Frying-Pan Jig
This story is about me, my brother Matt, and a black bear in the 1980s. My brother Matt and I are great friends, and we used to spend a lot of time together in the forest hunting, fishing, and picking berries. Once, we even had a survival challenge—we went five days living with only what we could shoot, trap, and snare. All I can say about that contest is this: I was sure happy when that was over, and we were back to eating the food our wives cooked.
Matt, the author’s brother.
Our story took place at Delaronde Lake, about 8 miles from Big River. But really, to get to where we were going, it was more like 30 miles. Matt and I were heading to a place called Rimers Trapper Cabin. I worked with the man who owned the cabin, and we had permission to use it.
A beautiful creek was running right by the cabin, where we would catch fish. We packed up what we needed for a day trip to harvest some fish for our families. If we had extra, we would share the rest with our two sisters. We didn’t need much equipment, just some snare wire and my old .22 calibre gun to shoot a rabbit for lunch, if we could find one.
We caught a ride to the Revo road and walked in. Matt’s wife needed the car for the day, so we were there till 6 o’clock, like it or not.
We had to walk about one and a half miles to the point where the creek ran into the lake - where the fish would come for the spring spawn to drop their eggs in the sandy creek beds of Rimers Creek. It was a beautiful place. The creek was about six to eight feet wide in some places and two feet wide in others. The cabin was built of spruce logs, and it was surrounded by old-growth trees.
First, we went for a walk down the creek to see if the fish were there yet, and no such luck—no fish. We had to find something to eat, so we decided to go back to the cabin. Some bears must have passed through and left a mess that Matt and I had to clean up. Now we knew that the bears were out and about.
Matt decided to take the gun and find a rabbit while we had time to look. There were lots of willows around, so there was always a good chance we could get a rabbit or a grouse (we called them chickens because they taste so good over an open fire after a long, cold winter).
It wasn’t long before Matt showed up back at the cabin. He was empty-handed, as usual. Matt had left Big River for many years because the work had dropped off, and a person couldn’t buy a job even if you had the money to do so. One thing about the bush is that if you leave it long enough, you can lose some of the dos and don’ts about getting around. Sadly, that meant we had nothing to eat yet.
I decided we should go check the creek out for a beaver dam. Sometimes, if the fish aren’t running, it’s because a dam stops them from going up the creek to spawn their eggs. If it is the right time, all it takes to get the fish running is to find the dam and knock a hole in it to get the water pouring downstream to where the fish are watering.
The dam trick didn’t work right away, so Matt and I decided to try for another rabbit or chicken. We got lucky and got a rabbit (we called them ‘wapuss’ when we were hungry in the bush). After having lunch, we went to the mouth of the creek to check for fish.
Hallelujah!
The fish were starting to run, slowly but surely. We grabbed our snare poles, but when Matt went to attach his snare, it was gone and must have fallen out of his pocket. So, then we had to share my snare pole.
The fish were coming slowly, and we took turns with my snare. There still was quite a bit of ice coming down the creek. We took turns filleting fish, as soon as we got them, we cleaned them, making the whole process pretty busy.
When I got the pole for my turn right away, Matt said, “Counta Counta (the nickname he calls me sometimes)!!! There’s a BEAR BEHIND US!!! LIKE RIGHT BEHIND US!
(not the actual bear)
My brother Matt would do this sometimes so I would give him the fishing snare. So, I just said, “Yeah...sure...”
Then, to my surprise, this big chunk of ice came floating by me, and Matt was on the chunk of ice. I turned to see this skinny, shabby, smelly, and ugly two-year-old black bear about eight feet from me. At the time, it felt like four feet away. He was chomping his mouth, and his lips were flopping, and he wanted our fish. So, I waved my arm and screamed like a girl. At least that’s what Matt said, but that’s not what I remember.
The bear backed off a few feet. I looked around for a weapon, but there was only an old cooking pot. I thought, “Better than nothing,” so I went for it. I grabbed up a fair-sized Rock at the same time. When I turned to face the bear, he was making a charge, hair on end and lips still chomping. He moved with such great speed. I never stood a chance, but I had my pot and rock. I went towards him yelling and pounding on my pot. He stopped, sand flying. He was doing the lip-chomping thing, and I was pounding that pot and swearing like a drunk man in a bar fight.
All of a sudden, I heard my brave brother ask, “Should I shoot him?” Trying to keep an eye on the bear, I yelled, “NO, DON’T SHOOT HIM.”
I turned my attention back to see the bear coming at me again. I banged my pot and rock as hard as I could as I moved toward the bear, banging and yelling. To my surprise, the bear turned and started to walk away. I was getting tired and hoping this was the end of the stand. The bear was walking kind of sideways, looking over his shoulder. Its lips were still chomping together.
The adrenaline was pounding through me by the gallon. I was shaking and thinking, “Holy crap. That was weird.” I kept my eyes on the bear 20 feet away, and it seemed like it was leaving.
All of a sudden, I heard a shot. The sand flew up in the air on the bank. I started saying, “MATT, YOU...” but was interrupted by the ugly stinky bear running full speed right at me. I was banging on my life-saving pot with all I had and was screaming my lungs out, “MATTTTTTT.”
The bear stopped right in front of me. There we were again, the bear and I, doing the frying-pan jig, and after a while, the bear finally left. Exhausted, I sat there on the sand, watching Matt as he walked back to shore through waist-deep, ice-cold water. I started laughing.
It ended up being our best fishing trip.
Thanks for listening to my memories.
Poem “The Fry Pan Jig” by Matt McMahon, written some years after the event. Transcription below.
The Fry Pan Jig
My brother and me
Were out Fishing you see
When along came a bear
I gave Mort the snare
We thought that was Fair!!
I said Kunta the bear
Mort just said!! My snare
I Picked up the gun
and jumped on a berg
I Hollered Kunta the bear
Mort uttered not a word
He thought he’d take a look
And I swear by the book. (Field and Stream)
Mort went into what looked
Like the Fry Pan Jig
Nose to nose, toes to toes
Mort and Kunta the bear
doing the Fry Pan Jig.
Matt McMahon
8/3/95
This article was originally published in the Fall 2024 Edition of Folklore Magazine.
Neil McMahon.
NEIL MCMAHON. I was born on July 16, 1956, in Big River Sask. I am the youngest son of Mary (Pruden) McMahon and Leslie McMahon. I am of Métis decent. I have spent my whole life working, hunting and exploring the bush. I worked in the logging industry from the age of 16, starting at the Big River Sawmill. I left the sawmill at the age of 21, and went logging for Bill Piche and Don McGrath, running a line skidder. In 1992, I got together with Debra Daley and her daughters Marly and Cassie. Our family loved to camp, fish and hunt. We have two wonderful grandchildren. I found a love for the bush at a young age and continue to spend as much time as possible wondering around in the forest. It will be the place I love ‘till the day I can no longer explore.
“people stories” shares articles from Folklore Magazine, a Saskatchewan History & Folklore Society publication.