So, where’s that dinner? I’m waiting, but my patience is wearing thin here …

(He should try the publishing industry, eh? )

The Mountie and his tracker ….

This beauty had a light golden coat on his shoulders and back, and was totally oblivious to my passing by — looks like that time of year again, when the only thing the bruins are worried about is obsessively chowing their way up to hibernation weight.

For those who have asked how close these wild animals are to passers by, I walked around the trail from where I shot the above photo, and tried to take another shot (shown below) for perspective.  See the guy riding by on his bike? He didn’t notice the bear at all. Neither did the golfers putting away on the green to the left of the biker. I shot the above pic a little further ahead and to the right of that cyclist — and the bear is the brown blot hidden behind greenery in the depression to the right. Make sense?

And just to see how often we walk past these foraging beasts, perhaps not even noticing they are there –  if you look real close at the pic below, you can see the ear and part of the back of the head of a fairly large black bear munching berries in a patch about two arms lengths off the trail …. can you spot him? Makes one think twice before scrambling through the brambles search of berries, eh?

In this last pic (below), you can just see the very black, rounded tip of his ear.

Well, I figure he was hanging his wings out like that because he was hot — it was over 90 F. And even hotter after my run. Temps are climbing again  today … and the old brain is cooking while my imagination is supposed to be in the middle of an Alaskan snowstorm. Go figure. I seem to be writing the Congo and Sahara books in mid winter, and the ‘cold books’ in mid summer.

That would be me — a wilderness geek. Or would that be freak? I mean, I really *do* carry a ruler with me when I go running. Just in case, you know? I might run across a good print, or something. Like these perfect Black Bear paw marks above. Then I might want to size and document them. And of course, for that I need my camera …

My equivalent of a pocket protector would probably be the small ziplock bags that protect the bear banger cartridge I carry with me.  I live in irrational fear that it will get wet and fizzle when I finally aim it at the jowls of a hungry cougar. Either that, or detonate prematurely in my pack. (Can just see the headlines)

I also carry an MP3. And dog spray. Think I need to lighten up some? Seriously, I’d have a much better run if I did. But then … I’d miss capturing prints like those.

It’s all the fault of MANHUNTER, I tell you  — I should never have started the tracking research needed for that book. It set me down an interesting path … and I think I might have missed my calling. Then again …  I can always put my growing body of tracking skills into stalking editors. See? I really *should* have gone to Thrillerfest … I could have put in some practice!!!

Well, what’s a bear to do? There was no sign up in the park re: this particular activity.

Is that a .22 in your hand, KJ, or are you just happy to be researching?

To me, one of the best things about being a writer is that it gives you license to be interested in just about anything. And more often than not, people are happy to help … to share the little idiosyncracies of their professions or fields of interest.

Another good thing about the Writing Life? Friends. Fellow writers who ‘get’ you like no one else can. Like KJ Howe above. Who else but a fellow writer of suspense would drop everything and fly out west to muck around in the B.C. bush and play with guns and knives? And who better to rehash the rather interesting trip with?

Thanks Kim, for slumming it with me. Shan’t forget this one

“So, this is a compass, ladies … and this is how you use it not to get lost  …”

Honestly, I’m not sure I’m any the wiser. Navigation is a complex art. But at least I will now know how to mantrack my prints back to where I started

And I did learn how to use sticks and the sun to find north.

A young Harris Hawk named Duck, made us … well, duck, during a falconry demonstration on our ‘research’ weekend at the ‘Becoming an Outdoorswoman’ camp at Lake Cowichan, Vancouver Island.

I’m going to have to write Duck’s handler into a romance novel one day — she’s pure heroine inspiration — beautiful, vivacious, handles a crowd with charm, wit and ease, and has a fierce passion for her birds. She also clearly marches to her own drum. And in that bag strapped around her hips are handfuls of soft, fluffy day-old chicks — the reason young Duck keeps swooping back on demand. He’d eaten about three at this point.

Duck, however, still has trouble hunting rabbit. Below, we are shown how he is trained. By a fake lure dragged over the grass. He swooped down out the evening sky, and … stopped just short. A little afraid, still. In no time, he’ll apparently be chasing down hare on his own.

Guess everyone has to start somewhere …