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Last Sunday afternoon, I headed up Bean Hollow and circled around to the saddle where the Mt. Marshall fire trail cuts between the main ridge and the peak. After climbing to the top I sat and blew for a spell while I looked out over the county. Never have I seen as sharp a contrast between the green valley pastures and the fading colors of the adjacent hills.
As I started down from the peak, following a deer trail that eventually led out Nixon’s Arm, I had two unusual experiences that I want to share with someone. On the second shelf from the top I looked down beside the trail and saw a coot; a peculiar duck-like bird that some people call a mud hen. I crouched down slowly and caught him in my hands. Now, I have never seen a coot except around marshes, ponds and rivers. My first thought was that he was sick, but he was plump and fat, and when I turned him loose, he half flew, half ran in that crazy fashion a coot has of traveling.
About two more shelves down I glimpsed a black bear disappearing over a rock ledge, and I was a little disappointed that I didn’t have a longer look at him. However, as I rounded the rocks, there was the old boy facing up the trail. He was a prime specimen; thick bodied, broad muzzled, shinning coat and muscular looking. The wind was keen and steady, but coming slightly west of north, so he couldn’t pick up my scent. After eyeballing each other fcl* a moment, Mr. Bear decided I wasn’t worth being concerned about and ambled off. (Now right about here in my story is where a few of my so called friends accuse me of having had a snort of 01’ Pete, but so help me it isn’t so!) Around the next bend I came on Mr. Bear again, only this time he stopped turned and stood up on his hind legs, all in one fluid motion. With his left paw crooked, and his right arm dangling, he looked me over at about forty paces with a puzzled expression. Dropping to all fours he came in a direct line toward me. My intentions were to stand my ground and see how close he’d come. But somewhere about halfway, all the Red Indian blood, I had inherited as a boy from the Leather Stocking Tales, drained right out my feet. I chickened out and hollered, “Hey Bear, go on and get out of here” With that he wheeled and disappeared over the ridge. When out for a Sunday afternoon walk, it just adds a little zest to life to think there might be a bear around that next corner. If for no ather reason, this should justify their continued existance. This doesn’t come from a dewey eyed conservationist but from a guy vho has ranged sheep and cattle in bear country. Where an occasional maverick had to be aunted down and eliminated. Mr. Bear says that the ground vill be frozen come January and
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