At the municipal dump, huge claw marks scar the walls of the small site office. Some days the sole administrator sits inside in near terror, protected only by faith and a can of pepper spray.
On the grounds of the School of the Holy Saviour, a few hundred metres away, teachers carry air horns and scan the four-metre-high perimeter fence as the children play. Students who go on cross-country runs outside the fence wear whistles around their necks.
In the bar of the Zero 100 Motor Inn, the evening conversation is of close calls with ursine intruders. A local hotline has been set up to report on the marauders in the region.
Welcome to Marathon. The town of less than 4,000 people is perched on the roof of Lake Superior in a remote and rugged corner of Northwestern Ontario. Once best known for its paper mill and gold mines, Marathon is fast becoming the bear capital of the province.
Like other local communities, Marathon has always had a lot of black bears. For years they have congregated at the municipal dump to rummage for food.
But this year, residents say, the numbers have exploded, sparking a vigorous debate about how to deal with the threat they pose. Some people report seeing as many as 18 bears at the dump at a time.
The bears are not only more numerous, but also bolder. Scores have been sighted in back gardens and one was spotted lounging in the sun outside a Canadian Tire store in the middle of town. A local official told how one black bear stood and watched from the tree line as children made their way to school.
In one case, a bear pushed through an open window at the house of Richard Lesarge, the local justice of the peace, and clambered into his kitchen.
Friends of Mr. Lesarge recount how he thought the noises were being made by his wife; wanting to surprise her, he flipped on the light, calling out playfully, only to be confronted by a huge and equally surprised bear.
Nobody in Marathon is sure why there are so many bears around this year. An unusually hot summer that killed the blueberries they like to feed on is one contributing factor.
Doug Vincent, a municipal bylaw officer who wears a yellow T-shirt with Bear Control written on it, is on the front line in the battle to stop the bears from taking over.
"I've never seen as many," he said. "On the back roads you used to see maybe one bear a week. Now you can sometimes see five or six a day."
Mr. Vincent prefers to use a tranquillizer gun when dealing with the animals. An immobilized bear is transported to the forest up to 100 kilometres away, tagged with a plastic clip and released. If a tagged bear returns to town more than once, it is usually shot.
Mr. Vincent also has a beanbag gun -- it shoots small packets of lead pellets -- and special traps that are fitted with bait and can be towed behind a truck.
This week he watched from his truck as a huge black bear began rooting through fresh garbage at the dump. He took aim and fired a beanbag shot into the animal's rear end. Lazily, and apparently annoyed but far from cowed, the bear sauntered off.
Pauline Wright has worked the afternoon shift at the dump for more than 10 years. The shack in which she works has been clawed on all sides. About a month ago, a bear broke in during the night and ransacked her small office, tearing down shelves and cupboards.
In recognition of the risk she faces, she was recently given an air horn, a can of bear spray and a cellphone.
