Sour Joe and The Grizzly
written by: Lise Rowlandson
They threw themselves off the horizon’s precipice that year. Two tenacious tenderfoots left their genteel societies to cross the 60th parallel with dreams of unbridled wealth and power, of new horseless carriages and voyages to faraway lands.
They pushed against the biting winds, fur-covered heads collapsed, pulling overloaded sleds across acres of blowing snow while aurora borealis chandeliers lit their path. Every sunless day could easily have been their last. The men endured the bone-snapping cold that hungered for their toes, fingers, ears, and noses while wolves circled their tents at night. They counted their survival in hours that gruelling winter.
The spring thaw defrosted their stiff emaciated bodies and released the land of ice and snow. Daylight began flirting with the night sky until sunsets reluctantly slumped in the early mornings only to reappear a few hours later to herald a new day. This was the land of the midnight sun. But the beauty of the land was soon forgotten when the blackflies and mosquitoes began feeding on their tired, aching flesh. Without bear grease to lather on as protection, their urine had to do.
Bill Smythe and Joe Campbell made the life-threatening expedition up the British Columbian coast with one ton each of provisions and supplies, without which the Royal Canadian Mounted Police would not have allowed any stampeder to enter the Yukon, as some, in the first wave of the Klondike Gold Rush, died of starvation. Like pack-mules, they climbed the notorious Chilkoot Pass. Bill and Joe slogged the 3,500-foot trek up and down that pass, with their precious cargo strapped to their backs not once, but twenty-two times each, while mountain goats watched until each of their one-ton haul was finally piled on the shores of Lake Bennett.
They were the lucky ones. Most turned around and hundreds died attempting the climb. So torturous was it, that they witnessed, more than once, overworked horses commit suicide by hurling themselves off the cliff.
After a brief rest, they purchased lumber and built the boat that carried them up the waterways of the mighty Yukon River, navigating the death-defying Whitehorse rapids, its shores littered with grave markers. After three thousand miles and five months, the doctor and the butcher landed their battered boat and half-starved frames on the shores of Dawson City in June of 1897.
***
My saloon is empty for a Sunday morning. Only half of the tables are occupied. A heavy cloud of smoke and the smell of funk from last night floats over my patrons’ heads. I started this honky-tonk with three small gold nuggets a very drunk but satisfied gold-digger had left on my mattress. It’s rough and ram-shackled but the men love coming to Molly’s Folly for that very reason: no highfalutin can-can dancing hall here. It’s a come as you are and leave if you can sorta place. Men sit on up-ended sawed-off logs circling wobbly hand-made tables and no one complains.
I thought today was going to be a good day in my honky-tonk until…
“Gimme whiskey!”
My unfavourite regular has just walked in.
He leans his shotgun against the bar, pulls his bearskin hat off, reaches into his vest pocket, snaps open a small tin, and pushes a tobacco plug to the back of his mouth, flashing rows of rotten teeth.
The shot glass scratches along the bar counter up to his three-fingered hand. His lice-infested head knocks it back. The glass slams hard on the bar as he releases a juicy belch and pushes the glass away.
“What in fuck is this? Not only er you pushin’ this damn gut-rot, you waterin’ it down too now, you stingy, cheaten’ frog! You best not put that on my tab.”
“We almost out of de whiskey and de supply boats arrive not yet wid fresh booze. It’s eider ‘dis or some ‘omemade dandelion wine.” My French-Canadian bartender remains cool. He serves tough surly men every day, and this ruffian is no different.
“Wine? Ya mean that porch-climmen shit-bucket swill? Git me another whiskey, and it best be the gooder stuff!”
He pounds his fist hard on the counter. The room goes quiet and the piano chokes. All you hear is the popping and crackling in the pot-belly stove and playing cards snapping at my table. I nod to the bartender. He reaches for our secret stash and pours Kodiak a good whiskey but the brute ignores his glass and turns toward the room.
“Wat u all lookin’ at?”
Damn, Kodiak is looking to fight.
