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It is the 20th anniversary of when I met Kristin in Tallinn, the Estonian capital, and the story of Wild Bear Lodge began.
We fell in love and, later that year, she moved to Moscow to be with me, a serious leap of faith for a genetically Russophobic Estonian.
The following spring we left the Old World behind. That summer we put down a deposit on a wilderness ranch deep in the British Columbia mountains.
Kristin died in early 2020 – taken by a fierce cancer that seemed to come from nowhere. Without her I had little appetite to continue in Canada. I almost sold the ranch.
But in the end I decided to keep it and - as I prepare for my nineteenth autumn season as a wilderness bear guide – the lodge is once again happy, buzzing and almost fully-booked.
In July I flew to Tallinn. I walked through the cobbled streets of the old town, sat outside the 14th Century town hall, and remembered how I had stood, waiting, exactly 20 years before...
The woman I was waiting for was medium-tall. She had short blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. In her late twenties, she was the bureau chief for one of the big international news agencies in this city on the Baltic Sea.
I had met Ms Marmei once before. About a year before we had shared an espresso in this very same square. The previous night I had slept on the Moscow train, drank a few beers in the restaurant car, and was dishevelled and nursing a slight headache.
As I sat in a creased leather jacket, smoking a rolled up cigarette, eyes smarting from the angled morning sun and hair matted, Ms Marmei had been civil but cool.
The newspaper I worked for was a subscriber to Ms Marmei’s agency and I could, by the rules of the game, claim a little of her time and local knowledge.
She agreed willingly enough to give me a list of people I could interview for a story I was working on.
As I watched her rattle off the names, however, I couldn't help but feel that this polite Nordic worman, while willing enough to do her professional duty, had taken no pleasure in our meeting. She seemed keen to be off as soon as she could without being explicitly rude.
Like many correspondents who spend their lives on the road, I was a bit of an emotional opportunist, taking understanding and warmth where I found it. But there was not the slightest warmth in Ms Marmei that morning. Not even a shared smile.
I got a laundry list of names, a five minute précis of her country's political situation, and she was gone. Her routine was so swift and efficient that, were it not for the empty coffee cup on the table in front of me, I might have doubted she had been there at all.
After a couple of forgettable interviews with some earnest but dull local officials I got on the train and headed back to Moscow. And within a few days I had forgotten all about Estonia, its docile politics and its alluring but cold-hearted daughter.
It was the following summer now. I was back in Tallinn. Another year, another story. The life of a roving newspaper correspondent always on the look out for something new. I stood by the entrance to the old Town Hall and waited patiently, smoking.
Slowly, the minutes ticked by.
The Estonian capital in July was far from unpleasant. There was something almost bewitching about the mood on this northern European evening. The sunlight was sloping at an angle between the buildings and striking the worn cobblestones just beyond where I stood.
The day had been warm but as the shadows fell onto the charming crooked buildings, in their fresh coats of lemon, blue and birthday cake pink, the square was coming to life with a babble of different languages.
I recognized one or two of the Nordic languages, but could also hear Russian, English and German. Around me people were moving to and fro, off to meet their friends, perhaps their lovers.
Summer is short in these parts of the north. But when the land finally shakes off the cloak of winter it seemed an exuberant, almost fey, happiness grips the otherwise lugubrious locals. It was a time for letting your hair down. It was a time for romance. A time for mischief.
Romance and mischief had been the last things on my mind for most of that summer. I had just returned from several weeks in Iraq covering the growing anti-American insurgency, and I was still twitchy and unsettled.
Baghdad that summer had been hot and violent - a world of sweat, adrenalin and fear.
One morning I was shaken from my bed when a suicide bomber rammed a car packed with high explosive into the barrier at the front of my hotel. Only the concrete blast walls saved the building.
As I staggered out into the corridor, bleary-eyed, clutching my kevlar body armour, I saw the car engulfed in a ball of fire. The bomber himself had been blown into small pieces.
On another day I had watched as westerners burned to death in an armoured Land Rover when an insurgent fired a rocket propelled grenade at it. I still remember the smell.
It was with relief then that I finally returned from Iraq to Moscow, a city I loved and called home, alma mater of the Slavs. But I had only been back a short while when my phone rang.
"There's a story we want you to do in the Baltics."
It was one of my editors.
"It's about Brits. Brits behaving badly. Just up your street."
I groaned audibly, not bothering to hide what I thought of the idea.
(Part 2: I meet Ms Marmei again and, over drinks, explain the assignment I am on. She is not impressed. )
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NEWS & LINKS
+ This is adapted from the manuscript of a memoir I am writing. It tells the story of how I met Kristin and we set up Wild Bear Lodge (then Grizzly Bear Ranch). The manuscript has been available under the title Bearly Surviving for friends and guests for some years. This winter it is my intention to finally knock it into shape and publish it properly. If you would like to get a copy once it is released please drop me a line on julius@wildbearlodge.ca and I will make a note to contact you when the time comes.
+ Our 2024 grizzly bear-viewing season is pretty much full - though I do have a spot or two available right at the end of October. We have now opened booking for May-June and Oct 2025. If you think you might be interested you can check out our website or drop me a line.
+ The awful summer fires have thankfully now abated, there has been a good dousing of rain, and river levels are at or above seasonal averages. It promises to be a beautiful autumn.
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The story of a British war correspondent who moved to the Canadian wilderness and set up a bear-viewing lodge. And what happened next. By Julius Strauss. Since 2006.
Loved this piece and it's definitely made me want to read the complete memoir when it appears. My wife, Elaine, and I were lucky enough to share time with you and Kristin as the only guests at the Lodge for one four day visit in May 2012. When we returned in October 2014, Kristin was pleased to present my wife with the cap she thought we had left two years before. It wasn't Elaine's but it just said so much about Kristin that she kept it in the hope of reuniting it with its owner. She was a lovely person and we feel privileged to have shared time with her.
Laughing at your description of Kristin as cool and rather dismissive, because she could not have been warmer when we first met her. Isabel's over-riding memory of Kristin is her pork ragu. Apparently it was one of the most delicious things she has ever eaten.