JOE AND THE GRIZZLY

JOE AND THE GRIZZLY

They threw themselves off the horizon’s precipice that year. Two tenacious tenderfoots left their genteel societies to cross the 60^th parallel with dreams of unbridled wealth and power.

They pushed against the biting winds, fur-covered heads collapsed, pulling overloaded sleds across acres of blowing snow while aurora borealis chandeliers lit their path. Every sunless day could easily have been their last.

Bill Smythe and Joe Campbell made the life-threatening expedition up the British Columbian coast with one ton each of provisions and supplies. Like pack-mules, they climbed the notorious Chilkoot Pass slogging the 3,500-foot trek up and down that pass, with their precious cargo strapped to their backs not once, but twenty-two times each.

Most turned around and hundreds died attempting the climb. So grueling was it, that they witnessed overworked horses commit suicide by hurling themselves off the cliff.

           After a brief rest, they purchased lumber and built the boat that carried them up the waterways of the mighty Yukon River. After five months, they landed their battered boat and half-starved frames on the shores of Dawson City in June of 1897.

           …but the worst was yet to come.

#

          “Gimme whiskey!”

Molly’s unfavourite regular has just walked in.

He leans his shotgun against the bar, pulls his bearskin hat off, reaches into his vest pocket, snaps open a small tin, and pushes a tobacco plug to the back of his mouth, flashing rows of rotten teeth.

           The shot glass scratches along the bar counter up to his three-fingered hand. His lice-infested head knocks it back. The glass slams hard on the bar as he releases a juicy belch and pushes the glass away.

           “What in fuck is this? Not only er you pushin’ this damn gut-rot, you waterin’ it down too now, you stingy, cheaten’ frog! You best not put that on my tab.”

He pounds his fist hard on the counter. The room goes quiet and the piano chokes. Molly nods to the bartender who reaches for the secret stash and pours Kodiak a good whiskey but the brute ignores his glass and turns towards the room.

It’s rough and ram-shackled but the men love coming to Molly’s Folly for that very reason:  no highfalutin dancing hall here. It’s a come as you are and leave if you can sort’a place.

“Wat u all lookin’ at?”

Kodiak is looking to fight.

Molly is standing over the winner of a poker game at the corner table. She’s working him over with a gentle neck rub and free whiskey. None of the gamblers bother to look up. It’s just Kodiak acting out his same old shit every time he comes in.

He’s eyeing her.

“Hey Molly, come over here, doll. Give ‘ol Kodiak a big fat kiss.”

She ignores the ruffian.

“Molly! Where’s my kiss?” 

“Ya gitten’ the good stuff now Kodiak, so you just be ya quiet, drink ya whiskey, and thank ya stars. Most everyone gitten the gut rot,” she says.

           The saloon foundation shivers when big Kodiak stomps toward her. He grabs her by the arms and bear-hugs her. His sour breath makes her gag and Molly can’t turn her head around enough to evade the putrid fumes exhaling from his yap.

“Lit go Kodiak!”

She’s suspended off the floor so kicks him hard in his shins, but her attempts to free herself only arouse him. Kodiak holds her even tighter. The more she fights back, the more he enjoys it. She can feel his erection.

“You pig!”

He laughs, chewing tobacco spittle, the colour of sewage, drooling down from the corner of his mouth.

Joe Campbell, the winning player, stands up.

“Drop her!”

He aims his revolver at Kodiak’s head. A click is heard as he pulls the hammer back. The room clears.

“I said drop her!”

 A few tense moments pass before he drops Molly to the floor like a sack of flour.

“Just havin’ a bit of fun. Don’t you be so tight-assed.”

Joe, ready to pull the trigger, holds his position.

“It’s time to leave.”

Kodiak backs away with his hands up, shuffles backward to the bar, slugs his good whiskey down then grabs his bearskin hat and shotgun.

He slowly backs out of the saloon, but not before grabbing his bear claw necklace and running the four-inch claw across his neck while staring the gunman down.

“You be a dead man, Joe Campbell.”

The altercation has ended the poker game. Joe cashes in his chips for gold, the only currency in Dawson, and adds his winnings to his poke. He signals to his partner Bill Smythe, drinking at the next table, that it’s time to go.

#

           Molly’s Folly squats in the middle of Main Street, between the lumber yard and the livery. If it weren’t for the fermenting stink of ripe outhouses, the incessant barking of feral sled dogs, or streets of slick mud, Dawson City could almost pass as a livable place.

Bill turns to Joe.

 “Gonna go next door and pay our hardware bill, Joe. You go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

Joe walks to the outskirts of town where the trail leads back to their claims on Rabbit Creek. His thoughts return to Molly’s Folly. Kodiak is dangerous. Between his waspish tongue and his crotchety attitude, it’s best to give this ill-tempered Californian a wide berth.