I’m standing at the corner table over Sour Joe Campbell of British Columbia, the winning poker player. His stack is high. I’m working him over with a gentle neck rub and free whiskey. None of the gamblers bother to look up at the ruckus. They know it’s just Kodiak acting out his same old shit every time he comes in.
The scoundrel is eyeing me.
“Hey Molly, come over here, doll. Give ‘ol Kodiak a big fat kiss. Com’on dawlin’.”
With that venereal-looking wart on his lip, I ignore the tedious boor.
“Molly! Where’s my kiss?”
His bestial sneer revolts me and without looking up I say,
“Ya gitten’ the good stuff now Kodiak, so you just be ya quiet, drink ya whiskey, and thank ya stars. Most everyone gitten the gut rot.”
The saloon foundation shivers when big Kodiak stomps toward me. He grabs my arms, lifts me off the floor, and bear-hugs me. His sour, vomit breath makes me gag and I can’t turn my head around enough to evade the putrid fumes exhaling from his yap.
“Lit go Kodiak!”
I’m suspended off the floor so I kick him hard in his shins but my attempts to free myself only arouse him. Kodiak holds me even tighter. The more I fight back, the more he enjoys it. I can feel his erection.
“You’re a pig!”
He just laughs, chewing tobacco spittle, the colour of sewage, drooling down from the corner of his mouth, his eyes squinting at me with savage lust.
Sour Joe stands up.
“Drop her!”
He aims his revolver at Kodiak’s head. A click is heard as he pulls the hammer back. The room clears. My bartender grabs bottles off the back counter and ducks behind the bar. I’ve taught him the drill and he knows it well, as these scenarios play out many times over.
Dawson City is a disorganized town and people live in the new wild, wild west. It’s Hudson’s Bay rules at best and ‘a law unto himself’ at worst.
“I said drop her!”
A few tense moments pass before he drops me to the floor like a sack of flour but I dust myself off and I’m no worse for wear.
“Just havin’ a bit of fun. Don’t you be so tight-assed.”
Sour Joe, ready to pull the trigger, holds his position.
“It’s time to leave.”
Kodiak backs away with his hands up, shuffles backward to the bar, slugs his good whiskey down then grabs his bearskin hat and shotgun.
He slowly backs out of the saloon, but not before grabbing his bear claw necklace and running the four-inch claw across his neck while staring the gunman down.
“You be a dead man, Sour Joe Campbell.”
Kodiak leaves but the stench of his threat lingers and time is halted. I need to snap everyone back to reality.
“Music!” I exclaim.
The piano player resumes his pounding, the bartender lines his bottles back up, and the fold return to their tables. The tension lifts.
“Drinks on the house!”
A brisk cheer erupts and everyone is happy again.
The altercation has ended the poker game. Sour Joe cashes in his chips for gold, the only currency in Dawson, and adds his winnings to his poke, but not before leaving me a nice tip; all in a day’s work. He signals to his partner Bonesaw Bill Smythe, drinking at the next table, that it’s time to go.
That was the last time I ever laid eyes on them, but I did hear the story that came later.
***
Molly’s Folly squats in the middle of Main Street, between the lumber yard and the livery. If it weren’t for the fermenting stink of ripe outhouses, the incessant barking of feral sled dogs, or streets of slick mud, Dawson City could almost pass as a livable place. Bonesaw Bill and Sour Joe don’t care either way as their log cabin is a two-hour walk from Dawson. They come into town only to buy necessities and rarely stay for pleasure.
Bonesaw Bill turns to Sour Joe.
“Gonna go next door and pay our hardware bill, Joe. You go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”
Joe walks to the outskirts of town where the trail leads back to their claims on Rabbit Creek. His thoughts return to Molly’s Folly. Kodiak is dangerous. Between his waspish tongue and his crotchety attitude, it’s best to give this ill-tempered Californian a wide berth.
A rustling in the bush behind him snags his attention. Bears are preparing for hibernation and everything has become a food source for them now. His revolver hasn’t enough gun power to lay such a beast down and he has left his shotgun at the camp. He wishes he had waited for his partner since Bonesaw has a 12-gauge shotgun with him. Uneasy, and cautious, he slowly drags his feet on the gravel path and starts whistling, hoping the commotion will scare off what may be lurking behind him.
