A Wild Visitor

Close Encounters of the Bear Kind

Oct 23, 2021

A few days ago, a bear wandered through the apartment complex where I live. My neighbor caught a fleeting photo of the ambling creature as it disappeared into the brush. It wasn’t great big and it wasn’t real small; it was a Goldilocks’ just right. This year’s wildfires have displaced many wild animals, forcing them to look for food in places outside their usual range, so I imagine there will be more sightings this fall and next spring.

Another good friend of mine, who lives up here in the Sierra Foothills, very close to the Bear River, admitted rather sheepishly that he’d never seen a bear in the wild. Never. And he so wanted to have that experience. Not an up-close-and-personal interaction, just an opportunity to witness one of the legendary animals in action.

I feel fortunate. I have experienced several bear encounters.

I have no photos to share of my bear encounters, so here’s one of an antique bear family instead.

I once stopped my car on Bowman Road, returning from a hike at Island Lake in the Grouse Ridge area, to watch a mother bear and her cub saunter across the road. Seeing my car, the baby immediately dashed to a pine tree and scrambled halfway to the top. His mama, totally unimpressed by my Honda Civic and me, just kept walking down the hill. Did she roll her eyes? Maybe.

Camping in Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite many years ago with my son Dean, I woke in the middle of the night to a loud snuffling just outside our tent. Our food and other scented possessions were properly locked in the steel bear-chest provided by the NPS, but the curious bear was checking out the site on the off chance we’d left something tasty within reach.

We hadn’t. So, it moved on.

It moved on by squeezing its broad shoulders and ample behind between our tent and a large tree. The side of the tent and one of the corner poles bowed inward, and the animal on the other side of the thin nylon cloth rubbed along my own backside. I bit my tongue, didn’t yelp, or jerk away. Unbelievably, Dean slept through the whole event!

Another time, a concert of banging pans and an accompanying chorus of hoots and hollers moved like a wave through the same campground just after dark. The meandering path of the bear scouting for leftovers was easy to follow. Dean and I readied our utensils and joined the cacophony when a large black shadow moved through the trees near our site at a nonchalant pace.

I have backpacked many times in the Sierra Nevada and have never met up with a bear out on the trail. The wide use of backpacking food canisters has really discouraged bears from dinner shopping at campsites in the backcountry. My chance encounters have always been in the “front country”, those places where people places rub up against wilderness areas where bears rightfully belong.

My favorite bear story, the one I will relish for all time, took place beside a winding road in the high country between Tuolumne and Tioga Pass on the eastern side of Yosemite. It used to be one of my favorite spots to visit, but I must confess it’s been years since I’ve been there. There's a gravel turnout just big enough to accommodate one or, in a pinch, two cars. I used to make a point of stopping at that spot every time I was in Yosemite, and always in time for sunset.

A few yards from the road is a small, still pond, surrounded on three sides by thick evergreen forest. To the east towers Mt. Dana, a reddish rocky peak that hovers above the line of trees. Just as the sun settles below the horizon, unseen downhill to the west, its last warm rays skirt the treetops to illuminate Dana's naked crown, turning it crimson and pumpkin and pink in an optical phenomenon known as Alpenglow. Viewed from the western edge of the pond, Mt. Dana's flame-colored peak was reflected in its every detail in the mirrored surface of the pond, a scene capable of creating awe in any observer. The intensity of color lasts only a few precious moments, so every year I would arrive in plenty of time to set up my camera and tripod hoping to capture the three-dimensional beauty onto a two-dimensional print. (Yes, print. This was in pre-digital camera days.) Each year, I attempted the feat; each year it eluded me. It had become a bit of a quest, an ever-elusive pursuit, to get the perfect photo.

One time, while I was intently focused on setting up my gear, I sensed a presence approaching from behind me. I turned to find that an older gentleman had squeezed his car in beside mine and was walking towards the pond. He paused near the water and stood silently watching the peak and its reflection. After some time, he spoke. He told me how he had come to that very spot every year for decades, always on his last night in the high country, always alone. He described his ritual solitary hike around the perimeter of the pond, yet he made no move to begin that annual walk. After some silence, he told me that age had gotten the better of him. He didn't think he had the stamina, the strength, to make the walk that year, that perhaps the previous year's trek had been his last.

I offered him my hiking poles and/or my company for his walk, but he declined. Then he bid farewell to the pond and returned to his car, heading east towards the park exit. His melancholy longing hung in the air long after he departed. It felt as though I were the recipient, the heir, to his pond and his ritual and his story. When I looked up, the Alpenglow was quickly fading. Without taking picture one, I packed up my gear and returned to camp.

Alpenglow at its finest, but from a wholey different trip to the High Sierras.

One year later, I returned to the exact same spot, set up my camera, and awaited the post-sunset light show. Again, I was totally absorbed in the process of composing and adjusting camera settings in anticipation of capturing the elusive perfect Alpenglow photo, when I felt, rather than heard, a presence behind me. Turning, I saw, emerging from the woods fifty feet away, a breathtakingly beautiful cinnamon-colored bear. Backlit by beams of golden light, the last of the sun's now horizontal rays squeezed between tree trunks, the bear seemed to glow. A fiery halo emanated from his furry shape. He paused near a fallen log, and we observed one another for several moments.

The bear and I spent ten or fifteen minutes together that evening. I was never frightened. I was aware and cautious, but not scared. I watched him intently, amazed at his natural beauty, his air of confidence, and his peaceful calm. He moved forward, walking very casually, then inspected the log closely, finding some tasty bites under its rotting bark that kept him busy scratching and eating for some time. Satisfied, he wandered past me to get closer to the pond's edge, where he paused to drink. Then he set off to stroll around the perimeter of the pond just like the old gentleman would have done in his younger days.

I missed the peak of Alpenglow color and the perfect photo, again, but at one point, I did have the presence of mind to swing my tripod-mounted camera around to get a shot of the bear by the log. The camera was set for bright light, however, and I was shooting into the dark forest, so the resulting picture produced a smudge that looks more like the shadow of a ghost bear.

Both Celtic and Native American traditions honor the bear symbolically as a powerful mystical force and a protective spirit. The bear is believed to be a shape-shifter who can move between the human and natural worlds, and as such, represents the merging of intuition and instinct that guides one to inner wisdom. It is quite an honor to receive a visit from the spirit of such an illustrious clan.

I’d love to hear about your encounters with bears or other majestic wild creatures. Please click “leave a comment” and tell me your story.

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