounter. The spray has been known to stop an angry grizzly in his tracks.

I was once in an outdoor store when a gentleman walked in and bought every canister of bear spray the store had in stock -- about ten. He seemed a no-nonsense sort of guy, so I asked if he anticipated future bear problems?

The man shook his head, then told me he owned a bar in North Dakota. "I had a riot in my place last weekend and" -- when he turned his pale blue eyes on me I'd never seen anyone so grim -- "it won't happen again!"

So arm yourself with a canister of pepper spray, practice using it until you're smooth in handling and efficient in delivery. That means you'll never have to worry about a grizzly again, right?

Well, not exactly. There's an addendum about brains. The spray is no substitute for commonsense avoidance tactics while traveling or camping in bear country. Consider capsaicin spray as sort of an insurance policy. Insurance is great when you need it, but I remember my daddy telling me I'd be better off in the long run if I pay for insurance yet never need it.

There's no question about it, I feel safer hiking in grizzly country with a canister of pepper spray hanging from my belt. But I'll still plan on waltzing with the same watchful, careful tactics that brought me to the outdoor dance for the last fifty, sixtyyears.

And so should you.

Novels from Roland's Validiction For Revenge Western Adventure series

THE WHY FOR THANKSGIVING

Most of myThanksgiving Days during the last several decades have been spent far from home and hearth: in a wilderness hunting camp, on a Texas or Colorado or Oregon booksigning circuit, or while calling on schools and libraries.

I'd rather be home with feet propped before a fireplace blaze, where Jane has all the modern conveniences to fix her best vittles. While she does, it's a good time for me to ponder the historical significance of Thanksgiving. One could well amuse one's self on the word picture drawn in every schoolchild's primer about Pilgrims celebrating their first thanksgiving with a bountiful potluck and accompanied by breechclout-clad Indians can't be right. Not during the last week of November!

One of the reasons I gave up outfitting was because it was common for snow to grow too deep and cold to turn so intense that whiskey clouded. Corn? Tomatoes? Potatoes? Forget it! Can you imagine anybody running around at that time of year wearing only a breechclout and moccasins? If I'd lived in Nantucket and spotted an Indian tough enough to wander about in late November so scantily clad I'd return the New World to his tribe, take my Sorrel boots, Woolrich trousers, and GoreTex parka and flee back where only gnat-like little things threatened, like the Black Plague and the Spanish Inquisition.

Now I realize how L.L. Bean got started along the Atlantic seacoast. He did a land office business suppyling Indians with backflap union suits. No doubt that innovation would've been eagerly sought by natives attending outdoor barbecues in late November, even if the flap did work backwards from their usual apparel.

Back when I was a tad I was forced to wear the infernal things -- the union suits. They were kid-sized, but I think they were originally my pa's and ma washed 'em in water much too hot. The reason I think that was because the hind-end buttonholes got shrunk and wouldn't take the buttons that never shrunk. The only way I could force those buttonholes was to put the suit on backwards so I could button the back flap up front.

Anyway, that ##&@*% flap hung loose most of the time, bagging my britches and making me . . . well, you know the feeling! That's one of the things I'm grateful for on this Thanksgiving: that I no longer have to wear those scratchy, dull red, one-piece outfits.

I'm thankful, too, that we don't have to eat dinner outside in November with a bunch of expressionless natives stalking around in breechclouts and little else, watching to see if we burnished the turkey correctly.

Canadians celebrate their own Thanksgiving; but Canada, being somewhat farther north of Plymouth Rock, those practical inhabitants selected an earlier date for their celebration -- one that really did come at the end of the year's harvest. I'm not sure what formula is used up north, but this year Canada's Thanksgiving fell on Monday, October 8. So I'm guessing their formula must call for giving thanks on the second Monday of October. Somebody out there can correct me, if necessary.

Whatever. I'm just thankful I didn't have to roll out of bed while the frost was still on the punkin's to trundle through a dank and dreary Hansel and Gretel forest in order to bag a brace of gobblers for the little woman to pluck for lunch. And I'm glad there wasn't a blunderbuss with a tuba-flare on the end to use for shooting the gobblers from their tree perches.

Come to think on it, we have a lot to be thankful for; especially that we weren't there for that first Thanksgiving. Most of all, though, we'd ought to be thankful somebody was there and figured out a day to give thanks for all the good coming our way. That is what Thanksgiving's all about, isn't it?

What's that, Jane? You say you saw this "darling" Santa Claus suit with a zipper on the back flap? Ha, ha.

 

 

Roland Cheek wrote a syndicated outdoors column (Wild Trails and Tall Tales) for 21 years. The column was carried in 17 daily and weekly newspapers in two states. In addition, he scripted and broadcast a daily radio show (Trails to Outdoor Adventure) that aired on 75 stations from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific Ocean. He's also written upwards of 200 magazine articles and 12 fiction and nonfiction books. For more on Roland, visit:

www.rolandcheek.com

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