“What a purty whistle.”
Joe’s heart nearly blows up as he spins around. It’s Kodiak, his face puckered like a rotten prune. He has assumed a menacing stance in the middle of the pathway, his shotgun aimed right at him.
“I ‘bin waitin’ fur ya, doc. Ya pull a gun on me and think yer shit don’t stink, don’t ya? All high and mighty, sittin’ there with yer big stash an’ all. You da big man now?”
Joe keeps his eyes on Kodiak, but he can see Bonesaw coming up the trail behind him. He stays focused on the big guy so as not to tip him off. Bonesaw stops, assesses the situation, and quietly draws his gun up as he approaches Kodiak from behind.
“Lay down yer pistol, Sour Joe…. nice and easy… and throw me yer poke.”
Kodiak’s bloodshot eyes stick at nothing but the doctor doesn’t move and keeps staring at the brute. Bonesaw is creeping up behind Kodiak, steadying his rifle butt up against his shoulder. He is ready.
“I ain’t got all day. Throw down yer gun and pitch me yer poke, now! You tink ‘cause yer a doctor I won’t shoot?”
Joe doesn’t move.
“I’m gonna count to three… and den u be the dead man.”
“One… two…”
Joe knows Kodiak will shoot and Bonesaw knows it too.
“Thr…….”
A piercing crack explodes and the sound ricochets through the canyon. Its echo repeats and repeats until it is swallowed by the peaks and valleys.
The sheer force of the shot lifts Kodiak’s body momentarily off the ground. He spins and flumps on the trail. His head is completely blown off and Kodiak’s flesh and pieces of bear fur cover Joe’s face and blood drips from his chin. Without a word between them, they grab Kodiak by his moccasins and drag him to the side of the path. The bear claw necklace easily slips off his mangled neck while blood pulses out from his exposed arteries.
“His poke Joe!” murmurs Bonesaw.
“No! We’re not thieves, Bill. This was self-defense.”
The partners scan the area, read each other’s minds, and roll the massive corpse down the side into a ravine. The sound of snapping branches and crunching rocks follows him to the deep abyss. Joe tosses over Kodiak’s rifle and bear claw necklace.
Both men know a gunshot will not alert anyone as men are hunting for their winter meat this time of year; no one will blink an eye. As for the body, the bears and wolves will feed on him.
Sour Joe pulls leaves off a tree hanging over the path and wipes off what he can. He turns his wool jacket inside out and both briskly continue their long walk back. Joe owes his partner his life and yet, feels remorse for Kodiak. He was just twenty-four.
***
It would have been a kind gesture to describe Sour Joe and Bonesaw’s log cabin as a humble abode. Their rough prospector’s camp was built with unstripped black spruce logs. A copious amount of moss filled all the cracks and was thickly laid on the roof for added insulation. Latched wooden shutters were the windows of choice and their heating and cooking source was a sturdy stone fireplace. A roughly made table with chairs and a bunkbed, fabricated from birch trees on the claims, completed the rustic decor. It would do. It was a temporary home after all. An even humbler outhouse, doubling as a tool shed, stood behind their cabin. A rough plank nailed at the top of the door read, “Stools and Tools.”
After four months of punishing labour, their claims have yielded a respectable amount of gold dust and nuggets. Forty thousand dollars between the two of them is nothing to sniff at, and they both have decided to continue mining until early summer next year, then call it quits. Their earnings will be enough to live a comfortable life back home. Either way, their greediness has dissipated. They don’t want to shorten their lives any longer in the dangerous gold camps of the Yukon.
Joe misses his family. He left a respectable practice in Vancouver against his wife’s objections. He is old at twenty-nine, for a stampeder, but with seven children, a wife, and an ailing mother to support, his country doctoring couldn’t keep up with the expenses. Pickled beets, eggs, and pork were welcomed as barter from his patients, but Joe needed cash.
