2000

Adventures With Uncle Wally (Varmints) (a69)

by Uncle Wally

Everybody worries about bears on canoe trips. But let's face it: it's really the little nibblers and gnawers who are more likely to score a hit on your grocery inventory. Betcha don't lie awake nights, quakin' in your sleeping bag, worrying about mice gnawing their way into your food bags, do you? Maybe you should.

OK. So mice marauding in your food cache at midnight isn't exactly the stuff of nightmares. And bears ARE large, powerful animals who can (if they get their backs up) take you out with one swipe of a paw. Not to mention the fact that if a bear chooses your campsite for a raid on the larder, it tends to be an all or nothing sorta phenomenon . . . and a pretty hungry end to the trip for everyone else. It pays to be humble in that knowledge.

But don't be misled by all the furry little backwoods critters tryin' to pass themselves off as inoffensive innocents. Decades of Disneyesque cartoon conditioning have brainwashed us into believing that small, furry animals are all cute, helpful, and harmless. Don't you believe it! Mangy little varmints'll do you a world of hurt if once they get their quivery little whiskers into your food pack. And how'll you keep 'em down on the farm once they've tasted the ambrosia of a bag of gorp?

Back when there still was an off season in the Boundary Waters, Charlie and I thought we'd avoid the crowds on a popular canoe route by goin' there in late September. We thought we were pretty cagey, goin' in after most of the tourists had already gone out. Trouble was, when the summertime crowds departed, they left behind them gangs of half tame wild animals at every campsite. And when WE came through, we caught the natives all goin' cold turkey from a serious summertime junk food habit. So I guess it was bound to get ugly.

Our first clue that not all was right with the world came our very first night in camp. We were besieged by a pair of ravenous grey jays. Now, all grey jays know how to play the system to their own advantage, no matter what sorta system it might be. But these two were in a category all to themselves when it came to brazen audacity. Either they were far too empowered by misspent fledgling days in the nest watching old Hitchcock movies or they had a serious convenience food habit brought on by a summer of easy campsite robberies. They were salt and grease addicts desperate for another fix. They took turns swooping down and perching on the rim of our pot as it simmered on the stove, sampling the cuisine before it was even done. I'm surprised they didn't singe their tailfeathers right off. But I suppose they were too fast and too slick for that. Cooking became a two-man operation, one to fix dinner and the other to defend it.

At the next campsite, trouble didn't swoop down on us out of the skies. But it did crawl out of the woodwork, so to speak. This spot was home to a pert and portly vole who had made a career out of cleaning up after messy cooks. Looked like he'd made a pretty successful business of it, too. He was the roundest vole I'd ever seen. Brash, too. There he was, in broad daylight, snuffling in or around every bag, pack, or pot we set down in the camp kitchen. We couldn't turn our backs on any comestible for more'n a fraction of a second: an unguarded bag of gorp woulda been a clear sacrifice here. While daylight lasted, he was constantly underfoot. Charlie about kicked him into the lake once when he crawled up on the toe of Charlie's boot.

When daylight disappeared, so did the vole. But that was only because the night shift of tiny thieves was comin' on duty. Deer mice were everywhere. Whenever the campfire conversation lagged, we'd hear the patter of little paws all around us. The mice at least had the decency to feign timidity. They'd slink and scurry along the logs around the fire pit, discretely invisible in their nightly rounds of cleanin' up after the humans. Try turnin' the flashlight on 'em and they were gone in the flash.

They were serious about their work, too. Charlie and I had polished off a pan of brownies after dinner and I'd no sooner set the pan down on the log beside me before it was full of mice, polishin' up the pan. Their little paws drummed on the flimsy aluminum as they gnawed at the burned-on corners and licked up the crumbs. Geesh! A guy couldn't even let the dishwashin' slide for a couple of minutes without bein' pursued by the rodent horde.

