The Great White Bear

I

       Just recently I had the rare privilege of sitting down and engaging in chit-chat with a group of “outdoorsy” type macho-men These local chaps, who exhibited not one speck of modesty, have seen far,far too many of those ridiculous Rambo movies.

         Our gabfest opened with trivial matters such as “bench-pressing” and other terms relating to the silly and rather childish world of weight-lifting.

         I’ve stayed away from this crap for two reasons. Firstly, the pay is lousy. Secondly and more important, one runs an immensely high-risk of rupturing himself, or being handicapped with an achin’ back for the remainder of his days on this mudball where we live. So go ahead dummy, strain at the old barbells. I’ll visit when you’re hospitalized and in traction and tell you how pretty your muscles are. And after you’ve thrown the barbells away I’ll remind ya’ how it’s all turned to blubber.

         As might be expected in any of the human male animal, the talk turned quickly to the sex more fair…the petite, alluring and seductive female. As might have been predicted.

         Now listen pilgrim, never in my wildest imagination did I realize Giles County is home to so many lover-boys. Hollywood never had nearly as many swashbucklers as can be found right here where New River flows. Don Juans, Casanovas, the Errol Flynn types. Hell people, we’re infested with Valentinos! Their conquests of young lasses number into the thousands ( keep in mind I learned all this in my talks with these Lotharios ), which caused me to interrupt the oral proceedings: “Hey, why ain’t all you matinee-idols out yonder in Hollywood?”

         One of the “hunks” replied hurriedly: “Just a matter of time. We’re waiting by our phones for the big break!”

         Noting the complete absence of any John Barrymore profiles among them ugly bums, I chimed in with: “Yeah, yeah Dracula! And 6 decades from now you’ll still be waiting for that ring.”

         I feel it’s my public duty to warn all winsome damsels who live hereabouts…be careful, fair maiden, of where you tread. Or you too shall be conquered!

         Strange though it seems, focusing on svelte young ladies can lead to boredom. Thus our talks gradually evolved to that most perilous of all human endeavors…hunting.

         As you well know, Southwest Virginia is home to many of the most dangerous animals on earth. Rampaging rabbits, malevolent moles, snarling squirrels, growlin’ groundhogs, cantankerous chipmunks and prowlin’ putrid possums.

         Feral, ferocious beasts, all native to this area and who pose an imminent threat to any Giles County citizen foolish enough to stray too far from the relative safety of their heavily-fortified homes.

         I’d remained silent throughout all that tripe about weights and women. But here was a chance to get in a word edgewise , a golden opportunity, and I seized the moment: “I’ve done some huntin.”

         “Really,” one of the windjammers remarked. “What kind?”

         “Well, I don’t hunt locally. My speciality is goin’ after the Great White Scourge of the frozen Arctic tundra.”

         “Come on man. What are you talkin’ about?

         “The polar bear, gentlemen. The polar bear”…

2

         Few are aware of the fact, but we have oodles of “great white hunters”dwelling among us in Giles County. More’n likely someone on your block is a member of that elite fraternity.

         These fellas live danger-filled lives, cavalier outdoorsmen who accept peril as a normal part of their everyday existence ( at least that’s what they tell us ). And we are fortunate indeed that our county is home to an army of these swashbucklers. Because, living here as settlers on a harsh and unforgiving frontier, we find ourselves ringed by mountains teeming with varmints intent on becoming the dominant force, and are thus the sworn enemy of mankind.

         Our planet swarms with unimaginably vicious creatures, predatory monsters who kill each other as a mode of survival, but who, on the other hand, mangle and gore humans beings for the pure pleasure and sheer hell of it.

         Makes no difference where one resides on this third round object from the sun, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find a safe haven. Fewer and fewer are the places suitable for human habitation ( that one hour conversation with a group of local hunters taught me all these facts. Prior to those talks I was quite unaware of the dangers of merely being alive presented ).

         For the purpose of survival we find ourselves constantly honing our sixth-senses, keeping them finely tuned and, whether we like it or not, being involved in a deadly and perpetual guessing game, “what manner of brute lurks behind yonder bush?”  “Wonder which rabid critter lurks neath that rock?”  “I’m quite certain my attic is filled with blood-thirsty vampire bats!” “surely a berserk beast is concealed amid yon grove of trees!” Paranoia running rampant among a terrified population!

         I’m tellin’ ya’ neighbor, life ain’t no bed of roses ( I’ve spent a lifetime listening to descriptions of that Utopian- like place. I launched an all-out  search for the widely-ballyhooed “bed of roses” at the tender young age of 3 days. Not yet have I found it ).

         Hunting, hunting, hunting. For instance, Africa. Poor people who reside on the Dark Continent spend entire lifetimes crouched in fear, expecting any moment to have their frail frames ripped to shreds and gulped down into the stomach’s of depraved beasts. Leapin’ leopards and lions, heinous howlin’ hyenas, fierce fangy ferrets and brutish bull buffalo.

         Fools spread that lie about a “bed of roses,” and homemade apple pie. Do not be naïve and buy such nonsense.

         And don’t come to Southwest Virginia expecting a respite from marauding maneaters. Hellsfire man, the wildlife of this area will burden your stooped shoulders with heavy loads of misery and woe. A few species have already been mentioned, but the list goes on and on.

         Wantonly wicked weasels, exorbitantly evil earthworms, maliciously menacing mink, mighty mean muskrats, frighteningly fierce frogs, licentiously lewd lizards, revoltingly repugnant rats and , attacking from above, bad beaky buzzards. One places himself in life-threatening situations each time he steps 10 paces from his doorway.

         And yet many imbeciles are on the banquet circuit today brainwashing the American public with all sorts of hogwash. These “mashed potato morons” are saying life is a bowl of peaches, and ya’ even git cream poured over’em.

