THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
Now indeed I was truly lonely. During the three or four weeks that had
passed since I had seen my father or mother, I had in a measure learned
to rely upon myself; nor had I so far felt the separation keenly,
because I knew that every evening I should see Kahwa. Now she was gone
for ever. There was no longer any object in going into the town, and
the terror of that last scene was still so vivid in my mind that I
wished never to see man again.
It was true that I had feared man instinctively from the first, but
familiarity with him had for a while overcome that fear. Now it
returned, and with the fear was mingled another feeling--a feeling of
definite hatred. Originally, though afraid of him, I had borne man
no ill-will whatever, and would have been entirely content to go on
living beside him in peace and friendliness, just as we lived with the
deer and the beaver. Man himself made that impossible, and now I no
longer wished it. I hated him--hated him thoroughly. Had it not been
for dread of the thunder-sticks, I should have gone down into the town
and attacked the first man that I met. I would have persuaded other
bears to go with me to rage through the buildings, destroying every man
that we could find; and though this was impossible, I made up my mind
that it would be a bad day for any man whom I might meet alone, when
unprotected by the weapon that gave him so great an advantage.
Meanwhile my present business was, somehow and somewhere, to go on
living. On that first evening, amid my conflict of emotions, it was
some time before I could bring myself to turn my back definitely upon
the town; for it was difficult to realize at once that there was in
truth no longer any Kahwa there, nor any reason for my going again
among the buildings, and it was late in the night before I finally
started to look for my father and mother. I went, of course, to the
place where I had left them, and where the fight with the stranger had
taken place.
They were not there when I arrived, but I saw that they had spent the
preceding day at home, and would, in all probability, be back soon
after it was light. So I stayed in the immediate neighbourhood, and
before sunrise they returned. My mother was glad to see me, but I do
not think I can say as much for my father. I told them where I had
been, and of my visits to the town, and of poor Kahwa's death; and
though at the time father did not seem to pay much attention to what I
said, next day he suggested that we should move further away from the
neighbourhood of men.
The following afternoon we started, making our way back along the
stream by which we had descended, and soon finding ourselves once more
in the region that had been swept by the fire. It was still desolate,
but the two months that had passed had made a wonderful difference. It
was covered by the bright red flowers of a tall plant, standing nearly
as high as a bear's head, which shoots up all over the charred soil
whenever a tract of forest is burned. Other undergrowth may come up in
the following spring, but for the first year nothing appears except
the red 'fireweed,' and that grows so thickly that the burnt wood is
a blaze of colour, out of which the blackened trunks of the old trees
stand up naked and gaunt.
We passed several houses of men by the waterside, and gave them a wide
berth. We learned from the beavers and the ospreys that a number of
men had gone up the stream during the summer, and few had come back,
so that now there must be many more of them in the district swept by
the fire than there had been before. We did not wish to live in the
burnt country, however, because there was little food to be found
there, and under the fireweed the ground was still covered with a layer
of the bitter black stuff, which, on being disturbed, got into one's
throat and eyes and nostrils. So we turned southwards along the edge
of the track of the fire, and soon found ourselves in a country that
was entirely new to us, though differing little in general appearance
from the other places with which we were familiar--the same unbroken
succession of hills and gulches covered with the dense growth of good
forest trees. It was, in fact, bears' country; and in it we felt at
home.
For the most part we travelled in the morning and evening; but the
summer was gone now, and on the higher mountains it was sometimes
bitterly cold, so we often kept on moving all day. We were not going
anywhere in particular: only endeavouring to get away from man,
and, if possible, to find a region where he had never been. But it
seemed as if man now was pushing in everywhere. We did not see him,
but continually we came across the traces of him along the banks of
the streams. The beavers, and the kingfishers, and the ospreys, of
course, know everything that goes on along the rivers. Nothing can pass
upstream or down without going by the beaver-dams, and the beavers
are always on the watch. You might linger about a beaver-dam all day,
and except for the smell, which a man would not notice, you would not
believe there was a beaver near. But they are watching you from the
cracks and holes in their homes, and in the evening, if they are not
afraid of you, you will be astonished to see twenty or thirty beavers
come out to play about what you thought was an empty house. We never
passed a dam without asking about man, and always it was the same tale.
Men had been there a week ago, or the day before, or when the moon last
was full. And the kingfishers and the ospreys told us the same things.
So we kept on our way southward.
As the days went on I grew to think less of Kahwa; the memory of those
nights spent in the town, with the lights, and the strange noises, and
the warm man-smell all about me, began to fade until they all seemed
more like incidents of a dream than scenes which I had actually lived
through only a few weeks before. I began to feel more as I used to
feel in the good old days before the fire, and came again to be a part
of the wild, wholesome life of the woods. Moreover, I was growing;
my mother said that I was growing fast. No puma would have dared to
touch me now, and my unusual experiences about the town had bred in
me a spirit of independence and self-reliance, so that other cubs of
my own age whom we met, and who, of course, had lived always with
their parents, always seemed to me younger than I; and certainly I
was bigger and stronger than any first-year bear that I saw. On the
whole, I would have been fairly contented with life had it not been
for the estrangement which was somehow growing up between my father
and myself. I could not help feeling that, though I knew not why, he
would have been glad to have me go away again. So I kept out of his
way as much as possible, seldom speaking to him, and, of course, not
venturing to share any food that he found. On the first evening after
my return he had rolled over an old log, and mother and I went up as a
matter of course to see what was there; but he growled at me in a way
that made me stand off while he and mother finished the fungi and the
beetles. After that I kept my distance. It did not matter much, for I
was well able to forage for myself. But I would have preferred to have
him kinder. His unkindness, however, did not prevent him from taking
for himself anything which he wanted that I had found. One day I came
across some honey, from which he promptly drove me away, and I had to
look on while he and mother shared the feast between them.
