Bear
The counselors positioned it this way after breakfast: go back to the cabin, brush your teeth, put on good shoes, we’re going bear hunting.
I was eleven years old when I saw my first bear, which was lying on the ground next to a dumpster, shot by Algonquin Park rangers called in by my summer camp to settle the dispute they were having with the animal over the disposal of kitchen refuse. The counselors positioned it this way after breakfast: go back to the cabin, brush your teeth, put on good shoes, we’re going bear hunting.
Not likely a sanctioned event. The counselors were high school seniors or young college students with a thrill for adventure and tantalizing junior campers. We did as we were told and followed them to a place we would not have ventured, the crusty, badly-kept, back-of-house, smelly outflow point of camp. And there was the bear. Flies buzzing around, teeth in a snarl, fierce-looking. A scavenger, by then. Unwittingly drawn into the line of fire by easy pickings from a can.
I was too young to process feeling bad for it. Today they might have tried to trap or sedate the animal and relocate it. Or not. Big black bears and small young campers are a poor mix, but the issue was more likely disgruntled kitchen staff, up at night to the sound of crashing dumpster lids and angry having to clean the yard in the morning. If you have had a dog or raccoon go through your trash you have an inkling of the problem. A bear through a dumpster is a sizeable mess.
Fifty years later I saw my second bear, a small cub that darted across our driveway at the Pond as I drove in. The foliage was thick around the house in those days, and it disappeared quickly from sight. But, hey, a bear.
I will point out that bears do not cause excitement around here as much as moose. Moose are very shy, very large, and have plenty of habitat to remain hidden. They do not sniff out bird feeders, gardens, or blueberry bushes. If you are intent on seeing one, visit Pittsburgh, New Hampshire, and its stretch of Route 3 known as Moose Alley. Every evening the massives come out to graze along the roadside to benefit from the salt put down in winter. Down here, the forest comes to the edge of the road, resulting in not much grazing property and probably not much salt. So, the moose stay away, and—better for everyone—off the roads.
Well, now, here we are today, and it is getting hard this summer to go out the door without running into a bear. An overstatement, of course, but consider that I had seen two bears (one an ex-bear) in the previous sixty-one years, and over the last month, I have seen three. Or, more likely, one bear, three times—maybe, the adult version of the cub I saw cross the driveway five years ago.
Two of the three instances were fleeting. We flushed the bear going about our business and it charged away. The third instance was different. The third instance was a David Attenborough moment. My mind replays it in slow motion. I had been sitting ten minutes earlier in a chair within petting distance. But I had gone inside to shower and change. I peeked outside to check on Huckleberry, our dog, curled in his usual spot at the edge of the lawn, sniffing the breezes of a pleasant summer evening, when into the frame, as if being leash walked down the driveway by someone who would emerge next from behind the rhododendron calling, “Come meet Sally,” padded a large, brown-nosed, fuzzy, perfectly huggable, black bear.
Uh-oh. The dog.
Most days (this was a Tuesday), it is possible to wander around all four acres of the property without clothes on. We are in the woods, on a pond; our immediate neighbor is typically here on weekends and, even so, we might not disrupt her if we happened to streak to the garage to fetch our mobile phone from the car. You would have to hike in to catch us fully exposed, but don’t bother—we are usually, always, fully dressed, boots on, except in the rarest of circumstances, and I can name one, which is when a bear wanders into the yard just as we are about to step into the shower and the dog is outside.
I scrambled for Huckleberry’s treats and training clicker and hurried out the door, as is.
Dogs go straight to Heaven because they are nonjudgmental. But they are sticklers for routine. Bust the routine and their anxiety levels spike. I think this explains why Huck, reacting to my sudden appearance and obscene departure from the normal course of business turned immediately to look behind him. He had seen enough Westerns. Sure enough, there was a bear.
And off they both went, disappearing from view.
I cannot say what happened, but there was no yelling or screaming and Huck was back in a minute, jaunty, tongue dangling, prancing up the stairs to the door, turning to me with a look to say let’s get you inside.
I am curious about this bear and fancy a similar encounter at another point. An amiable Ursus Americanus who appreciates an evening stroll on the driveway, who is mannerly enough to avoid making a scene, being more concerned with when the blueberries will ripen.
By chance, I ran into one of our local police officers who first worked for Fish & Game and I gave her the low down on our encounters. Yup, you have a new neighbor, she told me. There ought to be room for everybody, but if it becomes a nuisance, call us.
I would rather not. I remember how it ended the first time.