Three remarkable encounters stand out in my memory.

The Moose Parenting: It was June of 1977, and I was leading a canoe trip on Birch Creek in Alaska. As we paddled around an oxbow, we came across a cow moose with her calf on the shore about 40 meters downstream. Aware of the potential danger, I positioned our canoe in still water on the opposite shore to observe the situation.

The cow and her calf seemed unaware of our presence. The river was calm, and we remained motionless. The cow decided to cross the river, followed by her calf. Midway, the water deepened, and the cow had to swim the remaining distance. The calf paused as the water reached its neck.

After waiting for a moment, the cow splashed back into the river and went muzzle to muzzle with her calf before returning to the opposite shore. However, the calf stayed behind. The cow crossed the river again, repeating the process of nuzzling her calf and crossing back. Still, the calf remained on the other side.

On her third crossing, the cow walked behind the calf and, to everyone’s surprise, gave it a gentle bite on the butt. Startled, the calf leaped forward and swam across to join its mother. Together, they disappeared into the willows. While I’m hesitant to anthropomorphize wildlife, this encounter seemed like a mother encouraging her reluctant child with a swat on the butt.

Grizzly Parenting: During the same canoe trip, we encountered an awe-inspiring scene involving grizzly bears. Each morning, I would wait for the rest of the group in slack water near the shore. On this particular morning, as we sat there, two grizzly bear cubs suddenly appeared above us, peering down from a cut bank about 5 feet high.

Considering the situation, I deduced that the sow, the cubs’ mother, was likely on the same side of the river as the cubs. We needed to move away from the bank quietly, ensuring that the sow would have to swim if she intended to reach us. I instructed my bow-man to paddle us quietly into the current while I readied my rifle as a precaution.

About 15 meters from the shore, I saw the willows behind the cubs rustle, and the sow charged up to the bank. She stood tall, sniffing the air and scanning the surroundings. After a few moments, she dropped to all fours, grunted, and led her cubs back into the willows. We watched them walk away up a hillside, about 400 meters from the river.

The experience was incredibly intense and unforgettable. I will always treasure the memory of that encounter.

Ducks vs. Beaver: In June of 1979, while canoeing on the Yukon River, I made a habit of camping on the gravel bars at the mouths of significant tributaries. One of my favorite spots was Kandik Creek, where I often met Fred Beech, a rugged mountain man who spent his summers at an old cabin nearby.

One evening, after sharing a meal with Fred, I lay down in my tent near the creek. As twilight settled in, I heard a peculiar sound, like chewing, coming from the opposite shore, about 15 meters away. I spotted a beaver with its eyes focused on me, gnawing on a tree branch. We maintained this silent interaction for several minutes.

Suddenly, a hen duck and her eight ducklings drifted along the far bank. Unaware of the beaver’s presence and preoccupied with her brood, the hen bumped into the beaver, causing it to dive while slapping the water with its tail. The commotion sent the ducklings splashing onto the bank, prompting the hen to quack frantically, ensuring each duckling was accounted for.

After the chaos subsided, the hen slipped back into the water, accompanied by her eight reunited ducklings, and continued downstream.

It was a moment of natural drama that surpassed anything Disney could create.