Everywhere we went, we were surrounded by little critters who very firmly believed that there was, indeed, such a thing as a free lunch. And they seemed to think that we ought to provide it for them. We soon figured out we had to hoist our food packs up to the treetops as soon as we got into camp. Bears or no bears, the food was safer up there. A pack left on the ground soon had a chipmunk or red squirrel perched on it, chatterin' away, madder'n heck 'cause we hadn't left the pack open for him! And once one hungry little furball got on a pack, it seemed to make it that much easier for all his friends to find it, too.

Anyway, nothin' was safe on the ground. One night, Charlie forgot and left a bag of gorp in his day pack. Next morning, he had a mouse-sized hole in both pack and bag. That gorp remained under a cloud of suspicion for the rest of the trip.

After a while, we got so used to the patter of little mouse feet around the fire at night that we didn't notice 'em any more. But ignoring those mice didn't make 'em go away. It just made 'em bolder.

One warm night, Charlie was contentedly sitting by the fire, his feet stretched out toward the flames while he leaned back, stiff-armed, into the shadows. We were takin' no notice of the ubiquitous rustlings of the mice scrabbling through leaf mould and needle duff. Then, suddenly, Charlie jumped up with a yell. If I hadn'ta seen it myself, I never woulda thought the guy could move that fast. The mice squeaked once, then disappeared into dark silence.

Charlie stood there and hurled a few choice and unkind words in their general direction. While he'd been sittin' there, propped up on his hands, a mouse had crept up in the darkness and started nibblin' on his shirt cuffs. Charlie'd cooked dinner that night and I guess he still smelled good. Leastwise, his shirtsleeves smelled appetizing to a mouse. It was his favorite flannel shirt, too.

That was the last straw for Charlie. After that, he adopted a zero-tolerance policy toward mice, squirrels, and other cute, furry vermin. He chased off squirrels and chipmunks like a madman. He defended his territory around camp so aggressively that he didn't give anyone a moment's peace. Not even me. I was almost glad to see the trip drawin' to a close.

Our last mornin' in camp, we slept in pretty late 'cause we didn't have far to go. I'm never at my most astute first thing in the morning, so it took me a couple of minutes to realize that odd sound I was hearin' was the sound of small incisors assiduously cutting through a heavy plastic pack liner.

Charlie had it figured out, though. I heard him come grumbling out of his tent and start beatin' on something with a stick. I looked out to see Charlie jumpin' up and whackin' the bottom of our suspended food pack with a canoe paddle. Before long, a small, furry head poked up outta the pack. For a second, the red squirrel looked down imperiously and indignantly at Charlie. Then it took a flying leap off the pack. Charlie was cussin' the squirrel and the squirrel was cussin' Charlie. And between and above the two of 'em, the food pack was spinnin' silently in space, set revolving by the squirrel's hasty retreat.

Now, I do understand how Charlie could get so riled. No one wants to hafta eat food that might have squirrel spit or mouse turds in it. But usin' a $200 Mitchell paddle to beat a red squirrel into submission still seemed like a rash act to me. It wasn't just the best time to be bringin' that up with Charlie, though, so I let it ride. Besides, it wasn't my paddle.

Well, they say a fed bear is a dead bear. But a fed mouse is just a fat and feisty annoyance to anyone who might encounter him later. So keep your act clean, OK? Otherwise, you might be responsible for Mickey and Minnie rampaging through the backwoods all winter long with a bad case of rodent junk food DTs. And how would you explain THAT to Mr. Disney?

Well, 'til next time, keep your paddle wet. And keep in touch. Drop me a line c/o Rich Furman and Morgan MacBain, 901 E Geranium Ave. Saint Paul, MN 55106 or editor@canoe-kayak.org. Let me know if less-than-wild wildlife has ever tried to eat you out of house and home. Remember, Uncle Wally promises to 1) tell the truth so no one would ever believe it anyway and 2) never reveal your true identity to anyone, not even the folks at PETA.