 Grizzly
bears have always had a special place in Cash
Currant's heart and mind.
"I've had my grizzly bear
encounter. Don't want another one," said the
transplanted Hoosier, looking a bit grizzled
himself, as he discussed trip preparations with
his fishing partner, another former Hoosier, N.D.
Jones.
Long-time fishing partners,
they usually make a trout fishing trek to nearby
Yellowstone National Park every year. Both
graduated from Indiana University back in the
1960s.
Currant bellied his massive
form up to the bar at Rick Porter's Hoosier Bar
where he makes preparations for most of his
outings. His last bear encounter, he said, was in
1995. While fishing the Soda Butte Creek inside
Yellowstone National Park, a "grizzly woofed
at me from across the creek.
"I never saw it, but I
heard it. That was enough for me," continued
the sometimes fishing guide, frequent gambler and
constant brunophobe.
Jones, a college professor now
living in Florida, chuckled at Currant's tale,
stroking his distinguished salt-and-pepper beard
and twirling his mustache. His eyes twinkled, and
he winked at me, then at Porter behind the bar.
"You laugh, Jones,"
said Currant, indignant that his partner would
make light of his bear encounter. "You'll
walk right into one some day."
"Cash, the reason you
didn't see that bear down on the Stinky Butte
last year was because there wasn't any stinking
bear. Listen, did your 'bear' sound anything like
this?"
Jones leaned back, took a deep
breath and uttered a deep, growling sound that
might have sounded like a bear: "Grrrrrrr.
Woof. Woof....I was your bear Cash."
Currant looked at his friend
for an instant, then turned to catch pub
proprietor Porter grinning behind the bar.
Porter's chuckling broke into guffaws while Jones
continued growling.
Currant understood he had been
had at once. His face reddened, and he swelled
visibly. When he finally spoke, his voice dripped
with indignation: "OK, Jones, we'll see what
happens when you run into a fucking bear. I don't
need this shit in my life!"
Jones countered that he had run
into a grizzly already.
"You remember, Cash. I was
fishing the Soda Butte four years ago when I
rounded a bend in the creek to find a big grizz
standing in the middle," explained Jones.
"I froze. Luckily I was downwind and it was
blowing real hard so the bear couldn't smell me
or hear me. He knew something was there, though,
because he stood up on his hind legs and sniffed
the air for awhile. Then, he dropped down on all
fours and headed up Barronette Mountain. I went
the other way.
 "And,
Cash, by the way, he never did 'woof' at
me...", Jones added with a snicker, driving
the needle deeper.
Currant spun off his bar stool
and lumbered toward the door and his pick-up
trucking tied up at out front. Their gear was
piled in the bed, and Currant dove in for one
last check of his stuff, but mainly he was
pretending to ignore his tormentors.
The trout fishing trip they had
planned for the next few days was to take them
deep into grizzly country in the AborakaBeartooth
Wilderness Area.
Their plan was to drive to
famed Slough Creek inside the park, one of the
best cutthroat trout streams in the world, then
hike upstream, carrying solo canoes and minimal
camping gear, to fish its upper reaches and its
headwaters at Lake Abundance. They had hired a
local lackey to shuttle the truck to a point near
the lake. It would be waiting for them at trip's
end.
Their hike would cover about 20
miles one way--up into the mountains and the
wilderness where the U.S. Park Service dumps
problem grizzlies. Chances were at least decent
that they would encounter a grizzly, and that
appeared to have them worried. Currant was by far
the most worried.
He had armed himself with two
the biggest cans of hot pepper spray anyone in
Cooke City had ever seen. Each was the size of a
coffee thermos and contained enough pepper spray
to immobilize a T. rex.
 Bells jingled from
the truck as Currant busied himself with his gear. Big bear
bells dangled from every piece of equipment, and I heard
Jones call him "Jingles."
Currant had told his wife,
Monti, they would be gone for four days, max. On
day five, Monti called the park rangers, and a
helicopter was dispatched to look for them.
They found them, and their
first stop on the way home was at Hoosiers where
I spotted Currant's pick-up parked out front.
"Hey, how'd it go? Catch
any fish? See any bears?" queried the
affable inn keeper, Porter.
"Sure did. Yep, tell him
about the bear, Jones," Currant said. His
voice sounded smug.
Jones shook his head and began
the story. After hiking past the third meadow on
upper Slough Creek, then through the notch in the
mountains to Lake Abundance, they finally had a
chance to use the boats they had carried so far.
"Well, turns out that when
we were about to put our boats in the water, I
discovered I forgot to bring my paddle,"
admitted Jones.
Porter guffawed with Currant
who took over the story telling.
"Yeah, Jones carries his
canoe 20 miles to fish, then finds out he doesn't
have a paddle. Mr. Big Time. Yeah," barked
Currant. "And that ain't all, either. Go on
Jones. Tell him the whole story."
As Jones explained it, he had
to carry his canoe around the lake instead of
paddling across it. It not only added miles to
his hike, it forced him through bear territory.
"What's that you say,
Jones? Bear territory?" Currant needled.
"You tell the story Cash.
You're such a damned expert," Jones
countered.
"OK," said Currant,
not missing a beat as he continued. "Seems
as if ole N.D., Mr. Not Afraid of Bears, walked
smack into a grizz. Dropped everything he had and
started running. Luckily the bear liked his
fishing vest, or ole Mr. Bear Expert would be a
carcass."
The bear got Jones' vest, broke
his fly rod and camped out on his canoe. The
canoe was still up there, on the bank at Lake
Abundance.
"It'll still be there next
year. I ain't goin' back for it with that grizz
using it for a lean-to," said Jones.
Did they catch any fish?
"Well, not a one, but I
sure got a good story out of it," chuckled
Currant.
11/23/96.
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