I have been planning to camp in Nova Scotia's Kejimikujik National Park for a few years now, but the number one fear I had, and have always had, was about camping in bear country. Most of my life, I was a tent camper, and as a New Yorker, I mostly camped where we had only raccoons and chipmunks to contend with. All the bear precautions seemed so complicated to me: to not go in my tent wearing any clothing I had cooked in—(yeah right! By the end of a trip I had probably cooked or handled food in all my clothes, even my bathing suit!) To be required to hang all our foodstuffs, lotion, toothpaste and mints way up in the air. This seemed like another excess level of work, on top of making sure everyone was fed, warm, and dry. But still, I’ve had a lifelong fear of bears while camping. The precautions I always took, were that I slept with a hatchet and a hammer under my pillow in the tent. Anything coming at me in the night was going to have to fight for its supper.

One summer when I was a teenager, some horrific news stories circulated after a bear attacked and killed a bunch of young people who were camping out west—maybe in or near Yosemite. This bear just ate them alive in their tents, in their bedrolls. One detail stuck with me my whole life, that the lone survivor had her arm ripped off at the shoulder. Clearly, I overly identified with these kids, and unfortunately, I have a very vivid imagination, but, there it is—fifty years later, and I’m still afraid of bears in the woods.

Now, I’m an RV camper. I sleep high and dry in my tin can. But there are still preparations to be made, and caution to be exercised. I have a tiny kitchen in here, with a very limited amount of storage. I wanted to use some of the outer compartments for extra canned goods, shampoo, and toothpaste, but since all of that can smell like FOOD to a bear, I have it all in rubbermaid tubs inside the rig. So I move them from the bed, into a stack on the floor at night, and then move them back to the bed again to travel. Pretty annoying. I’m trying to learn to live with just a few meals-worth of “pantry.”

Keji was some great camping, hiking, and swimming. My campsite was just at the top of a trail that led down to the lake, and I was down there swimming at least twice a day. That was such a luxury! I loved that place for the week that I was there.

When I arrived in Blomidon Provincial Park, I was so excited to hike the “Look-Off Trail,” that I was up before dawn, and was lacing my boots up at first light. I expected the view to be stunning, with the sun coming low across the water, I hoped to get some great photos. I love early mornings in the woods: the earthy smells, the quietness, except for the breeze playing through the treetops, weird trippy little mushrooms in neon colors, the bear poop…Hold on a minute. Do dogs or coyotes eat berries? I didn’t think so. I looked around and sure enough, there’s a tree that had been made into a giant scratching post.

I dithered a while, but decided I was too far along the trail at this point to just give up. No bear-bells in my bag, so I decided to sing a song as I hiked along, but I must have been really rattled, because the only song I could think of was “Tim Finnegan’s Wake.”

I wasn’t totally clear on the lyrics, but I sure knew the melody, and I made up some pretty clever stuff—sure to act as bear repellent.

Whack fol the da O, dance to your partner
Welt the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!

I arrived at The Look Off, quickly took half a dozen photos, and started my way back through the woods. At one point, some ground bird flew up with a loud flourish designed to lead me away from her nest I suppose, but I nearly had a heart attack and expired on the spot. Cursed that bird six-ways-to-Sunday. As I arrived back near the spot where I’d seen the bear signs, I started thinking of all the bear jokes I’ve ever seen: The two hunters see a sign next to the road that says “Bear Left,” so they went home. Same guys come out the next day and followed the tracks for three hours until they were run over by a train. And all the visuals! Kliban, and the one that got really stuck in my head, a cartoon by Gary Larson where one big bear is saying to the other, while looking at campers sleeping in their bedrolls, “Hey Morty look! Burritos!” And then I was hiking and singing even faster, and tapping my Nordic hiking sticks together with the choruses.

I tried not to dwell on it, but that image would not go away. What exactly am I supposed to do if I do meet a bear on the trail. Back up? How far? And to what end? I don’t know where I’d end up. Don’t run: that’s good advice, because with these knees, I can’t anyway. Play dead? Yeah, no. That’s not happening. Don’t make eye contact. Act big. Act threatening, (OK I’m thinking of NYC traffic). Don’t climb trees…right. I had such a wealth of bear advice in my head, and wasn’t sure if any of it was correct. The only thing I was reasonably sure of, was that if they heard you coming, they’d usually opt not to meet you, so I kept on bellowing, and tapping my sticks. When I exited the trail, I nearly wept with relief and exhaustion. That was the fastest five-mile-hike time I ever turned in—a new speed hiking record for sure. And that song stayed in my head for days! God bless Tim Finnegan!

THE IRISH ROVERS FINNEGAN'S WAKE

Tim Finnegan lived in Walken' Street
A gentle Irishman mighty odd;
He'd a lovely brogue so soft and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod.

Tim had a sort of a tipplin' way
With a love of the liquor now he was born
To help him on with his work each day
Had a "drop of the cray-chur" every morn.

Whack fol the da O, dance to your partner
Welt the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!

One mornin' Tim felt rather full
His head felt heavy which made him shake;
Fell from a ladder and he burst his skull
So they carried him home his corpse to wake.

Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet
Laid him out upon the bed;
A gallon of whiskey at his feet
A barrel of porter at his head.

Whack fol the da O, dance to your partner
Welt the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!

His friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch.
First they brung in tea and cake;
Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch.

Biddy O'Brien began to cry,
"Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see?
Tim mavournin, why did you die?"
Arragh, shut your gob said Paddy McGhee!

Whack fol the da O, dance to your partner
Welt the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!

Patty O'Connor took up the job
"Ah Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
That left her sprawlin' on the floor.

Then the war did soon enrage
Woman to woman and man to man,
shillelagh-law was all the rage
And a row and a ruction soon began.

Mickey Maloney lowered his head
And a bottle of whiskey flew at him,
Missed, and fallin' on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim!

Tim revives! See how he rises!
Timothy risin' from the bed,
Sayin', "Whirl your liquor around like blazes
Thunderin' Jaysus! Do you think I'm dead?"

Whack fol the da O, dance to your partner
Welt the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!