I’m going to call him Norman, which is not his real name. He’s my brother-in-law, my wife’s older brother, the pride of the family. After you hear the story, you’ll see why I won’t give the family name either.

The tale unfolds in the BWCA, late June 1999, in camp at the north end of Lake Polly. There were three of us, me, my wife, and her brother. Norman, as I said. We were on the second day of a leisurely trip. Camp duties had been assigned. Norman was in charge of the bear rope, that is, picking out a good tree and getting the rope secured up there. He sure did!

My wife and I got the tents and tarp up easily. We had noticed some muttering and grumbling from Norman’s direction, so we went over to see how he was doing. He was doing poorly.

It has probably happened to everybody who ever put up a bear rope. He had tied a rock onto the end for a weight to throw, and the rock had gotten snagged in a crotch of the big pine he had chosen. No problem, we figured — Norman is smart and handy. He fixes things fast. This snag problem would be a snap.

Norman pulled hard with both hands — nothing. He paused and glared up at the tree, then walked around and tugged from different angles. He whipped the rope up and down, but the rock held tight. He pulled with two hands again, harder — nothing. At this point he paused and thought it over. He then tried a cross-whipping motion, a big twist, and finally a lariat-throwing move. No luck, the rope was secured.

Norman turned his back, waited a minute, then whirled around and jerked hard — he was trying to catch it by surprise! The tree was not fooled. He stepped back and thought some more.

While we were watching his first attempts, we couldn’t help but offer a few humorous comments. As more efforts failed and tension mounted we stopped. We were witnessing an epic battle. Man versus tree.

Norman is over six feet tall, and he is strong and in good physical condition. The tree was over sixty feet tall, and also appeared to be strong and in good physical condition. Neither had any apparent weakness. The confrontation escalated — Norman was tying the rope around his waist.

At this point I should explain where all this was happening. The tenacious tree was about 20 feet from the lake. The last 10 feet or so was a rock ledge sloping down to the water. Norman was standing on it. Our two canoes were pulled up on the rock a little off to the side. A strong, gusty south wind was blowing past.

Norman tugged at the knotted rope around his waist. It held. Slowly he gripped the rope and began to pull. The line went taut. He leaned back, adding body weight and leg power to arm strength. I had to say, "I’m not so sure that’s a good idea." Norman heard nothing; he was intent on the battle. He grunted and pulled and leaned harder. The whole tree seemed to sway toward him. The rope was still tight in the crotch.

Norman’s face was hard and tense. His eyes were bulging. The tree was bending, but not giving. Twaaannng! The rope gave! Whoa! Norman flew backwards, in the air, yelling as he splashed down several feet off shore. My wife and I gasped. Norman’s falling body kicked up a big wave that washed over the rock. The kevlar canoe rose up and slid into the water. A hungry gust of wind immediately swept it away. The pine tree reverberated like a tuning fork, the broken end of the rope waving goodbye.

It all happened so fast we had no time to laugh or cry. I jumped up, grabbed the tandem canoe and a paddle, and took off after the runaway boat. My wife ran to her brother. He was unhurt, a little chagrined, and all wet. I caught the fugitive kevlar a quarter mile down the lake and fought my way back with it in tow.

By the time I returned, the big brother and little sister were laughing like kids. They had solved the problem. "We decided," Norman told me, "that we’re not going to fiddle around with this bear rope business any more. We’ll just hide our food back in the woods. There’re no bears around here anyway."

I smiled and nodded. There seemed to be no way to bring up the fact that Lake Polly is well known in the BWCA for marauding bears. We all slept well that night, although Norman was a little sore. I suppose he’ll really be sore when he sees this.