"Waugh," Al Smith cried when the bear cub licked his face. "Damnation," he yelled when he tried to get away from this torture by climbing down the tree, only to be reminded of the mother bear who voiced her displeasure of the whole scene with a roar that could have fractured a thunderstorm.
"Tain't natural," Smith complained as he inched his way out on a very precarious limb, "who would have thought to look about for a third cub?"

Just moments before he had spotted the old sow browsing through a berry patch. He looked about for the usual twin cubs, and made very sure not to get between them, and mother.

Maybe if he hadn't been so tired from carrying such a heavy pack back and forth, shuttling 300 pounds of supplies up toward the pass between the two river drainage's where he was planning on meeting up with the Robinson brothers for a winters trapping, he might have seen that third, unnatural, extra little varmint laying in the sun, scratching his belly.

Now he was trapped. When that old she-bitch had come on her mighty warlike run, she somehow scared her own young one so bad that the little odd-ball of a bear cub had beat Smith to the tree to get out of this mad mammy's way.

Smith hadn't minded a paw or two using his head for a ladder. But when sharp claws ripped the pocket right off his shirt, sending his clay pipe flying, that was just too much!

In fact, it was enough to give a man religion. Before leaving the gold fields of Hope, British Columbia, Smith had made the point of telling his cronies that he was giving up carousing around for good, because that was bad. They had laughed so hard at this statement they dubbed him "The Parson," and sent him on his way with two prized bottles of F. Zimmerman's Full Measure Mail Order Whiskey. Now, a tinkle of breaking glass as the sow, mad that she herself was unable to climb the tree, ripped apart his hastily discarded pack. It was the sign that showed Smith the folly of his backsliding.

With nothing to do but wait, and think, Smith pondered this point. He also began to notice the beauty of the mountains he had been trudging through. His mind worked out a doggerel that turned out so well, with narry a risque twist, that "The Parson" made a promise.
"Lord, when and if, this good old soul is allowed to climb down, he is going to show his appreciation by carving the words into the trunk of this here tree. They go like this:

I've roamed in foreign parts my boys,
And many lands have seen,
But Columbia is my idol yet,
Of all lands she is queen.
Parson Smith

June 1886