Large Fierce Mammal

Pepper, in the astoundingly brief and yet still magical process of recharging his Border Collie batteries.

I once had a Border Collie named Pepper that every Sunday I took to participate in flyball at a school soccer field located about a 35 minute drive from where we lived at the time. The drive involved travelling most of the way on a major highway, then a turn off at a particular exit that had very specific significance for Pepper – the exit ramp led to a stop sign from which a right turn would take us past our veterinarian’s office while a left turn led to the flyball field.

Pepper loved to travel but routinely was snoozing by the time we reached the highway. Nevertheless, he was always on his feet and watching about a minute before we arrived at the critical exit. Turning onto the exit ramp started his tail wagging slowly and this continued as we arrived at the fateful stop sign. If I turned right, the tail wagging stopped and Pepper would once again curl up on the back seat, feigning disinterest, but turning left, now that was a different matter! The tail wagged the dog, and I never failed to arrived at the flyball field without the right side of my head sporting a world class cow lick.

Accurate migration by animals over long distances is well known, but literature, films, and news stories abound highlighting the astounding abilities of domestic pets to find their way home on their own from places previously unknown to them. My late and sorely missed Beagle, Jasper, did just that in the middle of one bitterly cold January back in 1984 when, incidentally, Mrs. LFM was still living in Poland, a month away from her second birthday. Thus inconvenienced, she was unable to assist me in the travails I am about to relate.

Jasper, thinking summer beats winter.

Jasper wasn’t a pure Beagle but in appearance, attitude, behaviour, and every other significant characteristic, only the Beagle part of him mattered. He wore his inner Beagle on the outside, and no mistake! Jasper and I hunted and hiked together throughout his life, and he lived to be 3 months past his 18th birthday, healthy to the last. Now I know you’re all worried at this point, so I’ll pause to tell you that Jasper’s death was quick, peaceful, dignified, and I was holding him as he breathed his last breath. The last words he heard were, “Good boy” as he left to hunt rabbits with my Grandfather. But this story isn’t about the end of Jasper’s life. These events happened a long time before that, so put the god damned Kleenex away and read on.

At the time these events unfolded, I was Troop Scouter (formerly “Scout Master” before the government of Canada decided to officially frown on anyone being given the title of “Master” under any circumstances while inexplicably ignoring the title of “Land Lord” altogether) of the 1st Maitland Scout Troop, sponsored by the now disbanded Maitland Volunteer Fire Department in rural south shore Nova Scotia. This made me the head honcho, and I had two other excellent Scouters (Leaders) working with me. I was big on challenging adventure trips and my Scouts aggressively trained to be up to the task. That January we had planned a long weekend winter camping trip – Friday morning to Sunday afternoon – to Bagpipe Lake which is marked as “CAMP SITE” on the map below. Take a moment to familiarize yourself. My residence, at the time, is marked at the lower right corner of the map, the camp site at the top right. The spot marked “JASPER’S VISITS” will be explained as we go along. The path marked between “JASPER’S VISITS” and the camp site shows the route taken on foot from the parking area to the camp site and back. Pay attention also to the scale marked on the map, and consider the distances involved as you read.

Click the map to enlarge.

As the date of the event approached, unforeseen work related circumstances conspired to put me elsewhere until Sunday, which was the scheduled day of return. Not to worry though. My two trusty assistants were on tap to lead the Troop and the expedition went on as planned. For our own part, Jasper and I were able to be there for the hike in and camp setup on Friday morning after which we had to leave, with a plan to return for the hike out on Sunday afternoon.

The expedition went by vehicle, north up the cottage road that hugs the southwestern shore of Caribou Lake to the point marked “JASPER’S VISITS” where we transitioned to boots. From there we paralleled the shore walking on the frozen lake to its northern tip where we navigated overland by map and compass to the camp site on Bagpipe lake (the path marked on the map).

Jasper and I stayed at the camp site as long as we could and arrived back at my car for the drive home just after sun down. Sunday morning, we were off before the sun and watched it come up as we hiked back to Bagpipe Lake. We arrived at the camp to find it thriving and its citizens in fine spirits.

