"Tough Bears Don't Dance" continues Ernest's experiences in far-flung hunting vistas that include Alaska and its peninsula, Castro's Cuba, Colombia, Honduras Canada's Lac Seul Wilderness, the Eastern Shore of Maryland's Chesapeake Bay for Canada Geese, and a revisit to some of Africa where the hunting in these tales of adventure take a back seat to saving his life, as well as encounters with emerald smugglers, the Colombian Medelin Cartel bosses, prostitution, confrontation with Russian "freedom fighters "from Nicaragua's revolution, murder, and withch doctors, being attacked by a rqavenoous bear a a Cuban dog, being lost in a frozen wilderness tundra, and assorted otyher interesteing distractions, with a little humor tossed into the mix now and then.

"Tough Bears Don't Dance"

A Personal Collection of World-wide Hunting Experiences and Campfire TalesBy Ernest W. Abernathy

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Ernest W. Abernathy, M.D.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-5571-3

Contents

Tough bears - Foreward....................................................xiThe Alaskan Peninsula – Tough Bears Don't Dance.....................1Witch Doctors And Murder..................................................41Colombia, South America...................................................51Beyond All Boundaries – The Lac Seul Wilderness.....................75Mbogo, Mau Mau Revolution.................................................95Hunting- Maryland's Eastern Shore.........................................101Hunting Castro's Cuba.....................................................115Lions, And Elephant Attack................................................165Shorty - There Never Was A Dog Like Shorty................................173Hunting Honduras..........................................................179Mbogo, Nostalgia..........................................................201Campfire Tales And Fables.................................................211I Travel Southern.........................................................233Postscript................................................................235Toughbears – Author's Note..........................................247

Chapter One

THE ALASKAN PENINSULA – TOUGH BEARS DON'T DANCE

Early morning in Anchorage, Alaska, opened its slush gray streets with remnants of a melting snow. Little tributaries of hardness remained as frozen ribbons, coursing amid piles of collected dirty, ashen ice. The street was empty of activity as the first early suspicion of daylight crept slowly over the roof tops and through the trees, partitioning shadows and ellipses of light upon unsuspecting targets of manmade objects, and upon any member of mankind coerced by occupational needs, or daring enough, to be stirring in the cold of this early dawn.

Opting to check out the area and dismissing the motel coffee shop, I exited the front door and entered the bosom of an Alaska morning, cold and windy beyond my expectations. Inspection of the area revealed a diner café near enough to scurry toward in order to get out of chill of the brisk gusts of wind, and to gather some warmth out of a cup, before heading to the airport and an airplane to King Salmon, the next spot in a trek to the Alaskan Peninsula for an intended rendezvous with a great Kodiak brown bear.

In a nearby doorway, a man in raggedy filthy clothes was laying on the concrete floor with his back up against the door, amongst scattered newspapers and cardboard, oblivious to the world in a profound state of drunkenness, out cold. His facial bony structure indicated he was probably of an Eskimo or Native Indian heritage. He was beyond any help that I could offer.

Passing on to the diner, I entered through an entry alcove into a long narrow room with a countertop running from front to back, along the center of the room, and two people working behind the counter. One man was bald, the other short and stocky with a large curved mustache. At the far end of the counter a customer was reading a newspaper. He looked up, scanned me, saw nothing of interest, and returned to his paper.

"What'll you have?" The bald man behind the counter stepped my way as I sat down upon one of the stools in front of him. The other man behind the counter looked sleepy or just plain bored.

"Coffee," I replied, "with one sugar and just a touch of white." Magically, the steaming cup appeared almost before I could get the words out of my mouth. Makes one wonder about mind reading and ESP. More likely, hot coffee is the first thing out of every customer's mouth during cold Alaska mornings.

As I added the accoutrements to my coffee, I mused about my arrival the previous evening and how different Anchorage had been from my expectations. At the airport, a lifelike taxidermy of a ten-foot tall, standing polar bear in the lobby had been the first of many surprises. During the taxi ride into Anchorage, the town seemed smaller and less rustic than I had anticipated, homes in the residential areas being mostly small, but nice and comfy-looking, one-level modern abodes. Nowhere was there an indication of ego assertion with showy opulence, nothing to indicate any large estates or mansions existed anywhere along my route into and through Anchorage.

The business area was mostly small one-story buildings, and occasional two-story structures. Snow from a recent falling was blanketing the terrain giving an impression of quiet peace and tranquility. The motel in which the night was to be spent could never be mistaken for the Ritz-Carlton by any means, but would likely prove adequate.

An overweight middle-aged man with a receding gray hairline and an ingratiating smile came over to my table in the coffee shop at the motel and introduced himself. As we talked, he proved rather quickly to be not my kind of man, his intentions for a shared recreational tryst not being to my particular line of romantic interest. For me, it's always la femme, but hopefully never the fatale variety. The intruder was unceremoniously dispatched to seek other more lucrative hunting grounds of a different sort more to his calling. In his avocation, he was a hunter of men.

The coffee was going down pretty good, so I decided to seek bigger game, "How about two scrambled eggs and some toast, partner?" It was an easy choice to stay in the warmth of the café's confines. With the delay, I wisely rationalized, inspection of the street area and its inhabitants would be remain unchanged until I returned to the streets of Anchorage later, and the weather might be improved also.

I had just reached this less than profound and convoluted decision when the door to the diner opened. A squat, obese female, appearing to be of Eskimo or Indian heritage, staggered through the front door into the diner and approached the counter. She was about as wide as she was tall, and her multi-layered clothing was dirty, greasy and in sad condition with tattered ends hanging out, her parka in its last stages of usefulness. Her uncombed, graying hair had remnants of black still recognizable among its matted tangles. I estimated her height to be about four feet and ten inches with a weight probably about two hundred and fifty pounds. Her weathered face was dark, with glazed eyes, as she looked first at me, then the counterman. She was obviously quite drunk. As she started to speak to me, her slurred words were incoherent, inarticulate, and utterly beyond my comprehension. The counter man stepped closer in our direction and ordered the woman to leave the diner. She did not argue, but turned, gave me a last plaintive, searching look, and staggered out the door into the coldness awaiting her.

"Damned drunk Indians. They're everywhere. You can't tell whether they are still drunk from drinking all night, or on a new drunk already started in the morning. Sorry about her coming in here and begging you for money, offering sex. She just wanted the money for more booze."

"Oh, that's okay. I couldn't tell what she said, anyway."

"Too many of the ones who come and stay in town are like that. They can't handle the alcohol. Makes the town look bad. You just traveling through, or what? I don't think I ever saw you in here before."

"Yeah. I'm flying out to King Salmon...