Three Muskateers

by By Randy Svisdahl

THREE MUSKATEERS



It was 1961. I was ten years old, living on a farm in Bella Coola British Columbia at the end of a mountain road that led nowhere.
Bella Coola is hidden up the Northwest Coast, sheltered at tide line and surrounded by magnificent towering mountains. It was a wonderful place for young boys to grow up. I was lucky to have brothers in such an isolated community. There was no television or video games around back then to distract us or interest us.
Gary was my oldest brother by seven years. One day Gary decided to take my brother Wylie, who was twelve years old, and myself, on an exploration trip up the side Valley called Nutsatsum; the goal being to reach the head waters.
Our mother was a bit hesitant and worried when Gary suggested this trip because of the large grizzly bear population in the valley. But Gary managed to talk mother into letting us go, especially when he promised to pack in dad?s 1894 Winchester on the trip just in case we had a run in with a bear.
It was very exciting for me, anticipating this trip. It was the beginning of a lifetime of incredible hiking in the mountains and forests of British Columbia. When I look back on that day of our departure, I grin ear to ear.
Our gear was pretty easy to organize. We didn?t have much extra money in those days. But we had an axe. Every boy in the Valley had an axe. An axe was like a right of manhood; every boy packed one around, because of the wood that had to be cut for the winter.
We had a knife too, rope, and string, because a boy needed those things when he went adventuring. We had bread, cheese, a little sausage and some fish in a jar, and Wylie who loved spices, threw in salt and pepper. For sleeping we decided a gray Army war surplice blanket would do. It seemed every family had gray Army surplice blankets back then. They were good blankets and kept a boy warm.
For backpacks we used burlap potato sacks with a small rock in each bottom corner, which we tied off with a half- inch rope for straps. Then we filled the sacks with our supplies and tied the neck off and put our arms through the ropes. It was a very uncomfortable torture machine, those homemade packs of ours, but we thought they were just fine.
We had no tent, but we knew that when we found a place to camp, we could build a low shelter over where we planned to build a fire. We?d throw moss on the fire to make smoke too, and the smoke would boil back into the shelter, and cut off the majority of mosquitoes that constantly plagued a warm summer day.
Gary and Wylie and I geared up, said our goodbyes, and set off.
The habitat in the Nutsatsum Valley was old growth forest with thick huckleberry and blueberry brushes, and a lot of devils club; the only trails to be found to walk were unpleasant trails. Bear trails. Those bear trails followed fast flowing river where the bears liked to fish.
Two days into our trip, we got into higher ground and the view started to open up before us. We were excited about to trying to find the head waters, so we decided to go an extra day on short rations in order to get there.
Later that day, as we were walking by a river, my brother Gary lost his footing and fell. Having been the keeper of our store of supplies, the last of our food went along down the river with him. Though Gary survived, soggy, grumpy and out of sorts, our food did not. The loss of our food was a big dilemma. We were two days from the nearest road that would lead us back to civilization, and we did not want to leave. We took a vote. The majority won, and so we stayed an extra night in the forest huddled in front of a smoking fire, hungry, and pretending to have fun.

The next morning we started out again with nothing in our bellies, acting very brave and sacrificial. But secretly, each one of us was sure he would at any second starve to death.
About midday, higher on the mountain, we came to a log on a major slough we had to cross. Wylie started out first, easily balancing his weight on the narrow log. I came in behind, and Gary, holding the Winchester carefully, brought in the rear. But Gary got stuck on an offshoot log between two trees and effectively jammed himself in.
That was when we saw the grizzly bear.
Three sets of wide eyes met a narrow gaze and for a moment, nothing moved, not a lash or a muscle or a cell.
The air was charged with immobilizing fear.
And suddenly, snorting and grunting, and pawing the ground, the bear charged. But it was a false charge. Turning, the grizzly vanished back into the woods, leaving us safe, excitedly terrified, to haul Gary out from his wedge where he had not been able to use the Winchester. And maybe that was a good thing.
We crossed the log and came upon a half eaten 30 lb. salmon lying on the forest floor. We gathered the grizzly had been eating it. For some time we stared at the salmon, our stomachs grumbling.
After some discussion as to what to do about the fish, we left it lying where it was, though we wanted to eat it. But we were scared the bear might get mad at us if we did and follow us to our camp.
So we continued on our way hungry and noble, tightening our belts, and later that afternoon, as we were crossing a small shallow creek with a sandy bar, I heard a splashing sound.
I knew exactly what that meant! I leapt with glee towards the sound, and as luck would have it, I caught two fish with my bare hands, cutthroat trout that had been trying to spawn. I must say it was the only time I could remember that my two older brothers had ever looked at me with such profound respect.
As I held the silvery beauties in my triumphant hands, both around 4 pounds, I could see awe cross their face. I reveled in that awe.
Shortly after the catch we made camp, wrapping the cutthroat trout in a foil liner we?d saved from an instant mashed potato box we?d had the good sense to save.
We buried the trout under our campfire and let it cook till we thought it was done. Then we served the catch on devils club leaves along with some salt and pepper that Wylie dug out of his potato sack, adding blueberries that we?d picked along the way to our campsite.
That night, looking at my brothers as we dove into our tasty meal, careful not to get fish bones stuck in our throat, a special memory was in the making, brewing sweet and smoky with sentiment for the future.
Looking back, I still see that cloudy moss tossed campfire, toasting feet, feeding faces, swatting mosquitoes. And though I have taken many trips into the woods since that day, the adventure I took with my brothers the summer of 1961 was the most memorable. And it was the most memorable childhood meal I had ever eaten.
We brothers survived a terrific adventure. We survived danger, and hunger, and fear. We three friends. Three brothers. Three musketeers.
Randy Svisdahl