Bear

A heavy tread on the gravel drive, as if from a very large dog or a small pony trotting past my front door. It’s late Tuesday morning. I’ve been feeling depressed about the end of a too-short vacation, and am still very tired. But I force myself up out of my chair in front of the computer and over to the window in time to see a medium-sized black bear pausing where the trail enters the woods. I step out onto the porch for a better look. The bear sees me and gallops up the trail, quickly disappearing behind the thick curtain of leaves.

It’s good to be home, I think, as a male ruby-throated hummingbird ricochets back and forth above my herb garden, displaying for some nearby female. What wildlife did we see in the city? Pigeons, starlings, English sparrows, gray squirrels. This dullness in my head is nothing a good night’s sleep can’t dispel.

An hour later, when my ten-year-old niece Eva comes down from the other house, I tell her about my sighting. “Nuh-UH! You’re lying! I don’t believe it!” I show her the blurry photo I managed to snap as the bear’s butt disappeared up the trail. “That’s no fair! I hate you!” she exclaims. I’ll admit, it doesn’t seem right that good wildlife sightings should come to those who sit in front of their computers, while others go for long walks and see nothing.

Eva wants to go looking for the bear immediately, but I tell her it could be anywhere by now — and besides, I badly need a nap. Later in the afternoon, she bugs me about camping out that night, but I manage to persuade her that a walk at dusk will suffice. So around 8:15 we head up into the woods of Laurel Ridge, following the trail the bear took.

Our trails are mostly old woods roads, almost 200 years old and deep in moss, so it’s not hard to walk quietly. A doe bounds up out of the ferns, and we head off-trail to search for her fawn, with no luck. We continue bushwhacking for another couple hundred feet through the woods, Eva in the lead since she’s shorter and prefers an unobstructed view. Then we rejoin the trail and circle the three-acre deer exclosure, continuing on the trail that parallels the field just inside the wood’s edge.

At the top of the field next to the spruce grove, another couple of deer bound off, and again we search around where they had been standing, but still no fawns. We do a little more bushwhacking through the edge of the black cherry woods that was so devastated by the ice storm the winter before last, and I’m pleased that Eva seems to have no trouble finding the easiest way between the felled trunks and blackberry vines. Then we cut over past the vernal pond — now nothing but a slight depression filled with flattened leaves and dried mud — and head down along Sapsucker Ridge. It’s about ten after nine, and I’m anxious to get Eva back before her grandparents go to bed.

The woods are open here — mostly oak — and off to our left we have a good view of the sunset above the Allegheny Front and the lights of Logan Valley below. The wood thrushes are mostly silent now, but a scarlet tanager sings a few, final bars of his hoarse song as we pass under his perch.

Eva stops short about seventy-five feet from the powerline right-of-way. “There’s a bear!” she whispers. Now it’s my turn to be skeptical. But I crouch down until my head is level with hers and I can see out under the leaves at the edge of the woods, thanks to the browse line made by our too-numerous friends the deer. Sure enough, a dark space among the ferns has the exact shape of a bear. It looks much bigger now than it did in the light of late morning. It’s standing still, facing the sunset, and my inclination is to stay still and see what it does, but Eva is already creeping forward on her hands and knees, so I have little choice but to follow suit.

We close about half the distance between us before the bear seems to shake itself out of its reverie, and moves forward, out of sight. We stand up and walk out onto the powerline, certain that the bear has moved off, but discover instead that it’s only gone as far as the nearest power pole at the edge of the ridge, less than twenty feet away. It now seems quite large — a male, I imagine, making the rounds of the power pole message boards in search of females, which are just now coming into heat. As far as we know, we still have two female bears wandering this end of the mountain, and both should be chasing off their year-and-a-half-old cubs this month, preparatory to their biannual mating.

“Lift me up! Lift me up!” Eva commands, and I quickly comply, locking my hands together into an unstable seat. She blocks most of my view, but what the hell — I’ve seen plenty of bears before. Eva is beside herself with delight. “Hello, bear! I love you!” she cries, waving wildly. It stares at this strange apparition for a few seconds before turning tail and crashing off into the woods.

We follow the bear’s fresh trail back to the other ridgetop power pole and find dozens of fresh gouges in the wood and a pile of large splinters around its base. “The bear stands on his hind legs and goes scraaaatch, then turns around and rubs his shoulders against it,” Eva informs me, repeating what her Nanna has told her. We’re descending the ridgeside, following deer or bear trails through the thick hayscented fern, the half moon bright above the trees to the south. Examining the power pole at the base of the ridge, we find that it, too, has been freshly tagged with ursine graffiti.

“Where are the stars?” Eva asks as we follow the mowed path across the field. Besides the moon, so far only one star and a planet are visible. I explain about the darkness, how it comes in increments, and how much of it we need in order to see.

15 Comments


  1. wonderful magical story. your neice sounds like me! i’ m always mad when someone sees a bear and i dont!

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  2. A really fine moment and a really fine tale. It’s always good to see the little ones interested in the outdoors.

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  3. It’s like I was walking with you and Eva, Dave. Strange: having seen that land with you so recently, now I see the land anew as you write of it. Your niece is a keeper, by the way. But I think you know that….

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  4. You’re such a great story-teller. No matter how swiftly I want the narrative to move I have to stay with it at your pace because to miss a word would be to ruin all.

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  5. She is a Bonta, no? Cute story, Dave. What a good uncle you are.

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  6. I’m remembering the unexpected company I got for breakfast one morning, uphill from the creek, and I’m glad that your moment was more relaxed.

    There are things about home that can’t be duplicated, people being one of them.

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  7. Hope this dispelled your depression – Eva is something else. How I loved it when she called out, “I love you bear!” Wonderfully told, Dave. Thanks. (And you sure couldn’t get this in the city.)

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  8. Great writing of a great adventure! Meanwhile, I get a bit more nervous when that close to a bear. So far I have been lucky and the bears have been even more nervous and have left running.

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  9. Thanks so much for all the comments.

    She is a Bonta, no?

    You bet. My brother Mark is her dad; she’s up visiting from Mississippi for two weeks.

    I get a bit more nervous when that close to a bear.

    I don’t now, but I’m sure I would’ve when I was ten.

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  10. I so loved reading this – you’re a great storyteller. Knowing the ‘back story’ and your depression at the beginning made it even more absorbing. I shared qB’s experience of simultaneously wanting the narrative to move faster but not wanting to missing a word, and Beth’s reaction to Eva calling out ‘I love you bear!’. And your magical story comes to me today as I am making up my mind about moving to the country… though there aren’t any bears the Cotswolds.

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  11. Hi Dave – I love that you didn’t teach Eva to be afraid of bears. When I was about her age at summer camp somewhere out in the woods above Boalsburg, we were picking wild strawberries at the edge of a meadow and encountered a mother bear and her cub or two? Anyway, we kids didn’t know to be afraid and our teenage counselors probably didn’t either. We watched eachother with curiosity and I don’t exactly remember who moved off first but it was decidedly a magical yet placid moment on a hot sunny afternoon. I am much more afraid of bears now than I was then – although more afraid of brown than black. I think it’s from all the warning signs at the trailheads here in WA.

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  12. Hi Alison – Close encounters with bears are always pretty memorable; I wish I had been so lucky as a kid, but bears were really uncommon then. I think it’s a good idea to be somewhat afraid — or at least very, very cautious — around grizzlies. Black bears are much less aggressive toward humans. Don’t paint all bears with the same brush!

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