After a day of fun in the freezing sun, Jasper and I escorted the expedition back to the parking area, and arrived at the point marked “JASPER’S VISITS” on the map about an hour before dark. Engaged with other matters, I failed to notice Jasper alerting to a scent until he had locked onto his target.

When a Beagle goes into hunting mode, the nose goes down, the tail goes up, and the ears turn  off. Your only hope is to interrupt the process before the last step. Jasper was away, hot on the trail of something, straight back the way we had just travelled. The entire party turned out to assist me but we ultimately had to turn back. As darkness fell on the group of us calling Jasper’s name from the northern tip of Caribou Lake, I felt the building weight of my obligation to get these kids on their way home.

With everybody but me and my dog safely packed up for export, and with Jasper’s excited barking echoing in the distance from somewhere far north of my position, I saddled up to trudge back over the moonlit ice and snow, back to the now deserted camp site at Bagpipe Lake, and beyond. Maddeningly, Jasper’s barking was almost continuous and yet it seemed always to be the same distance away. Finally, with clouds coming in ahead of a predicted heavy snowfall, I turned for the slog back to my car that was becoming dusted with the first flakes as I arrived. “Reluctant” doesn’t begin to describe how I felt as I turned back. There isn’t a word in my vocabulary.

Monday morning dawned crisp and clear. About a foot and a half of powder had fallen over night that now glistened in the sun at a steady minus twenty degrees Celsius without a breath of wind. I was out right behind the snow plow that, for once, arrived shortly after dawn, and made my way straight back to Caribou Lake. Reaching the point marked on the map as “JASPER’S VISITS” I could see that a dog had come to the parking area from the north, clearly bedded down in some scrub, and then departed back north. I walked back to the north end of Caribou Lake calling him but all I heard was winter silence. Returning to my car, I laid a blanket on the spot where Jasper had slept before I had to depart.

One of the benefits of self-employment is the relative freedom to control one’s schedule, at least some of the time. I returned to my office in Lunenburg and put out an APB on Jasper through the RCMP, the local radio station, the newspapers, and everybody I knew. That day, and for the next five days, I returned to the blanket at every possible moment. Every night brought at least another six inches of snow followed by a sunny and calm minus 20 degree day, and every morning a dog had obviously slept on the blanket but bugged out back north before I arrived. Calls began coming in from local residents who had seen him, but Jasper remained elusive. One woman said she was leaving out food that she had seen him take, but he always ran away as soon as she approached. This was uncharacteristic of Jasper, but not surprising in the circumstances. Thinking he might simply be retracing the trip between the camp site and the parking area I made several fruitless trips, now on snow shoes, back to Bagpipe Lake – his tracks went everywhere with no clear way for me to follow and this increased my concern. He was exerting an incredible amount of energy just travelling.

Saturday night, almost a week after his disappearance, I didn’t sleep much. I was too engaged in kitting out for Sunday. An hour before sunup I was swallowing my last gulp of coffee from the cup in one hand while grabbing my pack with the other, resolved to bring back my dog, one way or another. It was then that I heard a sound at the door.

I dropped my pack and opened the door – there, for a moment, stood Jasper – a moment that was soon transformed into a glorious spell of hugs and yips and licks and full body tail wags and I can’t even tell you which of us was doing what.

Jasper looked a little slimmer than he had a week before, and for the next two weeks, his main interests were eating and sleeping behind the wood stove, but he was none the worse for his adventure. I consulted everyone I knew who may have simply found him and dropped him off home without saying anything but always came up empty. I finally had to conclude that Jasper just got fed up waiting to be rescued and decided to come home on his own. Whether he followed a scent trail I had left by travelling back and forth so often, or used some other even more amazing method of navigating, he never said.

In conclusion dear readers, I am happy to report that Jasper’s adventures with me continued for many years after, included many a Boy Scout outing and years of canoe trips, and never again did he express the slightest interest in going anywhere without me.