At last we came to a stream where the beavers told us that no man had
been seen in the time of any member of their colony then living. The
stream, which was here wide enough to be a river, came from the west,
and for two or three days we followed it down eastwards, and found no
trace or news of man; so we turned back up it again--back past the
place where we had first struck it--and on along its course for another
day's journey into the mountains. It was, perhaps, too much to hope
that we had lighted on a place where man would never come; but at least
we knew that for a distance of a week's travelling in all directions
he never yet had been, and it might be many years before he came.
Meanwhile we should have a chance to live our lives in peace.
Here we stayed, moving about very little, and feeding as much as we
could; for winter was coming on, and a bear likes to be fat and well
fed before his long sleep. It rained a good deal now, as it always does
in the mountains in the late autumn, and as a general rule the woods
were full of mist all day, in which we went about tearing the roots
out of the soft earth, eating the late blueberries where we could find
them, and the cranberries and the elderberries, which were ripe on the
bushes, now and then coming across a clump of nut-trees, and once in a
while, the greatest of all treats, revelling in a feast of honey.
One morning, after a cold and stormy night, we saw that the tops of
the highest mountains were covered with snow. It might be a week or
two yet before the snow fell over the country as a whole, or it might
be only a day or two; for the wind was blowing from the north, biting
cold, and making us feel numb and drowsy. So my father decided that it
was time to make our homes for the winter. He had already fixed upon
a spot where a tree had fallen and torn out its roots, making a cave
well shut in on two sides, and blocked on a third by another fallen
log; and here, without thinking, I had taken it as a matter of course
that we should somehow all make our winter homes together. But when
that morning he started out, with mother after him, and I attempted
to follow, he drove me away. I followed yet for a while, but he kept
turning back and growling at me, and at last told me bluntly that I
must go and shift for myself. I took it philosophically, I think, but
it was with a heavy heart that I turned away to seek a winter home for
myself.
It did not take me long to decide on the spot. At the head of a narrow
gully, where at some time or other a stream must have run, there was a
tree half fallen, and leaning against the hillside. A little digging
behind the tree would make as snug and sheltered a den as I could
want. So I set to work, and in the course of a few hours I had made a
sufficiently large hollow, and into it I scraped all the leaves and
pine-needles in the neighbourhood, and, by working about inside and
turning round and round, I piled them up on all sides until I had a
nest where I was perfectly sheltered, with only an opening in front
large enough to go in and out of. This opening I would almost close
when the time came, but for the present I left it open and lived
inside, sleeping much of the time, but still continuing for a week or
ten days to go out in the mornings and evenings for food. But it was
getting colder and colder, and the woods had become strangely silent.
The deer had gone down to the lower ground at the first sign of coming
winter, and the coyotes and the wolves had followed to spend the cold
months in the foot-hills and on the plains about the haunts of man. The
woodchucks were already asleep below-ground, and of the birds only the
woodpeckers and the crossbills, and some smaller birds fluttering among
the pine-branches, remained. There was a fringe of ice along the edges
of the streams, and the kingfishers and the ospreys had both flown to
where the waters would remain open throughout the year. The beavers had
been very busy for some time, but now, if one went to the nearest dam
in the evening, there was not a sign of life.
At last the winter came. It had been very cold and gray for a day or
two, and I felt dull and torpid. And then, one morning towards mid-day,
the white flakes began to fall. There had been a few little flurries of
snow before, lasting only for a minute or two; but this was different.
The great flakes fell slowly and softly, and soon the whole landscape
began to grow white. Through the opening in my den I watched the snow
falling for some time, but did not venture out; and as the afternoon
wore on, and it only fell faster and faster, I saw that it would soon
pile up and close the door upon me.
There was no danger of its coming in, for I had taken care that the
roof overhung far enough to prevent anything falling in from above, and
the den was too well sheltered for the wind to drift the snow inside.
So I burrowed down into my leaves and pine-needles, and worked them
up on both sides till only a narrow slit of an opening remained, and
through this slit, sitting back on my haunches against the rear of the
little cave, I watched the white wall rising outside. All that night
and all next day it snowed, and by the second evening there was hardly
a ray of light coming in. I remember feeling a certain pride in being
all alone, in the warm nest made by myself, for the first time in my
life; and I sat back and mumbled at my paw, and grew gradually drowsier
and drowsier, till I hardly knew when the morning came, for I was very
sleepy and the daylight scarcely pierced the wall of snow outside.
And before another night fell I was asleep, while outside the white
covering which was to shut me in for the next four months at least, was
growing thicker until it was many feet deep all around, and under it I
was as safe and snug up there in the heart of the mountains as ever a
man could be in any house that he might build.