A rustling in the bush behind him snags his attention. Bears are preparing for hibernation and everything has become a food source for them now. His revolver hasn’t enough gun power to lay such a beast down. He wishes he had waited for his partner since Bill has a 12-gauge shotgun with him. Uneasy, and cautious, he slowly drags his feet on the gravel path and starts whistling, hoping the commotion will scare off what may be lurking behind him.

“What a purty whistle.”

Joe’s heart nearly blows up as he spins around. It’s Kodiak, his face puckered like a rotten prune. He has assumed a menacing stance in the middle of the pathway, his shotgun aimed right at him.

“I ‘bin waitin’ fur ya. Ya pull a gun on me and think yer shit don’t stink, don’t ya?”

Joe keeps his eyes on Kodiak, but he can see Bill coming up the trail behind him. He stays focused on the big guy to not tip him off.

“Lay down yer pistol, Joe…. nice and easy… and throw me yer poke.”

Joe doesn’t move and keeps staring at the brute as Bill, with rifle butt steadied against his shoulder creeps up behind Kodiak.

“I ain’t got all day. Throw down yer gun and pitch me yer poke, now!”

Joe doesn’t move.

“I’m gonna count to three… and den u be the dead man.”

“One, two… thr..”

A piercing crack explodes and the sound ricochets through the canyon until it is swallowed by the peaks and valleys.

The sheer force of the shot lifts Kodiak’s body momentarily off the ground. He spins and flumps on the trail. His head is completely blown off. Flesh and bear fur cover Joe’s face and blood drips from his chin. Without a word between them, they grab Kodiak by his moccasins and drag him to the side of the path. The partners roll the massive corpse down the side into a ravine. The sound of snapping branches and crunching rocks follows him to the deep abyss. Joe tosses over Kodiak’s rifle and bear claw necklace.

Joe pulls leaves off a tree hanging over the path and wipes off what he can. He turns his wool jacket inside out and briskly continues their long walk back.

#

After the excitement of the day and the long walk home, the men knock off early. The waning moon drags over the frosty October tree line. A loon’s wails magnify the loneliness of this land and soon enough, the cabin is filled with snores and scratching.

Deep into the night a loud crash jars them out of sleep. They rush outside armed with rifles and look around, weapons drawn, expecting to be jumped by gold thieves that roam the camps. You can hear the northern lights crackle as they sway across the ebony sky illuminating the ground. The men see nothing but the beauty of the wild north in all its glory and return to their cabin.

They settle back in their bunks but remain restless. Thumping and scratching on the roof jolts their attention. It seems to be coming directly over Bill’s head on the top bunk, just a few inches from his head.

“Not again,” whispers Bill.

With a loud snapping crack, the roof section over Bill’s head abruptly collapses. An enormous bear paw reaches in and pins him to the top bunk. Before Joe can grab a shotgun, another huge furry paw breaks through the roof and snatches Bill by the shoulder. The bear kneads his long claws deep into his flesh. The brutal reality of the moment shocks them. The bear has lifted Bill off the mattress. The jagged hole is too small to pull his body through, but the determined bear continues tugging on him. Bill flops like a ragdoll. Joe aims his gun at the side of the opening and shoots, reloads and shoots again. It lets go and Bill drops onto the mattress. His left arm has been ripped off. They can still hear the bear on the roof.

Before Bill can roll off the bunk, the beast slams both front paws down, grabbing his head. It is crushing his skull with its paws. The bear's long claws sink into both sides of his cheeks ripping up his face and exposing his gums and teeth, which flash a ghoulish smile at Joe.

A massive grizzly bear's head pushes through the enlarged hole with its savage eyes wide open. It is snarling and snotty drool swings from its angry curled lips. The grizzly’s large snout opens wide, baring blood-stained canines and bites down on Bill’s head. The sound of crunching bone, as the long bear teeth scrape along the top of his skull, is amplified through Bill’s gaping mouth. It begins to pull him through the hole. With brute strength, Joe grabs his partner’s legs. It’s a tug of war for his mangled body.

Without warning, Joe lands hard on his back. The bear has released his partner. Joe is still clutching his legs when Bill flops on top of him; his head and his arm are ripped off and his corpse is unrecognizable.

Joe drags what remains of Bill’s body into a corner. He reloads both shotguns and his sidearm but has no faith in their usefulness against this monstrous bear. He lights a coal oil lamp and it jogs his memory. He remembers that bears are terrified of fire.

