Wyoming’s Thorofare River, draining an area that is possibly the most remote region in the lower 48 states, is the Yellowstone River’s major feeder above Yellowstone Lake. I came to know the stream intimately in the 1980s thanks to involvement with an outfitter who took groups of anglers to the wilderness area for week-long backcountry trips casting to spawning cutthroats that migrated out of the lake each summer. I first experienced the phenomenal fishing in connection with a story, “Cowboys and Cutthroats,” I wrote for Sporting Classics. That experience opened the door for being a sort of combination guide/purported fly-fishing guru/camp raconteur for a series of expeditions into the region stretching over several summers.
It was an enchanting setting. World-class fishing for four-year old cutthroats ranging from 16 to 22 inches in length combined with pristine wilderness, breathtaking vistas and abundant wildlife to create a tempting scenario for those desirous of getting back of beyond. There was, as is often the case, a price to pay for sampling a piece of paradise. The ride to camp was a bone-jarring, body-wearying 26-mile horseback trek, some of it at elevations in the 10,000-foot range and on trails where a misstep meant a plunge of hundreds of feet (the bones from a mule “train wreck” a few years before at the bottom of one precipitous slope offered a sphincter-tightening sight). Also, there were grizzly bears aplenty in the area, a favored locale for Yellowstone Park officials to relocate “problem” bears.
During this particular trip, however, we hadn’t seen any evidence of “Old Ephraim,” as the mountain men styled grizzlies. Accordingly, when it was time to take one party out and bring another one in, I never so much as thought about bear trouble when I decided to remain in camp alone. Instead, my plan was to build up a good supply of firewood, get camp in prime shape for the next group of fishermen, and enjoy a couple of days of splendid solitude while having miles of trout-filled water all to myself.
After bidding the guests, outfitter and wranglers adieu, I worked in camp for two or three hours, ate a couple of sandwiches and devoted the remainder of the day to the serious business of catching cutthroats. It was most pleasant, and after a hearty supper I scrambled into my cot and was asleep in the tent within minutes. Alas, my slumbers did not last.
A tremendous clatter of tin ware and the sound of smashing glass rudely awakened me. I knew immediately it was a bear, with that thought being followed instantaneously with realization I’d forgotten to get a “just in case” gun from one of the wranglers. Shining my flashlight toward the nearby camp table, I spotted the grizzly, yelled, and he ran off into nearby brush.
A quick check revealed that he had managed to break into a “bear proof” metal pannier which had been rendered useless thanks to the camp cook having failed to secure it with its carabineer-like locking device. The grizzly had consumed the entire contents—eggs, bacon and bread—and apparently only then had turned to examination of further food possibilities. That had resulted in a broken lantern and the noise that awakened me.
I built a roaring fire, but as soon as the fire burned down the bear returned. Again though, he ran off when I yelled and shone my flashlight in his eyes. This happened once more, but on the fourth visit the grizzly had clearly had enough. When I yelled, rather than running, he reared up on his hind legs, emitted a low growl, snarled, and left every impression of “I’m in charge here.” Far from disagreeing, I shinnied up a nearby tree I had already selected.
That precarious perch is where I spent the rest of a cold, miserable night. The elevation in camp was about 9,000 feet, I was attired only in long johns, a lightweight warm-up suit and camp moccasins, and the temperature that night dropped sufficiently to produce a heavy frost. Fortunately, after futilely wrestling with a Forest Service bear box that held the rest of the food, my unwelcome guest departed at daybreak.
Weary, half frozen, and with memories of a story about a grizzly digging at the roots of a tree (mature grizzlies can’t climb) until it was finally able to topple it plaguing my thoughts, I climbed down and built a fire. After cleaning up the mess and eating breakfast, I devoted the rest of the morning utilizing wood and rope to fashion a makeshift ladder that allowed me to climb into a nearby cache used to store elk meat during hunting season. After getting my sleeping bag in place on the cache platform, I finally felt comfortable enough for a much-needed nap and then a few afternoon hours of fishing.
All the while thoughts of what might happen come night played through my subconscious like a discordant dirge. Sure enough, as dusk gradually yielded to darkness, the grizzly sauntered into camp as if he was lord of the realm. Observing all of this from my lofty platform, I figured I was in for another sleepless night. At that juncture though, fate turned in my favor.
I had left a can of insect repellent on the camp table and the bear, after sniffing it multiple times, chomped into it. The pressurized can exploded in his mouth and the bear went berserk. He roared out of camp in overdrive, tore through the nearby bushes and I could hear him in the nearby creek woofing and trying to remove the noxious taste from his mouth. That was the last I saw of the critter, although when the outfitter and guides return late in the day, they had considerable fun at my expense.
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