When Urine Trouble with Wildlife
A rugged outdoorsman faces up to the three kings of the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem — and walks away singing.
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Print Excerpt: The Summer Issue
Author: Kubie Brown
I used to head into the outdoors with a bit of a chip on my shoulder.
Being a 6-foot-4 ex-rugby player and boxer turned fishing and hunting guide, I went at nature with all of the head-down, straight-up-the-middle energy I’d take into a bar fight. Tromping through the mountains like Paul Bunyan on a high protein diet, I figured I would simply run over whatever obstacles were put in front of me because I was the toughest thing on two legs.
I never factored in how the environment might react to me. No matter how big, tall, or tough you are, nature is a complete badass. If you push against her, she’ll be more than happy to push back.
I’ve been a guide for over ten years and a wandering, backcountry outdoor junkie for most of my adult life. Over that time, I’ve fished, hunted, and hiked in some truly magnificent wilderness. But I’ve also evolved. I’ve gone from a take-no-prisoners conqueror type who hurled himself at the outdoors with reckless bravado to a respectful and considerate outdoorsman. This transformation came after having several encounters with creatures bigger than me, who helped realize that I was going about things all wrong.
About 12 years ago, a big animal entirely humbled me in the outdoors for the first time, and it wasn’t something I was even thinking about. I hiked alone into a backcountry pond hoping to catch a few trout and as I was standing on the open bank casting, I suddenly had to pee. Being away from the public eye, I simply unzipped and began to relieve myself in the pond, but as soon as my urine hit the water, I quickly realized that I wasn’t alone after all. Hearing a crashing sound in the brush behind me that sounded like a troop of hikers coming through the woods, I quickly zipped up and turned around to greet them — only to see a mature bull moose staring me down.
The branch-antlered bull came out of the trees at a trot only a few yards away, tilting his head from side to side and making a series of undulating grunts. I barely had time to register the wild creature’s majesty before suddenly realizing the moose was coming right at me. Dropping my fly rod, I ran to the nearest tree with the bull hot on my tail. Ducking around the trunk, I tried to hide behind it, but the bull came around after me. To date, it’s the oddest and scariest game of Ring-Around-The-Rosie I have ever experienced.
For a full five minutes, the moose chased me in a circle around the tree, his antlers practically tickling my spine as I stayed just ahead of him, the image of being gored and stomped into red velvet pudding running through my mind. I had a .22 pistol in a hip holster but figured that shooting the bull with it would be about as effective as trying to stop a freight train with a BB gun. Plus, I would probably only make him more angry. So I fired the pistol in the air, hoping the sound would frighten him off.
It didn’t.
We stood for a few minutes facing one another from opposite sides of the tree in a tense standoff before the bull finally turned and, with a final grunt, sauntered off back into the forest. It was getting dark by then. I packed up and then hiked the most terrifying walk back to the truck I’d ever experienced — where every rustle in the shadowy brush made me jump like a house cat seeing a cucumber.
I later learned from a buddy who worked as a hunting guide that bull moose often urinate audibly in water to mark their territory and declare their presence to others. I realized that the encounter, while aggressive, was likely the moose reacting to me unintentionally speaking its language. He probably wondered why the hell I was claiming the pond that was rightfully his and had to suss me out. I vowed to never take a loud piss in moose country again, or at least not until after I’d made sure the coast was clear. Only a few years later, I found out that things can still go wrong with a big animal, even when you seem to be doing everything right.
As diligent guides and complete fly fishing junkies, my friend Dave and I decided to scout a potential fishing spot for clients in Yellowstone National Park. We hiked deep into the park’s interior, intending to fish a creek that flowed through an open meadow which we hoped would be chock-full of willing cutthroat trout. When we reached the meadow, we both noticed a bull bison laying on top of a small hill near the water. Keeping more than a respectful distance from the animal as we both had seen more than our fair share of selfie-taking tourists being tossed and gored when they got too close, we skirted the edge of the knoll. As the creek horse-shoed around the slope, I stopped to cast to a rising trout while Dave walked around the corner in search of another pool.
