Dancing With Bear

                                                       by
                                       Jerry Dale McDonnell©2014

    
                                       Published in Mungbeing.com #59

         This is the dance. My legs are encased in rubber up to my crotch, water very close to breaking over the tops of my hip waders plays a light sloshing tune, my feet try a few soft shoe steps for balance in the mud that is almost up to my ankles. My left foot is near the bank. My right foot is near the deeper water of Shelter Creek. My left arm is stretched straight out grasping a handful of soil and tall grass on the bank, which is level with my chin, allowing my right arm to hold the 32-foot boat close to the bank. My focus is on the Alaskan Coastal Brown Bear twenty feet away. Christ on the cross comes to mind.

The brown bear, as brown bears do, is pretending to be oblivious to we spectators. He or she, or as the animal correct, “it” (I think “it” is a boar) is grazing on sedges like a dairy cow. The three photographers on the boat hold instruments that make soft clicking and whirling sounds. The sun is showing mercy on this August day in Alaska and allows the momentary wearing of a T-shirt. A slight breeze off the Cook Inlet enters the creek and wafts across the grasses and sedges carrying the smell of ripe, fish-eating bear to my nostrils. Thoughts of wrestling with a creature of gargantuan strength that smells like the interior of compost pile consisting of rotting vegetables and decaying animal parts are discouraging. Best to look at the spruce forest, the lush green mountains, the clear blue water, and evaluate how many moves it would take to haul my butt up over the gunnels of the 32-foot boat, which are currently taller than my head, and into the boat. Other than that it is a great day in Lake Clark National Park and Preserve in South Central Alaska.

The bear continues to graze. We have been exiled, ignored. In the bear world, staring is considered a breach of etiquette. Cameras click. Breezes waft. Water laps. Boat and water currents keep my crucifixion posture perfect. I refuse to bow my head.

As a bear-viewing guide, one of my duties was to gauge a bear’s attitude. The interview process is haphazard. Standing as I was in my cross bearing posture in baptismal water, might not be the best time to pose questions to large, strong, creatures whose second language is English. Therefore, in the line of duty, I began the preliminary interview. My head at grass level gave me a ball’s eye view as the bear turned slightly. Yes, “it” is a he, a boar. Estimated weight, 400 pounds, not a huge bear, but the photographers are pleased being close enough to focus on hair follicles with long lenses. Age, 4 to 6 years old. Color: medium to dark brown with tan patches on its rump; the fur on its rear legs darker. The sun shining on its back casts a golden color. Attitude: nonchalant at present. Ears up, (ears down, not good) head down only to chomp on sedges and treating us like we were any another bear in the pasture knowing we were very close: playing it aloof. Bear’s current signs of stress: Minimum. However, anyone who knows anything about bears knows they can change messages quicker than a political office seeker changes his or her (its) agenda to court a different audience.

Bears in this part of South Central Alaska on the west side of Cook Inlet are like a bunch of retired people wandering around. It looks like they have all the time in the world to get through the day. In my experience most bears are not hard to get along with unless you have something they want, like food. Most of them in this vicinity are Alaskan Coastal Brown Bears where humans are seasonal and in short supply. The few black bears that come around do so at risk. Black bears have found that challenging an Alaskan brown bear is not a fight worth fighting due to no contest. Brown Bears do not have an attitude toward territory at large, but get between them and a food source is like the really, really big guy in the bar asking you to step outside.

The water level on my hip boots was losing altitude indicating that the tide was about to go out. Unless we wanted to go dry and wait 12 hours—or more—for the next high tide we had to get back to the deeper water of Cook Inlet. I climbed back over the railing and Dave Çoray, the captain, advanced the throttle. As I looked back over my shoulder, the bear raised its head and looked directly at me. Until then, I thought this bear was one of the gentler ones, sans attitude. No further questions at present. The preliminary interview was over. We were acknowledged. The dance was over, but judgment was still hanging. I had a feeling that this “it” may have felt intruded upon. Maybe it was being bear correct . . . maybe it didn’t even like us.

The following week we brought three fishermen from Idaho back to Shelter Creek at low tide. Dave, the owner of Silver Salmon Creek Lodge, an hour run up the coast, dropped us on the sandy beach of Shelter Creek, said he would pick us up in four hours, leaving me and his teenage son, Oliver, with a handheld radio, reception good for about a mile. Salmon was the game: silvers (cohos) and chums (dogs).

