We had another bear come visit us a couple of weeks ago. He (we figure it was a year old male) sauntered through my daughter and son in law’s yard, very close to their nine year old son, just looking curious, and they texted me that he was headed my way. It was nearly dark, and I went out on my deck, looking around either side of the house. No bear. I went back to the north side of the deck for another look, and just before I turned away in disappointment, a blackness deeper than approaching night begin to emerge from under the crabapple tree in our backyard, only about fifteen feet from the deck. And then an adolescent black bear stepped out onto the grass and looked up at me.
Black bears are black beyond black. When I see one, I’m always surprised by this. And the brown around their muzzles is such a soft contrast.
He didn’t look in the least big afraid of me. He just looked curious. He even took another step forward. I began talking to him to make sure he knew I was a human that he should be wary of, but he didn’t seem at all wary, just curious.
This happened to me one other time in the deep woods about a mile from our house, when I came near to a very young coyote. He was following his mother who was nose down, very intent on a scent. (Our Eastern coyotes are very big and bushy and look a bit like wolves, and I’ve heard that they are descended from Canadian wolves.) I had a dog with me but I had already put her on a leash. We all saw each other at the same second, except the mother, thank God, who was still on the scent––the young coyote stopped and stared at us, completely unafraid, and I actually almost heard it think, “What’s that? Is it something fun?” My dog was silent, but she strained toward the young coyote as it took a step toward us and it almost seemed as if they wanted to play with each other. But I realized the mother would not have cared for that! So I clapped my hands just once, and instantly both coyotes disappeared, as they have a way of doing in our woods when they cross paths with us. They are masters at vanishing into thin air.
And here was this curious bear in my yard. Part of me wished that I could quietly slip down the steps and go to him and see what he would do. Would he let me put a hand into his deep, soft fur? But the rational part of me knew that any bear in my neighborhood should not get too used to humans; it would be a death sentence for the bear. Some day he might come too close to a child and one of my neighbors would be quick to grab a rifle and shoot him. One friend’s husband did shoot a bear in the woods not far from my house and its head and beautiful fur is on display on the trophy wall of his home. And there was no terrified child or any threatened creature involved––he just wanted a bear on his wall.
How could anyone kill such a creature? So as this bear and I looked at each other, I clapped my hands several times, loudly, and said, “Okay, it’s time for to you to go home, Bear. Back to your woods.” And he took another second, and then he slowly, clumsily, turned on his haunches, slipped back under the crabapple and slowly trotted for the woods. A part of me would have liked to have followed him. But I want him to be safe.
And this reminds me of my favorite version of the woman-who-married-the-bear story, told by a Nishga storyteller, the one that begins, “The princess of the tribe is picking salmonberries…” She’s young, she’s a bit stuck up, and the bears teach her a lesson, but also give her indescribable gifts.
Raven, Tell A Story 