One dark night, quite some time ago, the skills of three trained scoutmasters were challenged by a wayward bear. During the years when our sons were in the Boy Scouts, a week of each summer was usually devoted to Summer Camp. Because I seemed to be perpetually on the parents' committee, I was often drafted to go along as one of the adult leaders.

Our scout troop usually selected Wolfeboro, a rustic camp where we wouldn't be limited to mess hall food. We would sign up for the campsite that had an old rock chimney and grill, dry goods storage locker, and several heavy duty cedar picnic tables near the fire-ring. There the boys would spend the week cooking their own meals, which we discovered was a magnet for camp counselors tired of the mess hall fare. We also feared cooking meals outdoors might become a magnet for bears that occasionally wandered into camp. But the troop's previous scoutmaster had added an extra rinse bucket to the Boy Scout dish washing system and had established a camp clean-up regimen that usually kept our site bear-free.

One summer, through a fluke, three of the adult leaders going to camp were named Jim. The scouts quickly remedied that with nicknames. Jim Davis became Jimbo, and I became Foxman. However through logic that is understood only by the adolescent mind, Jim Schwartzenberger stayed 'Schwartzenberger' or occasionally 'Schwartz-B.


Jim Schwartzenberger had a wry sense of humor and an unusual skill that intrigued the scouts. He would string a hammock between two trees, and any time day or night that he eased into the netting he could doze off within five minutes. And to the delight of the scouts within another five minutes he would be snoring louder than a freight train!

One evening the campfire had dwindled to glowing embers, Jim Schwartz-B's snores had died down, and the scouts had run out of jokes, stories, and ghost tales. One by one they had drifted off to their tents, until I was the only one left to douse the campfire and put out the lantern. I woke up Jim so he wouldn't be left to the mosquitoes and morning frost. As I was stirring the dead campfire looking for hotspots, Jim made one final round of the campsite before heading for his tent. He discovered this night the kitchen crew had forgotten to take the ice-chest back across the river to the bear-proof storage of the main camp. "We will have to bear-bag this," he suggested as he strung a rope high off the ground between two trees.

Through experience we had learned that a clean campsite, with all edibles removed, or strung high out of reach, encouraged any curious bears to keep on trudging down the path. I double looped the rope around the ice chest to form a sling, tied off one end and Jim began to tug on the other to hoist the bundle up out of reach.

The task was harder than we thought due to the weight of the full ice chest, so I brought over one of the log ends a scout had used as a fireside chair. Balancing on this improvised stool, I used the rake I'd been stirring the fire with to push upwards on the ice chest as Jim heaved on the rope to draw it taut. As the bundle inched higher and higher, I stepped down from the log and used the rake to tug at the chest to see if we had hoisted the food securely out of a bear's reach.

Suddenly Schwartzenberger stopped tugging and cocked his head to stare past me. Then he quietly said "Turn slowly and look what's at the table." I turned and peered into the darkness and just beyond the light from the lantern I saw a bear, a very large bear. Without us hearing it, the animal had crept into the campsite and had gotten as close as the end of the picnic table where it sat back on its haunches to intently watch us at work. Like a dog waiting for its master, the bear rested its muzzle on the table top where the lantern light glinted off its black nose and reflected from its dark eyes as it curiously watched us at our task.

The bear's head was covered with dark brown fur, but its muzzle was tan, creating a living replica of the US Forestry's famous Smokey Bear. When I pointed this out to Jim he reacted with alarm. "Smokey?" He gasped, "Oh no, oh no! What have you done?" I was confused by Jim's behavior. "What," I asked, "what's wrong?"

The twinkle in Schwartz-B's eyes told me I'd just been suckered as he replied, "You know Smokey can already handle a shovel, and now you've taught him how to use a rake!"

...jsfox...