The Bear Essentials

I never really got into the whole Boy Scout thing when I was kid, it just wasn't for me. Sure you got to use knives and axes and other things that you could hurt yourself with, and sure there was the whole knot tying stuff which would have been pretty handy for those times when my younger brother was giving me the shits. I just couldn't handle all that "dib dibbing" and "dob dobbing" stuff though. There was something just a little worrying about that little green outfit too, with those short shorts and long socks, and while we're on the topic, what the hell is a "woggle" anyway?

I'm making up for lost time now though. Tracking bears through the cloud forests of Ecuador involves more scout-like activities than the Scout Oath could ever hope to mention (though I still don't know what a woggle is). Admittedly there's very little work directly with the bears and I'm sure you'll all be most amused to hear that I've not as yet even seen a bear. We do get to use knives however (machetes actually, big ones, that we use to cleave our way through the forests). We also get to play with radios and maps and compasses and there's plenty of sleeping on cold floors and campfire cooking. What more could anyone possibly want?

On my first day on the project I meet up with Armando, the project leader, who looks a little like a bear himself with a thick mane of black hair and a broad, unshaven face. He's Ecuadorian and speaks only basic English and my Spanish is, at the time, still barely conversational. Communication isn't exactly smooth. After a few false starts, I work out that I've arrived in the middle of a volunteer period and several volunteers are already out in the field, having finished their training.

Due to my mistimed arrival, Armando has something special in mind for me. Before we set off Armando asks me whether I'm "healthy". I do a quick stock take (nope, haven't passed out over a dunny, nor shat myself on this trip yet) and then reply with a confident "yea, sure". We climb into Armando's four-wheeler and head for the mountains. Through the course of the five hour drive I learn that what Armando was trying to ask me was not about my health but my physical strength and fitness. Based on my unintentional assurance that I am both fit and strong, I'm now to skip basic training and go straight into "special operations".

Apparently a bear has wondered out of the research area and then inconsiderately either taken it's collar off or died somewhere in the bush. Our mission is to hunt down the collar and find out what we can about this wayward bear. We are to hike in via a steep mountain path to a secluded, rural community and spend a couple of days hacking through a bamboo forest trying to find the radio collar. This is all instead of my expected trip to the animal clinic and a cruisy week learning how to use the tracking equipment and adjusting to the altitude.

We pick up Armando's assistant, Alberto, as we pass through Otavalo. He`s Ecuadorian and speaks not a word of English. We also pick up a pair of gum-boots for me to wear. Both Armando and Alberto are wearing a pair each and apparently my highly expensive (and very cool) gortex hiking boots are nothing compared to the five-dollar, all-rubber, knee-high boots I now own.

We pull into a tiny, rural town called Buenas Aires (somewhat smaller than the one in Argentina I imagine). We park the car next to a chicken coop, load up our packs and head off on a small muddy track heading straight up into the mountains and the unknown. We are carrying enough clothes and provisions to last us for a few days, as well as the radio tracking equipment. It's a reasonable load and I'm dripping sweat within the first thirty minutes.

It takes a little over four hours to reach our destination for the night. Armando and Alberto chatter back and forth in rapid Spanish and I barely understand a word of it. Given the majority of the climb is uphill and steep I have no breath to spare for conversation anyway. At 3,000 meters above sea level, simultaneously walking and talking is not an option for me. My mind wanders, hypnotized by the rhythmic beat of my shiny, black boots as they slap against my calves as I walk.

We spend the night in a small, rustic wooden house in the middle of nowhere. The house is nestled amongst the trees. On all sides we are surrounded with spectacular views down into the surrounding valleys that contain nothing but endless trees and the occasional lazy cloud drifting through.

The Señora of the house cooks us dinner and we gather around the fire in her small kitchen, made of wood and mud with no door and a thatched roof. We eat a simple meal of soup and rice, precariously perched on tiny wooden stools. While we eat, guinea pigs scamper along the mud floor and chickens peck at dropped scraps near the doorway. This quaint little scene is disrupted only by the blaring of the TV in the hut next door, as the kids catch their evening cartoons.

We are up at the crack of dawn after a cold and restless night. My sleep was repeatedly interrupted by a confused rooster, convinced that dawn starts at around three in the morning. Around five in the morning the rooster called it quits satisfied with a job well done, only to be replaced by a grunting pig nuzzling its way through some discarded scraps.

After a hearty breakfast of warm potato soup we head out in pursuit of our prey. This is my first experience with the radio equipment and it turns out to be quite simple and somewhat primitive. The collars are fitted with a small radio transmitter that gives out a little beep every second or so. We carry a high-powered walkie-talkie with a hand held antenna attached to it and a set of seriously funky head phones. Every so often we stop and take bearings by rotating the antenna and finding the loudest signal. It's not the most exact science but seems to do the job.

The radio points us toward a distant ridge, two valleys away and shrouded in soft, white cloud. Luckily the area is inhabited: there's one, isolated corn farm hidden deep in the valley. We follow a wide, muddy track down through the forest. It's a steep decent and since my legs are still a little stiff from the day before, I'm naively glad. In the weeks to come I learn the hard way what should have been obvious from the start: a pleasant downhill start to the day means a painful uphill end to the day, when legs are like lead and the thought of your warm sleeping bag is the only thing keeping you moving.

