Musing: Mama Bear Warning

A black bear charged us yesterday. Crashed through the underbrush, growling and snorting with her eyes locked on her targets—us.

In fairness, it was a bluff charge. She stopped ten yards away and slammed her paws into the ground. Her head held high. Her ears pointed up. Her fur puffed to make her look bigger.

If her ears had been back and head lowered, we would have been in big trouble, but her body language told us she only wanted to warn us away. Her yelling was bear talk for “get off my lawn.” An ursine warning.

To be clear, it was a very effective warning. We hadn’t noticed her precious cubs playing beside the trail, but she sure saw us approaching. Her only intention was to protect them, and we graciously accepted her message. We offered our apologies for interfering with her family time and slowly moved down the trail.

Bear encounters here are common. We’ve interacted with dozens—probably hundreds—over the years.

The last one, before yesterday of course, was just a week ago. The big male who rules the bear world here crossed the road in front of us as we walked home. He glanced in our direction, shrugged, and expressed his utter disinterest by continuing to amble along.

We went the other way. We don’t debate these things.

Several years ago, I was driving a tractor and mowing a field. Rounding a bend, I spied a bear sitting on his ample rump and plucking wild blackberries for an afternoon snack. I objected to his blocking my path. He pointed to the bounty of berries hanging from the branches and made it clear he planned to snack for a while. I opted to mow another section of the field until he was done.

Those stories would suggest I know better than arguing with a bear, but that’s not entirely true. One rascal started a debate when he hit my Jeep.

Yes, he hit me. I didn’t hit him. In fact, I tried to avoid him.

I saw him running through the woods as I was driving up a curvy mountain road to our old house. I knew he was going to cross, so, for both his safety and mine, I stopped to dodge the collision.

He plowed headfirst into the passenger side door with a thunk.

He stepped back and shook his head. If it had been a cartoon, stars would have been circling his ears. Once he decided he was okay, he fired a string of bear expletives at me.

“Don’t yell at me,” I replied. “I was stopped. You hit me.”

His opinion of who was at fault was different. He stomped his feet and suggested some quite nasty things about my family tree. My thoughts that he should look where he’s going next time probably didn’t help his mood.

Exasperated, he crossed in front of my Jeep, shot me one final nasty look, and loped off through the woods, still muttering about my lack of driving skills.

Now, just in case you think I’m crazy for arguing with a bear, I’ll point out that I was sitting in the safety of a getaway car, albeit a ragtop Jeep without the windows. I didn’t accept his challenge to step outside and settle our dispute, mano-y-bearo.

As proof of such wisdom, let me tell you about a camping trip to New Mexico about 40 years ago. We were cooking breakfast over a campfire when a bear wandered up. He declared our food delicious smelling and claimed it for himself. We didn’t put up much protest and ended up hiking hungry that morning. Wise, but still hungry.

I share these tales to explain how accustomed we are to sharing space with our ursine neighbors and how we have a healthy respect for their power. When we hike in the backcountry, the dogs wear bear bells. Given the warning of our approach, most bears choose to avoid any contact.

If you have ever hiked in our mountains, you’ve been close to bears, even if you didn’t see them. They quietly watched from the shadows, never announcing their presence as you passed.

For those times when we come face-to-face, we carry bear spray, even just for walking the dogs along the neighborhood greenway.

Being prepared isn’t always quite enough, though. A few minutes after yesterday’s encounter, we passed some neighbors on the trail and mentioned our sighting. Since we had previously discussed carrying bear spray, they asked if we had had to use it. Only then did I realize I had not even unholstered it. Just call me Slow Draw McGraw.

Or, maybe, No Draw McGraw might be more fitting.

Thanks to that first meeting with Mama Bear yesterday, we were on full alert as we approached the second time. Yes, our route is an out and back, so our return trip took us right by the same spot. We hoped the bears had moved along, but that wasn’t the case. When I looked up, I saw movement in the trees. Mom had seen us coming and sent her kids to the safety above.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t locate her. She wasn’t far—she’d never leave her cubs unattended—but we did not know where. We scanned the thick rhododendron hugging the trail, but had no success spying her.

As we searched, a young couple jogged up with a toddler in a stroller. “Careful,” I said and pointed to the baby bears above us. “Mama is around here somewhere.”

“Yeah,” the father said, “She charged us earlier.”

That unsettling news upped the ante. She hadn’t just charged us. She had charged them. This bear was in a foul mood.

With a minimum of debate, we all opted for the safest decision. We backed away slowly and took the long route along the neighborhood streets.

After all, who am I to argue with Mother Nature? Especially when she is in the form of a grouchy Mama Bear.

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Thank You For Reading

Hope you enjoyed today’s story. I enjoyed writing it, but not so much experiencing it.

If you’re interested in how to safely live among the bears, may I recommend checking out Bear Wise?

If you have questions or thoughts, drop them in the comments below.