When you first visit the Canadian west coast, your list of Things To Do likely includes clapping eyes on a) whales and b) bears. Mine did. Okay, when I first came out here it was the wrong time of year for a), but b)… now b) was a must. To the point where my friends, gracious hosts that they are, started a vigorous campaign to supply the desired bear. Said campaign involved early evening drivebys at the river, a trip to the landfill, and (a sign of mounting desperation on the hosts’ part) a visit to the wildlife sanctuary. The river was deserted, the landfill had just received a shiny new electric fence (on account of the bears), and the bears at the sanctuary had decided to hibernate early. Complete washout, in other words. I flew back to Europe without getting anywhere near b).
I’m pleased to report that, since moving here, matters have changed. Driving down the highway in spring, you’re almost bound to see a black bear or two dragging their round wooly butts across the road in one big hurry. And on one memorable occasion, a neighbor of my friends (yep, those same friends who tried to show me a bear in the first place) came running over, hollering that we absolutely had to see this. This was a young black bear perched in the neighbor’s cherry tree, stuffing his face with unripe cherries, and pruning the tree to the point of no return while he was at it.
Overall it came to an average of two bears per year, and at a distance, which still was mildly disappointing, because I like bears. They’re funny. Really.
Now, two years ago they logged the forest behind my house (and that particular tale would come under ‘Rants’). The clearcut, which in year zero looked like a nuclear bomb went off, is now buried under new vegetation, most notably a smorgasbord of berries. You can see where this is going, can’t you?
A couple of months ago, I spotted two cubs and a momma bear out there (mercifully my dog never saw them, else she’d have insisted on playing with the cubs). Then I spotted several neighbors armed with air horns – bears don’t care much for nasty noises. Me, I sing, and if you ever heard me sing, you’ll agree that an air horn is dulcet in comparison.
A few days back, singing lustily, I scared up two adolescents and, a little later, a young male. Bears being discerning creatures, they fled with all signs of disgust.
Yesterday I went for a run, meaning I wasn’t singing. I’d just trotted out from the copse that’s the only thing to break up that clearcut, and there she was. Momma bear and the cubs, right by the side of the trail. They were at least as surprised as I, and they promptly took off. At least until momma clocked that they had nowhere to go; less than a hundred yards down the hill is the first line of houses.
So momma comes to a screeching halt, turns around and gets up on her hind legs. About twenty yards from me. So not funny. Note: momma bears are not known for their sense of humor.
The technical term for this is Oh f***! and yes, it definitely was the time for a tactical retreat.
Oh, and no more running in the near future. Still like bears though.
Now, I’ve yet to spot a cougar…