People around the camps have nicknamed him Sour Joe. During the long trip to the Klondike, Joe nursed a lump of sourdough starter, keeping it sheltered from the killing cold, by carrying it in his armpit like a mother hen covering her chicks. Now, he is selling off the starter, at the ridiculous price of one dollar, to the gold diggers; an unexpected and profitable side income. But it’s the doctoring that keeps him as busy as the gold-digging. Catastrophic injuries, syphilis, and malnutrition are rampant in the camps. He does what he can and never charges anyone. It’s his ministry, to save men like himself, however, his humble approach is hugely rewarded with generous compensation.
As for Bill, his butchering job at the slaughterhouse was an easy fix when word got around that Doc Campbell was planning to join the Klondike Gold Rush. The doctor was excited to have Bill join him; an unattached, strapping twenty-year-old man made for a perfect partner. And like Sour Joe, the men in the gold camps have also baptized Bill, and the nickname Bonesaw has also paid off for him. Busy prospectors hire Bill to butcher their moose, caribou, and bears for the exorbitant price of ten cents per pound.
***
After the excitement of the day and the long walk home, the men knock off early. It’s Sunday, the day they switch beds for the week. The bottom bunker must rise through the night and nurse the fire, while the top bunker gets seven days of uninterrupted sleep. It’s Sour Joe’s turn to sleep in the bottom bunk.
The waning moon drags over the frosty tree line. A loon’s wails magnify the loneliness of this land and soon enough, the cabin is filled with snores and scratching.
Deep in the night, a loud crash jars them out of sleep.
“What the hell was that?” bellows Bonesaw.
They reach for their rifles and step into the crispy night in their long johns.
There, on the edge of the creek, destroyed beyond recognition is their sluice box. They look around, weapons drawn, expecting to be jumped by gold thieves that roam the camps. Bonesaw shouts into the inky void.
“If I see your behinds, I’ll shoot. So you best get. Come around here again, and we’ll hunt you down like dogs.”
They settle back in their bunk but remain restless. A cinder pops and flies out of the fireplace. Joe gets up to scoop it back into the flames and adds a few more logs when thumping and scratching on the roof jolts their attention. It seems to be coming directly over Bonesaw’s head on the top bunk, just a few inches from his head.
“I think they are back,” whispers Bonesaw.
With a loud snapping crack, the roof section over Bonesaw’s head abruptly collapses. Wood shards and damp moss rain on him. An enormous bear paw reaches in and pins him to the top bunk. A lightning bolt of terror paralyzes the men as Sour Joe and Bonesaw’s eyes lock. Before Sour Joe can grab a shotgun, another huge furry paw breaks through the roof and snatches Bonesaw by the shoulder. The bear kneads his long claws deep into his flesh. A high-pitched shriek bounces off the cabin walls and punches Joe deep in his core. The brutal reality of the moment shocks them. The bear has now lifted Bonesaw off the mattress. The jagged hole is too small to pull his body through, but the determined bear continues tugging on him. Bonesaw flops like a ragdoll. Joe aims his gun at the side of the opening and shoots, reloads and shoots again. Nothing. Bonesaw is half-suspended in mid-air, jerking with every bear tug. His flailing body showers blood into the small dimly lit cabin. Joe repeatedly fires blindly at the beast on the other side of the roof. It lets go and Bonesaw drops onto the mattress. His left arm has been ripped off. Flesh dangles from his stump and shattered bones protrude through the muscle. It glistens in the flickering light of the fireplace.
The two men can smell the putrid bear and taste the terror. Before Bonesaw can roll off the bunk, the beast slams both front paws down, grabbing Bonesaw’s head. It is crushing his skull with its paws. The bear’s long claws sink into both sides of his cheeks ripping up his face and exposing his gums and teeth, which flash a ghoulish smile at Joe. Bonesaw’s bottom lip hangs on his chin, like a dew worm. His face is completely shredded, yet he is still screeching and pleading for his life from what remains of his face.
