Excerpts From The Life Of A Logging Camp Kid

Episode Two: The Bear and Bacon Grease Compendium

It is my opinion that everyone should know how to properly entice a bear utilizing two items. I am not advocating this or any other deemed illegal practice, but such knowledge could be reflected upon as a reason for birth control or application in "should I?" moments. Everyone should have a bottom of the cognitive barrel event on their life scale to compare future choices to. My Uncle Buck (not John Candy) was an expert at luring Ursus of all colors. He was all for equality when it came to any of the bear species, and was the pied piper of such creatures. Instead of a piccolo to lure his furry unicorns, he bore buckets of bacon grease and a nineteen eighties model Chevrolet Suburban.

Many a weekend could one spy my Uncle almost skipping with glee, his tiny hands clutching a couple of three gallon food grade buckets. Inevitably, one of the rigging rats would ask,

“Hey Buck, whatcha got in the buckets?"

My Uncle would then emit a laugh that sounded like a machine gun Hyena, spit a string of chew ridden saliva on the ground, and say,

“Bacon grease, you Son of a Stitch.” [1]

A man more verbose would be pretty much every other male than my uncle, he spoke his few words with rapid fire intensity, and was always on the move before the conversation was done. At five foot two he was small in stature, but his odor took up a fair amount of the space in any setting. I loved him dearly, but his penchant for trapping beaver and keeping them around for a spell I loved less.

The Green Flamer was the first half of his bear catching dynamic duo. If you watched his before flight takeoff ritual an observer would notice Buck run his hand lovingly down the olive green fender, his calloused hands catching on the rust patina that coated the old crew bus. He would slide onto the worn bench seat and emit a curse word or two as his flintlocks were assaulted by a protruding spring or two. He'd reach the second movement of this vehicle readiness symphony by pumping the tired gas paddle a few times and uttering an expletive when the Flamer refused to yield to his demand. His tone turned pleading as he pumped the pedal a few more times and gently turned the key. The old burb would explode into life by providing a show that begat it's namesake, shooting flames from it's old carburetor towards the sky, as the Green Flamer was without a hood.

Everyone in my family has an affliction when it comes to vehicles. My eighty year old great grandma would float the valves on her old car much the same way my Uncle announced via internal combustion his intentions to the whole camp. The roar of the Green Flamer was heard by all. He left a tire spitted gravel trail in his wake as he flew toward the landing strip with the speed of a cheetah and none of the feline grace.

Upon arrival, Uncle Buck would depart his smoking chariot, and the Flamer always burped a fair amount of smoke when the engine was ceased. He would throw open the rear barn doors, and he would then begin lovingly smearing bacon grease all over every inch of the suburban. His patented move was applying globs between the wheel wells. Not one inch of the vehicle was spared from the liberal application of porcine moisturizer, and as soon as he was satisfied with what he deemed was complete saturation, he jumped back into the Flamer and locked the doors. A soft hyena-like giggle was emitted as he would lapse into an anticipatory silence.

“Kids, get in the crummy!” My father barked.

My brother Jack and I, usually watching a movie for the hundredth time, would peel ourselves off of our blue flowered couches and head to dad's blue truck. We only got to ride in a vehicle when we were heading to look at something, so we tended to slide our boots on with expediency. Dad started his truck with more valve floating intensity than normal, and as soon as my mother shut her door we performed a beautiful gravel spitting u-turn in front of our trailer. I had no idea our destination until I paid attention to some of the chatter over the VHF.

“He's really done it this time Larry, the SOB is trapped in there!”

I thought I recognized the troubled screeching as Darryl the log yard boss. I knew him to be a pretty stoic man, and after observing the crew that he worked with, I began to reflect on what would trouble him in such a matter.

Dad adjusted the twelve gauge shotgun that was such a normality in our lives that I viewed it as an appendage. We were really flying now, the cookhouse, tire shop, and mechanic's shop flew by us, a rough cut cedar colored blur. We took a left and began our descent into the air field, and as we flew past the giant, rust colored fuel tanks, I spied the event that had Darryl in such an emotional turmoil.

There were nine bears of assorted color on the Green Flamer. They were all varieties of black bear, shades of cinnamon to dark black. I perversely chuckled, it was like viewing every shade of mascara. There was a creature at each wheel well, sucking at the cracks like they were extracting bone marrow. One dark brown fellow was sprawled on the engine block, licking the windshield like it was a bacon flavored Popsicle, and the biggest of all was spread out on the roof like a living bear skin rug, paw dangling over the side, mouthing the green roof like it was an avocado lollipop. One bear was standing on it's hind legs pressing his paws against the Flamer's barn doors as if he was trying to push start the poor thing. The other three were wandering around for a lick here and there from the bacon flavored paint buffet.

Above all of the grunts and scratching a maniacal laugh emanated and you could see the flashes of an instant camera from inside the Suburban of porcine horrors. My uncle was in full Ursus rapture.

“Dad!” I squealed in panic, “Those bears will be in there in a matter of seconds! You have to save him!”

Dad, with a smile under his mustache, stepped out of the crew bus and unleashed a few rounds of buckshot and couple of slugs out of the shotgun. This revelry only startled a few of the lesser dominant creatures, and with a shrug of his shoulders dad looked at my uncle and mimicked the turning of a key.

“Oh my Lord.” my mother said quietly under her breath.

A miracle then occurred. The Green Flamer roared to life on her first try, charring the furry creature's hind end that was upon her engine block. That bear received a melted variation of a Brazilian wax and bolted into the tree line. Uncle Buck threw the Suburban into drive and left a pack of sad bacon fat bereaved bears in his wake. The Alpha bear however, was still atop the Green Flamer, and my Uncle drove back to camp, swerving erratically, with a crew bus procession following his breakfast scented wake.

When he skidded to a stop in front of the cookhouse, it was apparent that the dominant bear was less so as it hopped off of the vehicle exuding a demeanor of surrender and with a huff stalked toward the tree line. My uncle emerged from his bacon flavored, smoking chariot and looked at his handiwork as it lumbered toward the spruces. That greasy bear turned and snapped it's teeth in irritation at Buck. My uncle just laughed his rapid hyena laugh, spit some chew on the ground, and said,

“When are we having bacon again?”

[1] He was actually saying the son of a female dog, but I figured the progeny of the act of sewing could handle the abuse, thus protecting the more sensitive of readers.

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