The plan is now before him. He will somehow try to douse the bear with coal oil and set the animal on fire. Joe grabs his fireplace poker and makes a torch by wrapping a piece of torn cloth around the tip and douses it with coal oil. He slips matches into his pocket. He tips over the blood-soaked bunk bed, making it harder for the bear to enter through the roof and rips a footboard off the bed frame to make an extra torch. All three shutters are unlatched for a quick escape. Joe then opens the front door, sits in his long johns, and waits by the fireplace, with the oil can, two homemade torches and three loaded guns. He is scared shitless.

In no time, he hears a faint sound in the deadly blackness of the night.

Joe yelps and jumps up when something comes bouncing through the door. It’s Bill’s head. It rolls across the room and stops at his feet. Barely any flesh remains and his empty eye sockets are encrusted and filled with dark congealed blood. Pine needles and dirt cling to the sticky skull and blood-soaked hair.

Joe stands and lights his first torch. The time has come.

“Haaww! Haaww!” Come on you filthy animal! Let me at ya!”

If the bear can enter the cabin through the door, Joe will splash the grizzly with the oil, use his long fireplace poker torch to ignite the animal, and then escape through a shutter.

A shadow passes in front of the door. It's too cunning to enter the cabin; it somehow knows. Joe goes to the back window shutter and ever so slightly lifts it to peek out. The bear slams hard on the shutter and knocks Joe off his feet, his lit torch rolling along the wood floor precariously close to his coal oil can. He scurries on all fours to retrieve it and turns to face the beast. It is still outside standing on its hind legs. The bear is taller than the cabin and all Joe can see through the gaping window is its underbelly and its front paws dangling. One paw has only three claws.

Like an earthquake, the shack begins to shudder and creak. The grizzly is pushing against the cabin. A booming crack rings in the night air and the cabin begins to grind and groan as it tilts to one side.

Joe grabs his oil can and a fresh torch and races out just in time, as the front door collapses behind him. With the unlit torch jammed down the back of his pants and an oil can in his left hand, he awkwardly begins to scale a birch tree grove at the front. The bear runs from behind the burning cabin, rushes to Joe and begins to climb. Joe keeps scaling and just when he begins to think he may be high enough, a claw scrapes along the length of his back leg, carving through his long johns. A burning pain boils through his body but he keeps scaling the birch tree in a mad panic. He looks over his shoulder. The enormous heft of the beast has slowed it down and he can hear it panting. Now is the time.

 With his arms extended around the trunk, he removes the oil can lid and aims at the bear, one arm outstretched while holding on with the other and pours the entire oil can on the grizzly. It splashes on the bear’s face and torso. He reaches for the matches in his pocket. He strikes one with his thumbnail. The sulfur head breaks off. He tries a second match; it does not light. The bear is still climbing. He flicks a third match and it ignites. Joe pulls the torch from his pants and lights the rag.

A demonic red eyeshine flashes from the bear’s face, a reflection of the completely fire-engulfed cabin. Man and beast stare into each other’s eyes.

He must act now. He aims for the bear through the branches and lets the torch drop from his hand. It hits a branch on the way down, spins in the air and gently rubs against the bear’s shoulder before hitting the ground. Joe does not see a flame. Dread strikes him until he notices a faint blue luminescent hue begin to dance on the bear’s coat. Joe hears a whoosh and yellow flames flicker on the fur and spread to the animal’s face. The bear drops to the forest floor, running in circles, its face ablaze. With fire burning its eyes, the grizzly is blinded. Confused and panicked, it races into the cabin’s flaming rubble.

A shocking, diabolical shrill sucks the life out of the forest and a ghostly image begins to form in the billowing smoke. It rises high, swirling in the jet-black sky above the raging flames. It’s Kodiak’s ghastly face cackling and sneering at Joe who is clutching for his life in the bloody birch tree. Kodiak’s ghostly image laughs and laughs until his hideous cackle is swallowed by the forest’s breath and his phantom image melts into the rising inferno.

The ordeal is mercifully over.

Every muscle in Joe’s body begins to twitch and the events of this living nightmare sink in. Kodiak somehow had possessed the bear to enact revenge on Joe and Bill. He would have to make sense of it all later.

For now, grief descends on him like mist. The sizzling from the cabin’s fire cannot dampen his heavy anguished weeping. Alone in a tree in the wilderness, with only aurora borealis for a cover, it’s as if the birch tree is crying.

#

Joe Campbell from Vancouver was outlived by the legend of Joe and the Grizzly. Over gut rot whiskey and dandelion wine, gold diggers toasted their hero, recounting the story to newcomers and celebrating among themselves the epic saga.

The myth lived on long after the gold rush died. They say, on frosty autumn nights, if you look closely at the exalted Yukon firmament, you can see the image of a grizzly bear in the blazing northern lights.

THE END