It was a freezing cold October night, and the wind was whipping the salty sea spray against my kitchen window. I was operating a very small fishing lodge on North Beach near Masset, Hadia Gwaii (formerly the Queen Charlotte Islands). My dinner guests that evening were comprised of an old friend - Pete, along with two fishermen he was steelhead guiding on the Tlell River.

By any account, it had already been an amazing day. The cedars in this area, along with the Sitka spruce seem to transform the everyday into something else - something lucid, and almost surreal; an ideal setting for story telling.

While my guests dined on the local seafare, their stories began to emerge (with the help of a nice bottle of red). Things got very interesting.  Their stories had been accumulated in a way that most people only dream about. The two fishermen seated at the table were paid adventurers - they travelled to remote areas to write stories for an outdoor magazine based in theUnited States. I was enthralled by their tales and sure enough, the topic turned to bears. Over time, we all had a chance to tell our most memorable bear story. This kind of thing happens in B.C, around campfires, and dinner tables. It is woven into the rich tapestry of our lives that B.C. folk get to brag about.

So, as my turn came around, I thought about the best bear story that I had. The funny thing was that it wasn't my story. I have had plenty of bear encounters, but something compelled me to tell this one. Not mine. But, nonetheless.

It was my neighbour, John Blackwell's story. And when I say neighbour,  I mean that in the loosest sense of the word because he lived miles away from us. We were neighbours for a time in another remote area of B.C. - in the North Chilcotin's on Moose Lake, accessible only by floatplane. He told me his memorable bear story one morning over coffee. So, I borrowed his story, and recounted it to my dinner guests.

John operates a hunting and guiding outfit on Moose Lake. He also has a lodge on the Dean River, famous for the fishing and abundant wildlife. A few years back, John had two American guests that wanted to view grizzlies. It had been a few days of bad weather, resulting in limited photo opportunities. So when someone burst into the cook shack reporting a grizzly sow with cubs near the landing strip, the group happily left their steaks in favour of their camera's.

The three of them, along with one of John's guides, headed for the grizzlies. John, now in his sixties, is a guy that has carved out a living homesteading, guiding and fishing in some of the most remote areas of British Columbia. He is a pioneer, outdoorsman, and somewhat of a legend in that part of the world.  

The group approached the clearing where they saw the sow, but not her cubs. That was pretty much the exact moment she charged them. John stood his ground, as she skidded to a halt just inches from his belly. She let loose a couple of terrifying RROOAARS!!!!! as John tried to stand on his tip toes, arms stretched wide, roaring back at her. It seemed to work. Just then, the two Americans decided to head for safer ground (or so they thought). One fellow, who was also a rock climber, climbed a tree, while the other dove under a log.

My dinner guests were now on the edge of their seats, their eyes glued to mine. They were silent, yet ready to gasp at a moment's notice. I thought I was doing a terrific job.....I had chosen a winner of a story!

Then came round two..... She came back even more furious, and attempted to drag the fellow down out of the tree. John distracted her with a yell, and she charged him for the second time. As she again ground to a halt, he thought that his time had come. He thought he was about to meet his maker. And this was a guy with hundreds of bear encounters. Hmmmm... not so tough after all.

Then her cubs started wandering away and she followed them. The three men were left shaking in their boots, clinging to a tree, and praying that she didn't return. When the coast was clear, they gingerly made their way back to the cook shack, I assume for a stiff drink and maybe to change their pants.

As I finished my story, a gust of wind sent a ripple through the tall sea grass. My dinner guests stood up from the dinner table and applauded loudly - grins stretched from one side of their face to the other; and a twinkle of excitement in their eyes. I had just recounted to them not only my neighbours story, but their own. They were the two Americans that John was guiding that day in the remote backcountry on the Dean River, in the story told to me at Moose Lake, and then retold to my guests in Haida Gwaii.

Apparently I did a good job. A couple of details had been left out, but overall pretty darn good.... some bear stories span plateaus, oceans and mountain ranges, and are eternally etched in our being.