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March 29th, 2010
To Chance Upon a Bear When we were visiting a friend recently, she told us, in an off-hand sort of manner, that a neighbor had discovered a cave on his property, and that rumors suggested that there was a bear -- a mother bear, along with her cub or cubs -- who was living in said cave. Our friend had permission to go and try to find the cave, and asked if we'd be interested in coming along. We lost complete and utter control. Indeed, as we began our hike, I had to run into the bushes to pee, I was so excited.
This was what adventures are made of -- foolishly
waltzing into the territory of a mother bear and her cub. This is vaguely
akin to running across an open field with a metal-tipped umbrella during a
lightning storm. Very exciting, but with a corresponding probability that
you won't come home to tell the story. "Those are the remains of the last person who thought this would be a good idea," I said. Grimly, we walked on. Black bears aren't dangerous. Really, they aren't (this is only polite to talk about when you're not in the presence of the friends or family of the 13 people killed by black bears since the year 2000). Except, maybe, when you're in the presence of a mother bear and her cubs, or approaching a den too closely. Of course, we weren't really close to the den. We stopped about 40 feet off, observing the impressive cave entrance and noting the disturbed ground around the entrance. "Okay," I said. "I'll go see if there's a bear in there." What had I said about approaching a den too closely? A few moments later I was creeping up to the cave's entrance and peeking over the rocks to look inside. Now, for someone obsessed with caves, this was quite a find. The main room was large -- 12 feet tall or more -- and a large passage branched off to the right. And to the left . . . well, there was a small cave passage filled with sand, and scrawled in the sand were the unmistakable tracks of an adult bear. Now, if I had truly lost control, I would have followed my urge, which was to jump right down into that cave and peer up the side entrance to see if anyone was home. However, realizing that I was trespassing in someone's house at this point, I stayed at the entrance and listened. What I heard was a sound I had never heard in the wild before. It was faint but distinct, and soothing in a soft and contenting sort of way. It was the purr of a baby bear. This was a pretty sure sign that the baby bear was nursing, cuddled quietly in mother's arms. I listened to the magical sound a moment longer, and then slipped quietly away back to my companions. We walked back, all of us trembling with excitement that we had been so close to such a marvelous creature. Some people might feel that these types of actions are foolish, but when we can become so intimate with nature, it's worth almost any risk, for in these moments we are vibrantly, almost painfully alive, aware of everything, cognizant that we are made of flesh and bones and skin, and reminded of the relationship that we all share with the natural world. Though the location must be kept secret on request of the land owner, we're hoping to venture back to get some photos from a distance, and if we do we'll be sure to write of them here!
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On route, we
scanned for sign of bear. Poop or tracks. There was nothing. Then we saw
something, ahead on the trail -- a small, dark hump. No, not a cub, but
rather a pair of gloves, ominously sitting alone in the middle of the
path.