As Dave disappeared around the bend, the bull bison stood up and moved off the hill. I paid him no mind as he was quite a ways off concentrating on making a good cast and drifting my fly to the rising fish just seemed more important. In fact, I was so intent on my quarry, I didn’t even hear Dave scream.
Unbeknownst to me, the bison spotted Dave walking along the bank and — despite being more than 50 yards away from the animal — the bull charged and chased Dave into the river. Diving under the water, Dave swam beneath an undercut bank, effectively hiding from the bison which snorted and bellowed as it searched for him. Unable to find its original target, the bull wandered off and came around the hill, where it spotted me standing on the bank 100 yards away.
The ground suddenly began to vibrate beneath my feet. I raised my head and looked around for a moment, hoping to see an unexpected geyser eruption, floor cracking earthquake, or something of that nature. Then I turned and looked behind me.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled, spotting the oncoming hairy juggernaut bearing down on me from only a few feet away.
Speaking of which, I’m pretty sure I did a fair impression of the man himself as I leapt from the bank and practically ran across the surface of the water as the bison plowed into the creek behind me.
I got to the other side of the stream, but the steep bank prevented me from climbing out of the water. I turned around and looked at the bison standing chest deep in the water, blowing like a bellows and staring at me like a bowling ball eyeing up the last pin standing. He moved to the edge of the bank where I had been and hooked his horns into the earth, tossing chunks of grass and stone high into the air. I tried walking through the creek away from the bison. But he stayed with me, mirroring every step I took from the other side of the river.
I thought I was in real trouble when I noticed a pair of bison cows standing a few yards downstream from the bull. Knowing he’d continue to parallel me, I walked towards the cows and as I passed them, the bull seemed to calm down. Finally, he stopped to socialize. Taking my chance, I crossed to the bison’s side of the river and ran straight up the hill, almost colliding with a soaking wet Dave coming up from the other side.
“Did you see that *#* bison charge me!?” We screamed in unison.
To this day, we still can’t figure out what we did to agitate the bison. Perhaps we’d accidentally gotten between the bull and his cows. Maybe he just didn’t like the sound or sight of two tiny idiots waving fly rods around in his river. Whatever the reason, we were in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn’t respect the bison enough. He quickly put us in our place.
To be honest, I’d always sort of looked down on tourists that had been roughed up by wildlife in Yellowstone because I thought they brought it on themselves by getting too close. Now, I think that at least some of them may just not have been paying enough attention to the animals' mood. It was something I noted and kept in mind whenever I guided. Eventually it would save my clients from becoming just another park statistic, and perhaps even save my own life.
I’ve always had a special fear of grizzlies. They’re the largest, strongest creatures in the woods and they just felt like that neighborhood kid who you know is tougher than you and so do your best to avoid them. But as an avid outdoorsman and guide who is constantly marching or leading folks through bear country, I was inevitably going to face up to one sooner or later.
A few years after the bison encounter, I once again found myself in Yellowstone, this time as a fishing guide. My clients were a couple from New York City who had wanted a day of fly fishing in the park but didn’t realize it included dealing with insects. The river I intended to fish absolutely swarmed with biting black flies. After a couple minutes of swatting them away, my clients wanted to move on to a new spot. So, we drove to a small creek near the main road where the trout are smaller, but the bugs are few and far between.
I remember getting out of the truck and having a bit of an uneasy feeling as I looked out at the creek dotted with thick patches of brush. It seemed too quiet, but I quickly shrugged it off as I wanted to just get the day over with. We took a path down a hill and along the edge of the creek. As I walked ahead of them, I kept up a steady banter about trout species and the art of fly fishing. Then, just as we rounded a turn in the trail that led to a particularly juicy looking pool, I heard sticks break in the brush to our right and turned to look—all I saw was fur.