A massive grizzly bear’s head pushes through the enlarged hole with its savage eyes wide open. It is snarling and snotty drool swings from its angry curled lips. The grizzly’s large snout opens wide, baring blood-stained canines and bites down on Bonesaw’s head. The sound of crunching bone, as the long bear teeth scrape along the top of his skull, is amplified through Bonesaw’s gaping mouth. Joe aims directly at the bear’s head and shoots, but the bear, undeterred, begins to pull Bonesaw’s body through the hole. Joe grabs his partner’s flailing legs and pulls against the bear’s brute strength. It’s a tug of war for his friend’s mangled body. He can hear faint choking gurgles from Bonesaw’s head. It is completely engulfed inside the bear’s mouth.
Without warning, Joe jerks backwards and lands hard on his back. The bear has released his partner. Sour Joe is still clutching his legs when Bonesaw flops on top of him; his head and his arm are ripped off and his corpse is unrecognizable.
The ghastliness of the attack has frozen Sour Joe’s brain. Completely off-kilter, he is struggling to think of his next move. He must quickly make a plan as he suspects the bear will return and knows that trying to outrun a grizzly in darkness is futile.
The bear seems immune to gunshots and Joe realizes this animal may not be simply flesh and bone. Natives speak of Skinwalkers; evil men taking on the form of an animal and he suspects this is what he may be dealing with.
Sour Joe drags what remains of Bonesaw’s body into a corner. He reloads both shotguns and his sidearm but has no faith in their usefulness and straps his bowie knife around his thigh. He lights a coal oil lamp and it jogs his memory. He remembers that bears are terrified of fire.
The plan is now before him. He will somehow try to douse the bear with coal oil and set the animal on fire. Sour Joe grabs his fireplace poker and makes a torch by wrapping a piece of torn cloth around the tip and dousing it with coal oil. He slips matches into his pocket. He tips over the blood-soaked bunk bed, making it harder for the bear to enter through the roof and rips a footboard off the bed frame to make an extra torch. All three shutters are unlatched for a quick escape. And then he remembers their gold-filled pokes stashed behind loose floorboards. He retrieves them, puts his boots on and stuffs them inside his right boot. The doctor then opens the front door, sits in his long johns, and waits by the fireplace, with the oil can and two homemade torches, three loaded guns and a bowie knife. He is scared shitless.
In no time, he hears a faint sound in the deadly blackness of the night. He senses the bear has returned.
Joe yelps and jumps up when something comes bouncing through the door. It’s Bonesaw’s head. It rolls across the room and stops at his feet. Barely any flesh remains and his empty eye sockets are encrusted and filled with dark congealed blood. Pine needles and dirt cling to the sticky skull and blood-soaked hair. The bear is taunting him.
Outside, the grizzly is clacking his teeth, about to charge. Joe stands and lights his first torch. The time has come.
“Haaww! Haaww!” Come on you filthy animal! Let me at ya!”
If the bear can enter the cabin through the door, Joe will splash the grizzly with the oil, use his long fireplace poker torch to ignite the animal, and then escape through a shutter. This is his immediate plan.
A shadow passes in front of the door. It’s too cunning to enter the cabin; it somehow knows. Joe goes to the back window shutter and ever so slightly lifts it to peek out. The bear slams hard on the shutter and knocks Joe off his feet, his lit torch rolling along the wood floor precariously close to his coal oil can. The doctor scurries on all fours to retrieve it and turns to face the beast. It is still outside standing on its hind legs. The bear is taller than the cabin and all Sour Joe can see through the gaping window is its underbelly and its front paws dangling. One paw has only three claws.
Like an earthquake, the shack begins to shudder and creak. The grizzly is pushing against the cabin. River stones dislodge from the fireplace chimney and the mantel crashes. Joe knows this structure cannot withstand the bear’s full weight pounding and pushing on it. The animal is trying to get Joe to leave the cabin. A booming crack rings in the night air and the cabin begins to grind and groan as it tilts to one side.
