Lions and Tigers and Bears ... Oh My!

It's a beautiful summer morning: 40 degrees; clear, fresh air; sunlight filtering through tree leaves with a shimmer and brilliance that's impossible to describe (you know what they say, "You have to be here!"). Around 6:45 am the mosquito-buzz of a low-flying plane interrupts early morning stillness. Planes never fly this low so I know it's the annual spraying for gypsy moths (the scourge of the forest!).

I have to admit that I'm still thinking about bears. Frances and I discussed our Thursday night visitation and, when I read her my previous blog, she mentioned that I didn't sound fearful. It's true! When I saw the second bear pausing by the side of the woods, I felt an immediate calm. There was wariness on both sides, human and bear, but as we both scoped each other out I sensed that the bear was not willing to take any more chances than we were.

Frances, admittedly, felt fearful. "The way the dog ran toward us, shivering and frantic, scared me," she said, "I thought he was being chased." She segued into a past experience several years ago when she and Namaste were returning from the mailbox. The dog ran ahead and disappeared into the forest near our house barking frantically. She heard a yelp. Then silence. Frances dashed into the woods, yelling, as she followed the sound path of crashing trees and underbrush. When she found Namaste, he was alpha no longer; he cowered on the ground with a sheepish expression on his face and a wet slick of saliva on his back. It appeared that someone held him in their mouth, then spit him back out again. Too close for comfort!

My cat, Hiziki (Zeke), and I had a close encounter too. Our first spring living in the woods I woke early one morning to the sound of running footsteps on the deck. Zeke spent nights outside, a risky venture since fishers, deadly, vicious martens who frequent the area, are well-known for their appetite for small animals. I dashed to the patio door intending to intercede on my cat's behalf regardless of the imminent danger. There on the other side of the glass was Zeke, back up, fur raised, and hiss emanating through bared teeth as he faced off with a black bear who stood no more than six feet away. Being a good mother, I didn't think or hesitate. I picked up the barking dog, flung open the patio door, and leapt onto the deck BETWEEN my cat and the bear.

That bear, another youngster about two, rose up on his hind feet, stared at me, whirled, ran off the deck, and climbed into the nearest tree. After I retrieved my cat, my dog, and my self I re-entered the house. The bear quickly climbed down the tree and rushed into the woods. It took several hours for my heartbeat to return to normal. My grateful cat followed close behind me for several days. (I now understand why mama bears are so protective of their young.)

My t'ai chi chih students tell loads of stories: the bear at the front door, the bear retreating from the patio, the bear that absconded with one of their chickens. Other neighbors tell of the bear on the deck staring through the living room window while the homeowner stared back, the bear who reached up to retrieve the bird feeder outside the bay window--that hadn't been filled for several months--and ended up banging up against the window as his bear paw swipes missed, or the bear who ate garbage until it was moved into the house and then broke into the house to continue his feast. Several years ago I heard tell of a mama bear with two cubs who hibernated underneath the porch of a house in downtown Bayfield. Later in the summer Rittenhouse Avenue, the main street, had to be temporarily closed when the mama and two cubs strolled through downtown and climbed a tree.

Lots of local bear stories this year. Which makes me wonder: Are the bear having a harder time finding enough food? It's a common fact that the strawberry crop is not as abundant as it's been in previous years. Or do we simply know more people up here this summer so that we hear more of the bear lore as it accumulates? Or, as we humans develop and expand and improve upon nature--logging is booming and new homes and condominiums are springing up everywhere--do we compress and confine bear habitat while oppressing their natural bear behavior? Of course, many people believe that humans have higher status than animals. Witness how benevolent and compassionate we are even as we kill hundreds and thousands of people each day through wars, terrorism, starvation, neglect, and untreated illness and disease. But, hey, that's nothing compared to the mass murders performed by bears all over the world!

This one-up attitude filters into our language and how we use it. For example, in my APA Publication Manual (Fifth Edition, 2001), regulations specifically state: "Use who for human beings; use that or which for animals and for things." Hence, my flagrant disregard for those rules in this blog. Who lived here first anyway? Who roamed through this forest and made it their home long before it was tamed, logged, homesteaded and, dare I say, violated? Whew. It's time to end, though I've bearly begun.

