on the floor of the swamp and glistened on the trees in the early sun. The Powhatan lit up and shimmered.
Chip set out to find Henry, wondering how he was
faring, and worked his frequency once he crossed the lake, going to an area on Trail Seven where Number 1-88 seemed to hang out.
Just before noon, when the melting ice started to pop and crackle all over the swamp, Chip found Henry under a fallen tree trunk, sleeping soundly, his fur coat laced with rime.
Chip watched him, feeling a personal attachment now close to affection. Not until his hands and feet began to ache from the cold did he return home.
***
AS IT had done for what the scientists said was eleven thousand years, the Powhatan went from sleepy, quiet winter to bursting spring, then to humid summer. Tom Telford and Chip Clewt began snaring and collaring the bears again once they emerged in March and April. They listened to the beeps, plotted them, and continued to count them. Now it was nearing autumn again.
By early October, they'd even recaptured, recollared, and retagged Henry, whose collar had come off sometime in July. He was now Number 56-89âas hardy as ever, as comical as ever, as lovable as ever.
"Just keep doing what we've been doing," said Telford late one afternoon. Light was fading; shadows were long.
He was about to leave for Raleigh and NC State to
work on his dissertation, that high-sounding word that meant summarizing original research, hopefully leading to someday being called "Doctor Thomas Telford." He'd had his master's degree in biology for three years.
Chip nodded.
They were out on Trail Eight, northwest of the lake, having monitored four bears in the morning and early afternoon.
"Take the bearings and make the usual notes, then we'll do the computer work when I get back."
That would likely be in mid-January. Chip was pleased that Tom trusted him to continue the monitoring and plotting, though he wasn't particularly surprised. He'd learned much in the many months they'd been together. From setting the snares to mixing the tranquilizing drugs, Chip could do whatever Telford did, though the capturing remained a two-man job.
By now, Telford was almost another father to Chip, though quite different from the quiet one who lived and painted in the spillway house. Tom talked easily, and a lot. Each new day with him was still an adventure.
"I'll call you every week to see what's going on."
Except for the radio receiver they were using, Tom had dropped off all the equipment at the spillway house the day before, worried that it might be stolen from the rental trailer while he was gone.
"I guess that about covers everything," he said,
shaking Chip's hand, giving him a hug. "Have a happy Thanksgiving and a merry Christmas. That goes for your dad, too."
The elder Clewt was in New York.
Chip wished Tom the same, then said, "Tom, can I tell you something?"
Telford laughed. "You always do. What now?"
"You're someone special." There, he'd said it.
The laugh faded, and Telford wrapped his arms around Chip again, saying, "So are you." Standing back, he added another laugh, softer. "But let's not ruin a good thing."
Chip laughed, too, and took charge of the receiver. "See you in January."
Then the white all-terrain Toyota bumped southward along Trail Eight, which flanked the sluggish waters of Dinwiddie Slough.
***
A MILE and a half from East 159, where Trail Eight took a sharp bend to the west around overhangs of heavy brush, Telford almost collided with an old brown pickup truck parked at the edge of the slough. A ladder rack was perched over the chassis. The pickup blocked the trail, and Telford had to slam on his brakes to keep from rear ending it.
At the same instant, his heart slammed. Bending over the opened tailgate, just as surprised, was a big man in a red-and-black mackinaw wearing a floppy brown canvas hat. He was in the midst of loading a black bear into the truck.
There was little doubt that the bear was
Chip set out to find Henry, wondering how he was
faring, and worked his frequency once he crossed the lake, going to an area on Trail Seven where Number 1-88 seemed to hang out.
Just before noon, when the melting ice started to pop and crackle all over the swamp, Chip found Henry under a fallen tree trunk, sleeping soundly, his fur coat laced with rime.
Chip watched him, feeling a personal attachment now close to affection. Not until his hands and feet began to ache from the cold did he return home.
***
AS IT had done for what the scientists said was eleven thousand years, the Powhatan went from sleepy, quiet winter to bursting spring, then to humid summer. Tom Telford and Chip Clewt began snaring and collaring the bears again once they emerged in March and April. They listened to the beeps, plotted them, and continued to count them. Now it was nearing autumn again.
By early October, they'd even recaptured, recollared, and retagged Henry, whose collar had come off sometime in July. He was now Number 56-89âas hardy as ever, as comical as ever, as lovable as ever.
"Just keep doing what we've been doing," said Telford late one afternoon. Light was fading; shadows were long.
He was about to leave for Raleigh and NC State to
work on his dissertation, that high-sounding word that meant summarizing original research, hopefully leading to someday being called "Doctor Thomas Telford." He'd had his master's degree in biology for three years.
Chip nodded.
They were out on Trail Eight, northwest of the lake, having monitored four bears in the morning and early afternoon.
"Take the bearings and make the usual notes, then we'll do the computer work when I get back."
That would likely be in mid-January. Chip was pleased that Tom trusted him to continue the monitoring and plotting, though he wasn't particularly surprised. He'd learned much in the many months they'd been together. From setting the snares to mixing the tranquilizing drugs, Chip could do whatever Telford did, though the capturing remained a two-man job.
By now, Telford was almost another father to Chip, though quite different from the quiet one who lived and painted in the spillway house. Tom talked easily, and a lot. Each new day with him was still an adventure.
"I'll call you every week to see what's going on."
Except for the radio receiver they were using, Tom had dropped off all the equipment at the spillway house the day before, worried that it might be stolen from the rental trailer while he was gone.
"I guess that about covers everything," he said,
shaking Chip's hand, giving him a hug. "Have a happy Thanksgiving and a merry Christmas. That goes for your dad, too."
The elder Clewt was in New York.
Chip wished Tom the same, then said, "Tom, can I tell you something?"
Telford laughed. "You always do. What now?"
"You're someone special." There, he'd said it.
The laugh faded, and Telford wrapped his arms around Chip again, saying, "So are you." Standing back, he added another laugh, softer. "But let's not ruin a good thing."
Chip laughed, too, and took charge of the receiver. "See you in January."
Then the white all-terrain Toyota bumped southward along Trail Eight, which flanked the sluggish waters of Dinwiddie Slough.
***
A MILE and a half from East 159, where Trail Eight took a sharp bend to the west around overhangs of heavy brush, Telford almost collided with an old brown pickup truck parked at the edge of the slough. A ladder rack was perched over the chassis. The pickup blocked the trail, and Telford had to slam on his brakes to keep from rear ending it.
At the same instant, his heart slammed. Bending over the opened tailgate, just as surprised, was a big man in a red-and-black mackinaw wearing a floppy brown canvas hat. He was in the midst of loading a black bear into the truck.
There was little doubt that the bear was
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