         Evidently these idiots haven’t lately taken a stroll through the woods…

3

         What would you guess is the main topic in any gathering of hunters? Why pal, your powers of deducing are simply amazing, absolutely brilliant. Indeed the correct answer is wild animals!!

         Discussions concerning brutes are wide-ranging, really get into great detail and touch all bases. Inevitably the question arises: “Which is the most dangerous animal above all others?”

         Always the answer is automatic. The durn thing never varies: “The Big Five.” Meaning the African elephant, Cape buffalo, rhinoceros, lion and tiger.  Well hold on , let’s be perfectly honest. Quite a number of hunters substitute leopard for lion.

         So this panel of local hunters with whom I was conversing , each widely known throughout the area, uttered those rubber-stamp words: “The Big Five.”

         “Well friends,” I addressed the assembled safari. “I ain’t never hunted any of them critters, but even so I’ll say this much. Y’all are crazier than a gaggle of geese. Furthermore, the grapevine is sayin’ you dudes are nothin’ more than runningboard hunters, meaning y’all stay on the road and never venture into the bush. Listen here pilgrim, none of them thar varmints you mentioned are the most dangerous.”

         One of the Fearless Fosdicks took exception to my remarks by stating, in a rather emphatic manner: “ I didn’t bring down my Big Five trophy specimens by shootin’ from the road: “

         I sensed the deep derision in his voice, and decided to counter it with huge doses of irritation in my own: “Aw poppycock. Your so-called Big Five ain’t dangerous. Hell man, I’ve got household pets who pose a greater danger to life and limb.”

         Another Frank “Bring ‘em  Back Alive” Buck chimed in: “It’s quite apparent you’ve never faced a crazed lion in the bush.”

         “AW, come off it,” I said, trying to sound disgusted. “Sounds like a rather dull sporting event to me. I’d need only a few soothing words and a ball of twine to tame a lion. In mere seconds that feline would be layin’ on his back, paws playfully swattin’ the air and purrin’ like a domesticated tabby.”

         “Sounds like you got some loose  screws!” An inflammatory remark, directed at me. But really, I paid little notice. Just thanked the moron who spoke it for being blunt . And I also muttered: “Gotta’ consider the source.”

         Another “bag of wind” added his two-cents worth. “Suppose a hunter squeezed off his last round and grievously wounded a rogue bull elephant.”

( the melodramatic capabilities of these big-mouths were worthy of Academy Award nominations ).  “The tusked monster comes bearing down on the ill-fated chap at 40 mph. What could possibly be more terrifying?” Another greenhorn “emoter” had just emptied his lungs of hot air. This group had really vivid imaginations and created truly weird scenarios.

         “No sweat, no problem whatsoever,” I said to shut his big mouth. “A really good hunter totes along a bag of peanuts when stalking trumpeting pachyderms. Hull a couple of goobers , place ‘em gingerly on yer palm and ya’ got the big dummy eatin’ outta’ yer hand. Use some common sense before venturing into the jungle.”

         “You mentioned polar bears. What about ‘em?” One of the “Tarzans” had asked, now it was my turn.

         “Neighbor, I’m gittin’ around that. Let me tell you about the terrible bear of the far north. A truly worthy adversary.”

         Yessir folks. A formidable foe indeed…

4  

         A mean, mean brute is the polar bear. Make one mistake with this hombre and your days on this earth are finished, over and done with.

         I’ve been a member of 19 expeditions to the icy land beyond Canada, and in the process ( that durn word again ) have amassed many facts about the carnivorous beast who roams the bleak landscape. I firmly believe this data should be made available to those lunatics who, now or in the near future, might be contemplating a foray into the polar regions.

         Be very, very careful on your hunting trips to Baffin Island and other northern territories. The Great White Bear of the frozen Arctic wastelands is a fearsome monstrosity who deals in wholesale mayhem and death. This deranged beast moves across the bleak tundra in search of all living things. Most would-be victims scamper to safety , and will live to see another day. Some will not be so lucky…horrible claws and fangs do their gruesome work!

         Every lifeform living in the inhospitable Arctic Circle , man, bird and mammal alike, lives each day in mortal dread of the relentless predator who pushes his pursuit to it’s inevitable conclusion. The polar bear doesn’t give up, refuses to accept no as an answer. Once on your trail…well. It’s just a matter of time. Better make sure all your affairs are in order, all arrangements made before headin’ up north!

         Take nothing for granted while at the North Pole, for always the white nightmare lurks nearby. Behind that iceberg perhaps, or just beneath the surface of the frigid waters. Waiting for an opportune moment to surface and hop aboard the first icefloe that comes floating along. To take you in his powerful forepaws and apply the deadly, always fatal “bearhug.”

         Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a “loving hug,” but the infamous “clasp of death.” A doomed hunter stares into those cavernous jaws and knows, for good or bad, he is looking at eternity. Other words pal, you’ve had it! The gory feast is about to begin!

         It’s very difficult to determine what those final agonizing seconds might be like, as there have been no survivors to pass along that pertinent information. Perhaps the victim’s entire life flashes by in micro-seconds. All of it, the good deeds he’s rendered his fellowman, and the sleazy lowlife acts he’s committed on the sly. It’s a very true saying…everything that goes around comes around. It’s impossible in this life to “pull a fast one.” For SOMETHING watches! And you know who I mean!

         Maybe the hapless victim lapses off into a coma, mercifully spared those final wretched seconds that precede an awful fate. We just don’t know at this moment, nor I’ll wager, will we ever. Because you see, there are no escapees from “bear-hugs. Old Bruin just grabs ya’ and won’t let go. A vivid crimson on a blanket of white is proof of what happened here in this haunted place.