Watching Bears at the Dump: Ursus Urbanus Canadianus

It is a source of derisory amusement among my non-Canadian friends that I can list going to the dump to watch bears as a highlight of life in a certain Northern Ontario town. Snowstorms, blueberries, bears at the dump. And the occasional chipmunk.

I am not a natural wildlife spotter. I'm usually looking the wrong way when something spectacular hoves into view.

Then someone mentioned a sure-fire way to see bears. Go to the dump after-hours. I immediately had visions of myself standing, trapped and petrified, on a pile of trash, snarling bears circled hungrily, while I protested, "But on TV you're ickle and fluffy....Aieeeee....!"

My lack of wildlife spotting skill is honed by years of practise. I regularly watch for animals on long drives, and equally regularly mistake the same stump for a bear. "Oooh!.....no." There is a big dead tree in the middle of a marsh in the local bird sanctuary. It took me years to realise that what I thought was a very reliable, sociable (yet strangely immobile) owl was in fact, a birdfeeder.

So I had a certain healthy cynicism with regards to my chances of seeing a real, live bear at the dump. The expedition party consisted of myself, my Dad, my brother and my brother's girlfriend. We parked outside the gates of the dump just before dusk on a summer's eve. Several other cars were parked there as well. This reassured me somewhat. We wouldn't die alone.

A dirt road runs through the dump, and on each side of the road lie hills of rubbish, beyond which there is only forest for miles. I rather nervously but eagerly scanned the bush at the edges of the dump, ready to emit my "Oooh!......no" wildlife call. Funnily enough, my family have stopped reacting to this. So when I spotted a black shadow in the bushes, I expected the usual disappointment and not a word passed my lips. And then the shadow moved and ambled out of the bushes into the sunlight. Ursus Whatchamacallus! A real live bear. To say I was thrilled is putting it mildly. Camera at the ready, I fired off several shots. We hadn't walked more than ten metres along the road into the dump.

At this point my brother's girlfriend (sensibly), freaked and legged it back to the car. She's from Northern Ontario and has a history with bears. Something involving a party of teenagers, a log cabin in the woods and a bear trying to break down a screen door to get at sausages. A Canadian version of "Friday the 13th: Don't Go Into the Woods."

Undeterred, we continued into the dump, safe in the knowledge that Dad carried a knife and pepper spray on his belt. Plus, the other humans visible on the horizon (clambering about on top of the landfill) were a portly lot. We could outrun them easily. And they say that's a big factor in surviving a bear attack. Make sure there's someone fatter and slower between you and the bear.

In all we saw ten bears. Some lurking in the bushes, some on top of the landfill ripping open rubbish bags (with a sensible distance between them and the humans pursuing the same garbage picking hobby). We walked diffidently into their midst, never straying from the road. Occasionally a bear would cross in front of us, eyeing us as warily as we eyed it respectfully.

It was all very peaceful, with an almost sociable feel about it. Here we were, all denizens of the same forest, hunting and gathering together. Only some of us had bigger teeth than others.

So now I qualify as a real Northerner.

Now all I need to do is see a moose in my backyard...