Joe grabs his oil can and a fresh torch and races out just in time, as the front door collapses behind him. With the unlit torch jammed down the back of his pants and an oil can in his left hand, he awkwardly begins to scale a birch tree grove at the front of the cabin. A wild fierce growl rolls through the black spruce forest. The bear runs from behind the cabin and rushes to Joe. It is tall enough to swat at him and its claws sink into his left leather boot. It is tugging at it and mercifully, the boot slips off. The bear begins to climb. Joe keeps scaling, his barefoot making it easier and just when he begins to think he may be high enough, a claw scrapes along the length of his back leg, carving through his long johns. A burning pain boils through his body. He can taste his death. Forcing his tortured leg to keep working, he keeps scaling the birch tree in a mad panic. Even though the smaller limbs may not hold his weight, he must climb to the very top. He looks over his shoulder. The enormous heft of the beast has slowed it down and he can hear it panting. Now is the time.
With his arms extended around the trunk, he removes the oil can lid and aims at the bear, one arm outstretched while holding on with the other and pours the entire oil can on the grizzly. It splashes on the bear’s face and torso. He reaches for the matches in his pocket. He strikes one with his thumbnail. The sulphur head breaks off. He tries a second match; it does not light. The bear has not given up and is still climbing. He flicks a third match and it ignites. Sour Joe pulls the torch from his pants and lights the rag. Timing will be crucial to his survival; if he waits too long, the bear will grab him… not long enough and he may not be able to reach the bear with the torch.
A demonic red eyeshine flashes from the bear’s face, a reflection of the completely engulfed cabin. Man and beast stare into each other’s eyes. An evil presence seeps from the animal and Joe discerns malevolence from this grizzly. It feels personal.
The trunk begins swaying like a pendulum as the animal continues to claw its way upward. The tree is close to breaking and will not withstand the bear’s massive weight much longer. Joe struggles to keep his balance on the slippery blood-soaked branch as it undulates in the northern air.
He must act now. His torch is beginning to peter out. He aims for the bear through the branches and lets the torch drop from his hand. It hits a branch on the way down, spins in the air and gently rubs against the bear’s shoulder before hitting the ground. Joe does not see a flame. Dread strikes him until he notices a faint blue luminescent hue begin to dance on the bear’s coat. Joe hears a whoosh and yellow flames flicker on the fur and spread to the animal’s face. The bear drops to the forest floor, running in circles, its face ablaze. With fire burning its eyes, the grizzly is blinded. Confused and panicked, it races into the cabin’s flaming rubble.
A shocking, diabolical shrill sucks the life out of the forest and a ghostly image begins to form in the billowing smoke. It rises high, swirling in the jet-black sky above the raging flames. It’s Kodiak’s ghastly face cackling and sneering at Sour Joe who is clutching for his life in the bloody birch tree. Kodiak’s ghostly image laughs and laughs until his hideous cackle is swallowed by the forest’s breath and his phantom image melts into the rising inferno.
The ordeal is over.
Joe slumps on the branch. Every muscle in his body begins to twitch and the events of this living nightmare sink in. Kodiak was a Skinwalker manifesting as a grizzly delivering revenge for his death. It is beyond belief and Sour Joe will have to make sense of it later. For now, all he knows is that Bill, his partner and friend is dead, that he is alive… and that he is alone.
Wretchedness descends on him like mist and Joe is overcome by grief. The sizzling from the cabin’s fire cannot dampen his heavy anguished weeping. It’s as if the birch tree is crying.
***
Doctor Joe Campbell from Vancouver was outlived by the legend of Sour Joe and the Grizzly. Over gut rot whiskey and dandelion wine, gold diggers toasted their hero, recounting the story to newcomers and celebrating among themselves the epic saga. Over time, the yarn assumed a life of its own with Sour Joe fighting the evil grizzly with his bare hands.
The myth lived on long after the gold rush died. They say, on frosty autumn nights, if you look closely at the exalted Yukon firmament, you can see the image of a grizzly bear in the blazing northern lights.
- Sour Joe and The Grizzly - August 25, 2024
- One Life to Live - March 26, 2024
