As for black bears, the first day of my college wilderness survival class, every year, gets the scary ideas about animals out of the way. It is quite a waste of energy, not to mention the stress, to be worried about black bears as a common source of danger. We tell bear stories and talk about the typical behaviour of Canadian bears. I usually mention Lynn Rogers, the Jane Goodall of black bears, who spent decades observing them at remarkably close range. I attended one of his lectures, and what stories he told. Mostly funny, and all educational.
There is plenty of bear sign on most of my walks in the woods, so much that one eventually learns to find it almost on command. I am grateful for this. What would it be like to live in a forest, so far from its best, where there are no resident bears. For sign, take a look at a large beech tree. Some have a cluster of dead branches high in the canopy that looks rather like a nest. A bear nest, in a sense. The bear climbs out along a branch to reach the beech nuts, breaking and gathering branches as it goes. The nest of broken branches can remain for years. The smooth bark often carries the scars of the climb, obvious claw marks and sometimes smaller scratches. Turned rocks are another familiar sign, usually the work of a bear looking for grubs. The mud or sand beneath a stone can tell you how recently it was turned.
Tracks are the best find, whether in snow or mud. I have spent a couple of hours in woods where there seemed to be tracks everywhere, fresh ones at that. After a while I began to wonder if the bear was avoiding me as I tromped around following the day’s muse. What a nuisance I must have been. Scat is another obvious sign, usually dark and full of seeds and whatever else has been on the menu. Fur is surprisingly uncommon in what I have found.
One afternoon, while picking bearberry leaves, I was kneeling quietly when I heard the muffled snap of a dry twig. I stood up. A year-old cub stood there. We noticed each other for a moment, then it retreated up a tree just out of sight. Mamma bear swung into action. She came off the little path, also used by deer, and moved through the thickets at a tangent to me. A distance, I believe, she felt nervously safe enough to try to get my attention. There were loud snorts, like a deer will sometimes make, followed by false charges that amounted to little more than a step or two, paws sweeping the ground. The cub was beginning to get upset by the commotion above. Mamma kept it up. She was remarkably healthy looking, with a shiny black coat and brown nose.
I stayed uselessly beside a tree at the edge of a ridge. Leaving meant walking either toward the cub or slightly toward Mamma, so I waited, which proved to be of no help. I took a step. Mamma was silent. A second step, then a bunch more, and that was that. I did keep walking with some enthusiasm. A grouse will sometimes run along the ground with a theatrical broken wing, drawing attention away from chicks–too young to fly. The bear’s actions brought the grouse to mind.
About five minutes later, I came upon a deer drinking within fifteen feet or so. What a day for close encounters. None of these were tamed-yard sorts of animals. I was wearing moccasins, if I remember correctly, so my steps were pretty quiet. Instead of stopping for the deer, as I normally would have, I kept moving.
I have known various people who have been bothered by every colour of bear we have in Canada. Except for a polar bear, the firsthand reports involved no contact, though they were close and frightening. A former college roommate had one such encounter at a fishing camp, where a black bear made repeated charges for no apparent reason. No contact was made. Eventually the bear was shot after approaching another person in the same manner. Encounters like these are rare. It is not an unhealthy or hungry back bear that attacks, it is a sick (i.e., deranged) bear. Most of my bear stories are about how wild and difficult to see they are. I have little doubt I have walked past many without knowing it. Other times, the bears were uncertain that I was there and made themselves sheepishly known.
One camping trip, I looked for and found a muddy area to get a good raccoon tracks to plaster. The plaster, when mixed properly, takes about fifteen minutes before it can be removed. I waited, mostly silent, and amused myself by drawing on the upside of the plaster while it dried. Then came a loud, curious groan from an animal about ten metres away. It sounded like something with a deep chest. I took it to mean the animal had been letting me walk past, staying quiet until it wondered whether I was still there. Message received. I decided to move on. After all, the plaster was about dry enough. Not another sound.