The tide being low the good fishing holes were obvious. The three fishermen took positions along the creek stretching several hundred yards from the mouth of the stream feeding into Cook Inlet.  Oliver, taking the fish guiding chores, was with one man close to the inlet. After looking around our spot camp nestled in the trees that on occasion we dropped clients for a few days on their own, I set up sentry duty giving me a good vista upstream and downstream and over the rocky stretch between the water and the forest where a bear might come to call. We had only been there long enough for the fishermen to get their lines wet when what comes swimming down the middle of the stream like a kid on vacation but a brown bear. Calmly, I directed the two fishermen near me to pull gear and come toward me to give the bear the right of way. I had to smile; the bear appeared to be enjoying itself floating downstream on its back like a big furry raft. Bears like to have fun. I thought I’d shouted loud enough for Oliver and his fisherman to hear, but the stream had a sizeable current considering it was near slack tide and the bear was covering distance faster than a human walks at a brisk pace. Oliver and the man saw the situation and were exiting the stream. The bear didn’t pay any attention to them in passing within 20 yards or so and it looked like it was going to continue to the big fishing hole just inside of the sandy beach on the inlet without incident. But incidents with wild animals are often spelled with a capital “I.”  As the bear passed them the prevailing breeze was at the pair’s back. Nose in the air, the bear caught sent of something, did a left face as sharp and purposeful as if directed by a drill sergeant, and headed directly toward Oliver and the fisherman. At this point, 60 yards away or so, I had my rifle up to my shoulder and was already regretting what I might have to do. Considering that Oliver and the fisherman were armed only with fly rods, if I had to shoot I would. The fisherman, at Oliver’s suggestion, saved my regrets; reaching into the top pocket of his chest waders, he wisely threw out the salmon eggs lodged there, giving them time to beat a retreat while the bear reaped the reward of what it had caught scent. Knowing a mouth full of salmon eggs to a bear is only a lick of a taste, I ran toward the retreating pair in order to get between them and the bear. Now we have the situation that we try to avoid with bears: this “it” has found a food source and identified it with we bi-ped mortals. At this point you do what you can to avoid bloodshed, especially in Lake Clark National Park and Preserve. The paper work report alone, although the least of the injury to the situation, is enough to discourage shooting a bear unless he is chomping on your head. The fishermen nicely bunched together along the tree line, it was left to Oliver and me to put some calm in the situation. We threw rocks at the bear, hitting him accurately and it slowly walked away from us. When we thought it was in full retreat, although not at a pace that suggested it was intimidated, it stopped, turned as if it was deciding to come back. We’d been here before and to put further wear on the cliché: ‘Don’t try this at home’: Oliver said, “Ready?” I nodded and side-by-side we charged the bear. The bear took off into the woods at a decent trot.

We reassembled the fishermen. Before I let them get back to fishing I said, “That bear will be back. I’d bet money on it. Here’s the deal. Go fish, but listen to directions when I holler.” As they went back on the stream, I tried to call Dave on the radio. No answer. We weren’t scheduled for a pickup for about three hours. As I continued patrolling up and down the edge of the forest, staying a comfortable distance on the rocky shore, I repeatedly tried to raise Dave on the radio for an early pickup. Again, no answer. Within the hour fish were on the stringer and that sure-enough bear came back. He walked out of the woods and ignoring bear protocol gave me a glance or two. I had him far up stream, not far from where the photographers a few weeks ago had a good day. Today wasn’t looking quite as rosy. I hollered up the beach to pull gear, “Bear’s back. Give ground.” I held my ground, threw a few rocks, my rifle cradled in my arms. The bear held off. Oliver was downstream near the beach. This is the occasion for which the chapter on how to behave in bear country has yet to be written. Debating between rifle, rocks and radio, something else to complicate the situation caught my eye. The youngest of the three Idaho boys, who either hadn’t heard me and/or seen the bear yet or didn’t pass the test on fish and bears, was pulling the stringer of fish out of the water. Now, children listen, bears, if you have a fish hooked on your line and the bear sees it jumping out of the water with distance between the fish and the fisherman, they do not associate you, a fishing rod and a fish as connected. After landing a fish, if you leave the fish on a stringer in the water they normally can’t smell them, and their sniffer is gold medal as it has been proven that they can detect the scent of sewing thread hidden in tall grass. While I was shouting for the Idaho boy to put the fish back in the water Dave finally answered the call on the radio.

Now was the time to write that missing chapter on behavior in bear country. The Idaho boy and the fish were closer to the inlet. The bear and I were at least 100 yards upstream from everyone else. We had to go over a sand dune to get to the beach where Dave would have the boat. My decision was similar to: It’s the bottom of the 9^th inning. What relief pitcher do I call up when we are one run ahead, no outs and runners on first and second? No time to go to the bullpen; I told the Idaho boy, a strong lad, to hotfoot it with the fish up over the sand to the boat and for the others to follow. Oliver came to help me hold off the bear. With more rocks and threats we managed to hold to bear at bay until the fisherman had disappeared over the sand dune to the boat, but we were losing ground. The bear kept close to the creek and we had the advantage of angling away toward the sand dune. Judging our play was about over when the bear caught scent of those fish that had been dragged out of the water over the sand we made our retreat. The scent of fish being dragged across the sand to the boat had to be strong. The bear was on it like being towed. Oliver and I were doing our best to get in the boat before the bear. As I jumped over the twin 90 horsepower Yamaha outboards behind Oliver—the younger and swifter—Dave hit the throttle just as the bear’s nose was close enough to smell the sock on my trailing foot. Dave said he hadn’t heard my radio calls earlier. He was listening to his Irish folk music.

Bravery’s not my forte; I tend toward caution, and when it comes to bears I feel respect is due. I am not a college approved paper holding scientific expert on bears, but I know how to read and I’m a student of bears. I’ve taken photos of bears as close as 10 feet, sat down with a dozen bears around me at a comfortable distance of 30 to 100 yards watching them eat and frolic, but have never had to kill one. I admire the brown bears for their intelligence, their sense of humor, adventurous nature and their curiosity. However, bears are wild animals, not pets, and in a fist fight we lose, but for the most part they are smart enough not to cause trouble unless you ask for it. My main complaint is they get bad press. That day at Shelter Creek after maybe hundreds of contact with bears was the closest I’ve ever come to an undesirable outcome. I pray I will never have to shoot a bear in fear that it will damage my karma. And that bear at Shelter Creek on that day? I know that that was the same bear which a week before ate sedges a scant few yards from us while those photographers took pictures and I held the boat against the bank close enough and long enough to smell him as well as he smelled me. He, it, could have run for office on my dance card.

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