Trash Cans and Bears

Trash cans and bears don’t mix.

Here’s my issue: Steph and I have a quaint one-bedroom cabin north of Ely with a small vegetable garden, sauna with outdoor shower, and a large garage filled with my bicycles, boats, motorcycles, snowmobiles, and assorted power tools (jealous?). It’s up on the highest hill in the area, approximately 500 feet from Burntside Lake. We call it, unimaginatively, Hilltop. At the foot of our property, a private gravel road goes down to a cluster of eight cabins. Their mailboxes are on our property, and maybe because they get personal mail stuffed into their tin boxes, they feel the land beneath is also theirs. They leave their trash cans beside the boxes. Once filled, the cans are bear goody bags.

Now, these people have tried to be somewhat responsible by only filling the cans a day or two before trash day. I’ve looked the other way for years. But now the bears are hip to their tricks. The day before trash day, Monday, the dinner bell rings and the bears come to feed. It’s not pretty. Bears don’t eat with a knife and fork, and they don’t clean up after themselves. So, Styrofoam boxes, watermelon rinds, processed food containers, lazy-lodger paper plates—well, you get the idea—are strewn all over the road and consequently onto my private property. I forgot to mention dirty diapers…

I’ve cleaned up the mess a couple of times, but my neighbors, Tim and Annette, who live on the road full-time, do it more often.

I don’t want conflict with my neighbors, maybe gun-shy after I once confronted a neighbor lady whose two dogs barked nonstop for hours. I knocked on her door and explained the situation. She was apologetic. But what I’d noticed previously was that her speech was halting and off, like someone born with hearing loss who learns to speak without the ability to hear themselves. I was sympathetic; she probably didn’t know the dogs were a bother. After our exchange, I asked, “Are you deaf?” Now, intonation is everything. I meant the question to be a simple one, like “Are your dogs from the same litter?” I followed up by suggesting that maybe I could get her phone number and text her when the dogs became a future nuisance. But what she lipread was, “ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF?” Later that day, I got an earful from her husband, who vehemently explained that “deaf” was not the proper nomenclature. The proper term was “hearing impaired.” (Here I beg to differ. If you look online, the national association is still NAD). Apparently, his wife was distraught and had sobbed uncontrollably for hours. I was then stuck with sending a long and meaningful apology text. She did not respond. Hence, I’m a little reluctant to confront neighbors.

But enough is enough. I placed a note in each of the mailboxes, “Please do not store your trash cans on my property. The cans are attracting bears.” I signed the note with my name and phone number.

No one moved their cans or called. Rude

I then posted a sign. Just to be clear, I hate signs. I hate the ones that say No Shoes No Shirt No Service, or Keep Off The Grass, or Unattended Children Will Be Given An Espresso and Free Kitten (though that one is kinda funny). I hate bumper stickers like Back Off (with a cartoon of Yosemite Sam), Dump Trump or Let’s Go Brandon (political bumper stickers will get your car keyed), or If You Can Read This, The Bitch Fell Off (This slightly offensive one printed on the back of a Harley goon’s T-shirt. Again, it is kinda funny). I hate signs of all kinds, but I figured that if I was to then complain to the Sheriff about the cans, I’d better have my opinions posted. I put up a very professional custom steel sign that cost me $40 online. It read, "Private Property, Please Do Not Store Your Trash Cans Here."

Again, I was ignored. No one moved their cans or called. Double Rude!

I finally did complain to the Sheriff, or rather Deputy Jaros. I was informed that he couldn’t do anything, that it was a matter between neighbors, and he would only get involved if, say, someone pulled a gun or threatened me in any way. He told me to simply move the cans off my property. So, that’s what I did, moving the cans down the gravel road about a hundred feet. I once more put a polite note on their cans and in the mailboxes that explained the situation.

Not an hour later, I heard the trash can wheels rumbling as they were moved. I thought, great, they’ve heeded my message. But then I saw that they weren’t moved to their owner’s property, but defiantly right back to mine.

Really fucking rude!

Like I said, I never wanted conflict. But now the conflict had risen to the level of physical confrontation, like a slap to the face or a kick to the testicles. My mind went crazy with the what-ifs. Would someone resort to real violence? Over trash cans? I know that just about everyone living on the gravel road has a gun. I know because I’ve heard them plunking away on Sunday mornings. I don’t own a gun; I don’t trust that I won’t shoot myself…accidentally.

But the gantlet had been dropped. I moved the cans back down the road and waited.

Then my phone rang. Tim, next door. I answered, “I’m fighting with the neighbors.”

“Well, you moved the cans down the road and onto my property.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. So it was you who moved the cans back?”

“Yes. And, Kurt, you’re just kicking the proverbial can down the road. They’ll just think they can leave the very real cans there. The dinner bell for bears will still be ringing.” Tim has a sense of humor.

“What should I do?”

“Move the cans onto their properties.”

“I’ll get shot.”

“Don’t be a pussy.” (He didn’t really say that, but cowardice was implied.)

So, I moved each trash can along with the polite note down to each offender’s property. I was not shot or accosted in any way. In fact, no one was out to witness what I did.

Then…

Well, nothing. The cans didn’t come back until trash day, and then they were promptly returned to where they belonged. I received a nice email from a neighbor who apologized for the cans and the bears. No guns, no knee to the groin.

No…more…conflict!