KAMATSI LAKE, Saskatchewan, Canada _ We'd been told about the bear that occasionally wanders into this northern Saskatchewan outpost camp, and it made an appearance one morning during our recent weeklong fishing adventure.
The bear didn't cause any trouble, and banging a couple of frying pans together made a racket loud enough to send it ambling back into the brush from whence it came.
We saw the occasional bear track in camp throughout the week, but there were no further sightings. Nor did we encourage him. We bolted the door and secured the windows before heading out on the water fishing, and despite the tempting dinnertime aromas that wafted from camp on a nightly basis, the bear kept to himself.
Nobody warned us about the squirrel, though.
Years from now, those of us who were there will tell campfire stories about the red menace that came to be known as the Dreaded Kamatsi Squirrel. Rare was the day when the repulsive rodent didn't terrorize us.
"Beware," we wrote in the camp's journal. "Beware the Dreaded Kamatsi Squirrel."
It all started our very first afternoon in camp, when the squirrelly scourge showed up on the deck of the cabin looking all cute and harmless. That prompted one of the guys to feed it some pieces of bread.
Mistake. Big mistake.
I've never been a fan of squirrels on the best of days, and I'd wager nearly everyone who owns a lake cabin or a hunting shack feels the same way. They have a remarkable knack for gaining entrance through the tiniest of openings, chewing through plastic water lines, getting into the insulation and leaving little pelleted presents in the most conspicuous of places, as if taunting the humans they terrorize.
For me, the last straw came nearly 25 years ago, when a squirrel ran across the curing concrete of my driveway that had been poured just hours earlier.
The intrusion left a perfectly straight set of tiny tracks clearly visible to this day.
Oh, how I howled.
In Saskatchewan, the first sign of trouble came one morning when the squirrel got the lid off a closed jar of peanut butter. All of us had gone fishing when the guys in one of the boats realized they'd forgotten their tackle boxes back in the cabin and made a quick turnaround.
They'd been gone only a few minutes, but that's all the time the Dreaded Kamatsi Squirrel needed.
Caught in the act, the red rodent made a hasty retreat, and the jar of peanut butter was moved to a less accessible location.
The squirrel also got into a bag of mini Salted Nut Rolls.
Even if we couldn't see him, the Dreaded Kamatsi Squirrel let us know he was there, scurrying along the roof of the cabin, the pitter-patter of tiny feet breaking the morning silence.
Taunting. Terrorizing. Waiting.
The ultimate injustice came one afternoon when we came in for lunch, only to discover the squirrel had chewed the plastic lid off a jar of salted peanuts, scattering the contents across the floor.
Perhaps you notice a theme here.
The trail of terror continued on the second floor, where one of the guys bunking upstairs discovered the squirrel had gotten into his duffel bag.
You can pretty much guess where this is going. ...
"The little bugger took a dump in my duffel bag," came the cry of anguish from upstairs. "And there's a peanut in my bed!"
His next comment reduced the rest of us to tears from laughter:
"I feel violated."
The Dreaded Kamatsi Squirrel had struck again. Gaining entrance, our violated fishing buddy discovered, by chewing through the fiberglass screen on a second-floor window.
Despite our best efforts, including a homemade trap made from a 5-gallon pail and a beer can and baited with peanut butter and peanuts from the jar he raided, the squirrel eluded capture.
He's still up there. Somewhere. In the wilderness of northern Saskatchewan. Awaiting his next victims. The stuff of legends.
The Dreaded Kamatsi Squirrel.