It's important to note that whenever I take people into the outdoors, I always tell them not to run from bears. My clients hadn’t listened because as soon as the grizzly broke out of the brush and came rushing towards us, they both took off like squirrels running from an unchained dog. I don’t know whether it was a heroic or stupid move but as the bear turned towards my fleeing clients, I instinctively ran straight at it. Waving my arms and howling like a madman, I cut off the charging grizzly, drawing his attention to me. Then, I grabbed for the bear spray I carried in my bib pocket — and promptly dropped it down my waders.
As bear spray slid down past my knee and out of reach,I knew that I was in serious trouble. As I faced down the grizz, I yelled and waved my arms, trying to make myself as big as possible. At the same time, I tried to get a hand to the spray in the vicinity of my ankle. The bear stood in front of me, close enough to smell his breath. He popped his teeth and tossed his head. I tried backing up. But when I did, the bear came towards me. So I stopped, planted my feet, and continued to bellow at the top of my lungs, feeling like this might be it. However, after a few more seconds that felt like hours with the grizzly squaring up but not attacking and my voice now getting hoarse from shouting, I decided on a new, more gentle tactic — I broke into song.
“Hey bear, good bear, nice bear, go away bear,” I awkwardly crooned. The effect was astounding as the grizzly suddenly lowered his head, stopped popping his teeth, and just stared at me for a few more agonizing seconds. We had surprised him, probably interrupted his midafternoon nap, and he had reacted accordingly and when I was yelling and waving my arms, I probably seemed like I wanted to scrap. Now, like the moose, he seemed to accept that I wasn’t a threat, or maybe he just thought I had a decent singing voice. Then, as if he suddenly remembered having other more pressing business to attend to, the grizzly turned and lumbered away into the brush, leaving me in stunned silence.
I walked back up the hill to the truck and was immediately charged again — though this time it was by my clients, a passing park ranger, and a few tourists who had heard the word ‘bear.’ Waving everyone off, I assured them that I was fine and walked back to my truck where I immediately collapsed on legs suddenly turned to Jell-o. Thankfully, the bear saved me from the crowd’s concern and complete humiliation. He popped up over the hill a few hundred yards away to pose, distracting everyone long enough for me to take a few deep breaths and then casually reach down in my waders to retrieve my bear spray without anyone being the wiser.
I still don’t quite understand why I’ve had so many close encounters with animals when so many other outdoorsfolk have had few or even none. Perhaps it’s because I used to put out a certain alpha aura that caused big animals to challenge me. Maybe as a hunter, angler, and guide, I’m simply outside enough to increase the odds — or maybe I just have a punchable face. Whatever the reason, whether I’ve done something right or done something wrong, having been chased and charged several times over has taught me a lot about living with and not against the natural world.
I never held any sort of grudge or malice towards any of the animals I encountered. I invaded their territories, freely stumbling, stomping, and pissing my way through like I owned the place. I was bold and brash and had forgotten or perhaps never truly realized that I was an outsider, a guest in a realm that I wasn’t treating with the proper respect. And as a cocky visitor, I was treated accordingly. It taught me a lot.
Now, whenever I set foot outdoors, I go with the right state of mind by stepping lightly and listening carefully to what the natural world around me is saying. I pay attention to instinctive signs and watch wildlife carefully, always remembering that I’m a visitor who must mind his manners and do his best to stay humble.
Kubie Brown is a fishing and hunting guide who masquerades as an outdoor writer while playing in the mountains and rivers of Southwest Montana. When he’s not fishing, hunting, or writing, Kubie spends most of his time tying flies, playing rugby, and insisting to everyone that he has a real job.
Sally Madden is an artist and cartoonist, she hosts the Thick Lines podcast and co-edits The Comics Journal site. She loves the taste of pine needles and is allergic to bees.
This first appeared as a feature in The Westrn’s quarterly newspaper.
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