Bearly There ... Then Gone

There were two of them last night but I missed the first.

Frances, Namaste (our 12 pound Maltese/Bichon dog), and I walked down our quarter mile driveway about 6 pm to retrieve the mail, pausing to notice the previously unnoticed and comment upon it. I pointed out tall grasses toppled over in the north ditch and speculated about the deer that may have passed or, even, rested there. Frances said, "No, that looks more like four-wheeler tracks."

"Naw," I thought to myself, "Looks like deer to me." Although, I had to admit, the paths looked wider and more downtrodden than those typically made by deer. I didn't want to think it was a four-wheeler since it was near the top of the driveway close enough to the house to feel like a trespass. We continued on.

About two-thirds of the way downhill Frances stopped. "There's a bear!" Namaste barked wildly and headed off toward the ditch on the south side of the drive.

"Where?" I asked. I hadn't seen anything as I was too busy watching my feet.

"There," she replied, "A bear just crossed the drive." We paused. Now a large black hulk appeared on the edge of the woods on the other side of the drive. It stopped, watched, started to retreat back into the woods, stopped again, watched.

I worried, "Was this a mama bear?" You do not want to get between a mama bear and her cubs. Frances assured me that the first bear I'd missed was larger than a newborn. In fact, they seemed to be about the same size. It was obvious that this bear wanted to cross the drive too but was considering its options. Namaste, of course, ran to and fro and barked frantically. Frances and I called the dog to us. Once he was safely lifted into Frances' arms, the bear seized the moment and loped across the drive. We continued downhill discussing size, age, and relationship. The bear were about 300 pounds. Were they siblings?

When we got to their crossing point, Frances noted the smell. We both sniffed. It smelled different here ... like an intense influx of ferns and vegetation. "Funny," I thought. A friend who lives in the woods near Mille Lacs, MN told me once that you can always smell bear when they're around because their scent is so strong. From her description I assumed that bear scent was nasty. This smelled sweetly woodsy.

Mail retrieved, we re-crossed Old County K and, again, sighted one of the bear walking across the blacktop road, pausing to observe us just as we observed him (her?). S/he moved toward us, casually turned, and strolled the rest of the way across. I was struck by the easy, limber, non-lumbering way the bear moved. It reminded me of a monkey. You could tell that the front legs functioned differently from the back legs. There was surprising agility in those limbs.

Back near the top of the drive we reconsidered those crushed grasses on the north side. Huh. Perhaps they could be the trail of two bear walking side-by-side.

Approaching Storm

It's midday on a Tuesday near the end of June and, though I should be marketing my upcoming t'ai chi chih classes or advertising our office space on Madeline Island, I'm caught in the hushed expectation of an approaching storm. The temp is now down to 60 from a high of 80+ and, when Frances and I walk out onto the deck, we hear the roar of approaching wind through the trees. The sky to the south is dark and as a few scattered raindrops begin to fall we scurry to carry our planters and hanging flower baskets into the porch and living room. I rush to the kitchen sink to draw a pitcher of water in preparation for an electrical outage.

After all precious living plants are moved to shelter inside we step onto the deck again to survey the rapid weather change and listen to the whoosh of wind, drawing closer. As Frances opens the patio door, though, the sun shines down. And, even as we stand by the railing looking east toward Lake Superior and watching the darkness of rain falling, we feel the sunlight grow stronger, the heat rise, and the sounds of gathering winds collapse into a low, distant murmur. Our anticipated storm has passed us by and we're left with unused adrenaline, unwatered flowers, unnecessary preparations. Ahh, life in the woods.

I return to the computer to post my first blog and sigh with relief. Somehow the intimidation of trying something new is made smaller by the just-missed cycling storm of spent and unspent energy that surrounded us moments ago. Nature's gathering power puts everything into perspective. Once again, I'm brought into the present. Just this moment. Now.