Baby Animals: Let's Relate

Fry Lake was one of my favourite places to explore as a youth. My Dad and I heard fairly early that their were alligator lizards on the Island but we had a hard time finding them. We quite accidentally ran into them at a family camp on Roberts Lake, north of Campbell River when my brother nearly stepped on one coming back from loading our luggage into a boat the final day of the camp. It bit him on the hand and I commandeered. Since then, I searched high and low for any hint of the elusive lizard. I had heard from my mother's cousins that one had been found crossing the road near the Campbell Lakes but days of driving around the lakes revealed no sign of them. Finally, we found Fry Lake. It is a beautiful place, an unnatural lake created for the loggers, so there is a stand of drowned trees, illuminated by evening light as scraggly, black shapes jutting from the shimmering glass of the lake. Loons and frogs sing across the darkening water before dawn breaks over the evergreens lining the lake's shores. In the morning, the dead trees glitter with the webs of orb-weavers, the silver dew hanging off the elaborate tapestries. There is a lovely pair of geese that nest their each summer as well, but that is for another story. Back to the lizards. I have since returned to the lake multiple times and have never been disappointed. the best time to find them is after a rain, or at the first light of day, as the earth and black rocks begin to warm. I've heard that the  fat-cat logging company that was given the land has now closed the land to the public. Timber-west and other corrupt companies have only one thing on their minds: $. Go figure what they will do with the rocky outcrop that the lizards used for refuge. Probably grind it all up for road fill, I suppose. Such is life. Anything unprotected will fall into the hands of greedy humanity. This is probably the fate of every wild place that I ever cherished as a child. Elgaria coerulea principis. Fry Lake, near Campbell River, Vancouver Island, British Columbia. May 18, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430, ISO 100, 5.4mm, EV 0, f/2.8, 1/60.

I have to confess. This horrid photo is my biggest fish story EVER. Like Sasquatch, if you know what I mean. Well, here's the true story, if you can believe me. I used to track bears through the forests, driven by curiosity and the desire for a thrill. My second encounter, the day after I saw my first local bear digging up skunk cabbage in the creek bed, has this blurry, useless photo to show for it. I started my search right where I saw my first bear the day before. Sure enough, right up on the hillside where the I had seen the bear running, was a fairly well-trodden path. I noticed among the droppings on the path that some were quite small and others were large. I guessed there must be cubs. I followed the path across the pipe road bisecting the forest and soon found myself in a thick patch of wood. In the center of a small clearing, the bones of a fawn were strewn about. Some had been drug up onto a giant stump. This made the hair on the back of my neck raise, and I realized that the bear could be only a few meters away in the underbrush and I wouldn't be able to see it. My better judgement pushed me back out onto the trail but curiosity hadn't finished with me. I walked the path as close to where I had left the trail as I could and, sure enough, as I neared the curve of the path that would have lead me out to the road, I heard something moving down in the creek bed. I stepped off the trail and, with ravens screaming in anticipation, these two cubs shot up this tree. I snapped the photo, but I was shaking like a leaf, overdosed on adrenalin. Though I couldn't see it, there seemed to be something moving in the salmonberry bushes below. I was scared, but every time I stepped away, it seemed to move closer. And every time I moved closer, it seemed to move quickly away. I almost felt like I was dancing with a mother bear, or whatever was down there. Needless to say, I soon felt like my life might be in jeopardy if I got any closer, so I backed out. More embellished versions of the story describe my movements as deliberate attempts to intimidate the immediate danger of a charging mother bear. That story is certainly more exciting than this one, and paints me to be more of an expert in bear behavioural psychology, but this is the way it really happened. Ursus americanus. Woods Creek, near Campbell River, on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. May 11, 2009. Canon PowerShot A430, ISO 0, 21.6mm, 0 EV, f/5.8, 1/5.