Soon after arriving at camp in the Bunsby Islands, I did a little recon of the beach and immediate area. Nothing much out of place on this little NW island paradise, but on the small pocket beach, I did spot some tracks, thankfully not wolves or bears but small, delicate, almost cat-like.
The tracks weaved up and down the beach and I deduced they were Mink tracks. Everyone’s favorite beachcomber energetically bounds all over, looking for food. They are said to be rare on Vancouver Island but I’ve been lucky enough to have seen them often; Fuzzy and adorable, I shudder now when I think of my Grandmother’s stole.
I was on the lookout to see the local critter and it didn’t take long; I was reading on the beach and glanced up to see a dark, small weasel zig zagging about 20 yards away; he hadn’t seen me yet. This was a rare ‘Black Mink’;the dark color of a chocolate lab. His immaculate fur looked so soft that I wanted to grab him and rub my face on his belly. He was bounding around speedily, up and under the driftwood, darting about like he’d raided my coffee stash. As I fumbled for my camera, he calmly turned and parkoured his way back into the woods.
But it wasn’t long before I hear a noise behind me coming from a pile of driftwood. The mink pops out and then starts running down a log, straight at me. He’s only a few feet away and bearing down on me; the way I was sitting he was about to collide with my head. I nearly got my wish of rubbing my face on his belly, but just before impact I squeal, jump up run down the beach and he again bolts into the woods.
He has disappeared, I slowly walk back to my perch muttering “WTF is up with this crazy Mink!?” (Not sure if I should worry, but on these long solo trips I do find I talk to myself, even when not being charged by weasels.)
I sit, glance up and ‘Poof!’ there he is again, sitting on a log staring right at me. He wasn’t there moments ago. Crazy Mink has magically appeared on a piece of driftwood and is now giving me the stink eye. He looks at me, then slowly scans my messy camp, as if to say, “who the hell are you and why is your crap all over my beach?” He shrugs it off, and playfully bounces off down the beach again without a care in the world. I watched him leave again, muttering ironically to myself, ‘Crazy Mink.’