The path takes us into the valley, through several fields. We cross a small river via a "bridge". This fragile construction consists only of a few rotten logs casually bundled together. It's barely wide enough for two feet and with no hand rails, the crossing is completed more by luck than anything else. Once over the river we head up to the corn field toward the farm house.

Somewhat worryingly, the radio signal seems to be emminating from the house itself. Despite being very shy and completely passive towards humans, bears are hunted in Ecuador. Unlike other endangered animals I've worked with, the bears are not hunted so that their bits and pieces can be made into pretty jewelery or erection corrections.

The Andean bear is instead hunted because it gets into the farmers' corn fields and will literally devour a years worth of crop in one sitting. Since the house we're heading to is owned by a corn farmer, I have visions of walking into the house to find the head of our bear, trophy-mounted on the wall complete with our active radio collar.

As we get closer however we find that the signal is coming from the forest above the house. This area is thick with bamboo and blackberry bushes: two of the Andean bears' favorite foods. After a quick chat to the local farmer, we head into the dense shrub. Within minutes the path disappears and Alberto has the machete out hacking a clearway through the hapless bamboo.

We spend the next four hours pushing our way through the tangling branches of the forest. Occasionally we stop and take a reading but the boys are having trouble narrowing down the signal. Each time we listen they spend a long while debating the signal and each time they seem to decide on a different direction. Through my pigeon Spanish I learn that the normal radio is being repaired in Quito and this smaller walkie-talkie is a loan from a friend of Armando. It's accurate at a distance but at close range it is proving to be pretty much useless.

It's late afternoon before we give up and head back to the house. The lads, keen to get back to their hot soup dinner, set a cracking pace. For them uphill and downhill seem much the same. Initially I have little trouble myself, but as we hit the steep ascent leading back to the house, which I later christen the “hill of death” (for this was neither my last nor my worst experience with this murderous climb), the lungs and the legs begin to complain.

I'd be the first to admit that I lack numerous physical characteristics that most people would expect of someone who chases bears through secluded alpine regions for fun. Strength, cardiovascular fitness, flexibility and coordination are generally not skills one develops when persuing a career in IT. One thing I do have however is determination. That mingled with a certain amount of stupid pride is what gets me through (and usually into) most of the situations I've found myself in over the years.

Since this is my first mission with the lads I have no intention of letting the side down. Though my lungs burn and my heart pounds, I keep pace. My attention is focused only on the ground in front of me, my thoughts tuned only on my next step and nothing more. For endless, painful hours the path winds up and I turn each corner, sure it must be the last, only to find another stretch of muddy path leading ever higher.

My body screams at me to stop for breath, telling me that one more step will surely be my last, that my lungs will explode and my heart will burst. My stubborn determination kicks in and I tell my body that if my next step is to be my last then so be it. I carry on and the body is exposed as the deceitful lier that it is. Again it screams for me to stop but I ignore it. It has played it's trump card and was overcome. Despite the pain I know now that I will not stop nor fall behind before I reach the top.

Finally the ordeal is over, the challenge is met. After a ten hour day of hard hiking we reach the house and I collapse on the front step. I'm glad to find that Armando is dripping sweat and looking almost as tired as I feel. I remove my gumboots and literally pour out a small puddle of sweat and blood from several burst blisters. Gumboots may keep water out but they also keep it in. The products of a day's labor are revealed for all to see.

Over dinner we discuss the plan for the next day. Despite the monumental failure the boys are keen to head back into the bush to try again. I mentally prepare myself for the challenge. Having done it once I know I can do it again. Willpower alone will get me through.

In the morning however, the guys change their tune. Another night of serenading from our rooster friend has the lads looking bleary eyed. Armando walks as stiffly as me, and I begin to see the signs of someone who, like me, is a little more familiar with city comforts than mountain cottages.

The decision is made to head home and return another day with the working radio. Although fully ready for another day of hard labor, I can't say that I'm unhappy with the decision. We gather our gear and begin the now easy-looking four hour hike back to the car.

Armando drops myself and Alberto off at Otavalo before heading back to Quito. Apparently he works mostly from Quito, analysing the data and working on grant proposals and papers. Alberto and myself hop a bus the rest of the distance to the volunteer house, located in the Intag region.

After three days of hard and dirty hiking, with no running water and a somewhat lax attitude towards hygiene, it would be fair to say that I smell not unlike the arse of a dead skunk. It says something for the rural people of Ecuador, and their attitude towards showering, that I am in no way the most offensive smelling person on the bus.

Alberto hops off at his house in a tiny village called Santa Rosa, some fifteen minutes before the volunteer house. He gives me very detailed instructions of where to get off. Of course they're all in Spanish and I manage to pick up the words “river”, “turn in the road”, “yellow”, “trees”. A cryptic set of clues to be sure.

Luckily my desperate attempts to see out the window for landmarks has the locals on the bus understanding my predicament. Genuinely helpful and friendly people (a trait that I later discover is common to the region), they figure out where I'm heading and drop me off just where the bus turns off the main road (which was incidentally after the river, so my Spanish was improving) and point me in the right direction. I wonder down the road (passing many trees, probably not the best landmark in a rural region) and eventually come to a yellow house where a group of Gringos are lounging in hammocks on the front deck. The volunteer house at last!