Bear Facts

It was 4:00 in the morning when the sofa went berserk. The sofa, that’s what we call our 140-lb. malamute, who in size, energy and intelligence resembles a large piece of living room furniture. The sofa was ensconced in a vicious barking frenzy, unusual for a dog that hadn’t uttered a word for year. He didn’t bark when ten of Garcia’s horses flattened the front yard, he didn’t even squeak when we neutered him But something had his full attention now.

I opened the door, stepping onto a moonlit porch. The sofa shot past me, an anxious look on his face as he bolted for the bedroom. Peering into the shadowy aspens, my imagination ran rampant. What was that dark and silent form floating through the trees? A wayward elk? Ruth and Eric Roemer playing one of their silly nocturnal games? I strained my one good eye. but just couldn’t be sure. Things were generally pretty quiet here on the No Hope Goat Ranch, no need to worry. I returned to bed.

“What the matter?” mumbled Jean from a deep sleep.

“I’m not sure, something big and black.”

“Bo Jackson?” She sat bolt upright. Now what had she been dreaming about, I wondered.

“What would Boi Jackson be doing going through our garbage at 4:00 in the morning?” I asked.

“Well, maybe he’s hungry,” she leaped from the bed. Yeah, I thought, never overlook the obvious.

The three of us crept out onto the porch. “Yo, Bo?” whispered Jean. Suddenly, to our total amazement, from around the corner and not five feet away, appeared a bear, I kid you not, folks, the size of a Volkswagon. Having been raised around animals, maybe some of you know my brother, I know a few things about behavior in these situations. Never, never get the beast agitated, which is exactly what we accomplished by throwing our arms in the air and screaming, “HIIUUAARG!!!” which means, ‘There’s a bear the size of a used car and the length of his lips away, and we’re standing like so many Pillsbury doughboys” The second rule of thumb is never, never run, which is an incredibly stupid rule, obviously written by someone who has never stood naked in front of a bear in the middle of the night.

We ran.

The malamute was the first to gain the bed and barely rustled the covers as he dove under them, and there we huddled like the three little pigs, blankets under our chins, eyes like frisbees, as the bear rampaged outside. This was no Disney character, this was no Booboo, this was another can of worms altogether. The beast reared on its hind legs, blocking the moon from the bedroom window, saliva dripped from glistening fangs, Freddy Kruger-like claws raked the glass well alright, not exactly on his hind legs, but ... well, ok, he wasn’t exactly pressed against the window, however, he did glance at it on his way past. This is when we got our first good glimpse of the beast. Sure, it was dark, but there was no doubt about it. Erectus Americanus, the Americanblack bear, shoulder height 3 1/2 feet, weight 500 lbs., mature male bear... or  three-month-old female, one of the two.

The vicious had gained entry to the tool shed; luckily both tools were on a job, but he had discovered a brand new 25-lb. bag of Kibbles and Bits, which he now commenced to consume with bone-crunching enthusiasm. Since the bedroom wall is the other side of the tool shed wall, the sound was morally devastating. We banged pots on our side of the wall, we screamed, the beast was unperturbed. It’s always disheartening to encounter a wild animal that not only outweighs you but is not the slightest bit afraid of humans.

Then it hit me, FIREWORKS! The creature can’t be used to fireworks going off under his feet. I still have a small but tasteful arsenal of Chinese fireworks left over from a boisterous Snow Clam party, the ones Carol Ann Brady intercepted before ignition. Selecting a 100-pack of firecrackers, aptly named The Uzi-cracker. The small part of me that pays attention was working overtime now. I lit a match, held it to a frighteningly short fuse, it fizzled and went out. The bear quit chewing. I fumbled for another match to a now shorter fuse. It sputtered and caught just as the wary bear emerged from the shed, aroused by the scent of sweat and sulphur. The Uzi-cracker bomb landed at its feet. I really can’t say I saw the bomb go off, as I was busy focusing the camera at a dead run in the opposite direction, but the expression on that bear’s face when the old Uzi-cracker bomb went off was pretty priceless, as above photo has amazingly captured.

It was good and morning, I mean bright, when we again ventured out. The dog, still extremely edgy, peered out of the door. Then, incredibly, his body stayed in the door but his face stretched out down the porch and around the corner at the tool shed. A distance of six feet or so his neck was stretched while his body was safe in the house. It was a special moment, one to be taken advantage of. “Boo!” I grabbed his ribs and yelled. His face slammed beck into his body so hard I was afraid it may carry right through, thus inverting him. The dog’s a mess, no doubt about it, but to Jean and me, the bear’s visit brought back the romance of the old west, not to mention some excellent photo opportunities.

 

The bear facts: Part 2

by Steve Church

 

The bear had developed a nasty little dog food addiction. Grubs and berries had taken a rear seat to his new fondness for Kibbles ‘n’ Bits. Just mosey down to the Goat Ranch and chow down.

CRASH!!! We screamed and jumped like fleas on a skillet. The dog, frayed from no sleep for the past week, was barking hysterically. You could hear the first strains of complete mental collapse in his voice. The house stunk of dead fish and rotten meat; it was 2:00 in the morning.

“He’s back, and he’s pissed,” I mumbled, weary from nightly attacks from this beast. In an effort to discourage the bruin, we had taken down the bird feeder (sunflower seeds), the hummingbird feeder, the BBQ, cat food, dog food, everything that might remotely catch the bear’s interest. The Kibbles were in a trash can in the tool shed behind a locked door and the bear knew it. He stood on his hind feet and side-stepped along the building, groping with his front paws for the door. His piggish eyes glowed with demonic intelligence. He was six feet tall if he was an inch. Locating the door, he swung his ping pong paddle-sized paw, the door splintered into sawdust and hinges. We watched in horror from the bedroom window as a stored color TV rolled out into the dirt. Terrible, expensive crashes rang out as the beast searched for dog food. This little wilderness experience had gone far enough. I leapt from bed and studied my pitiful arsenal: a 22-caliber rifle, good for slaughtering coffee cans, and a 20-gauge shotgun (large grouse laugh at this gun). The 30-30 had been borrowed and never returned. I selected the 20-gauge, put in two #4 birdshots and went forth to do battle.

“Be careful, you dummy,” encouraged Jean.

I stepped into the crisp night air.

“HEY, VOLCANO BREATH!!!”

The stinking brute emerged from the shed, bits of Kibbles dropping from his fearsome face. I aimed two feet over his head and pulled the trigger .... KA BOOM! Flames shot from the barrel, smoke and wadding filled the air. The bear kept on chewing. KABOOM!! Another shot shattered the night. This time the bear reacted, his ears went flat his upper lip curled into an enchilada, he emitted a short hissing sound and he charged....

“HOLY SHITE!!” I screamed, groping for the door. I leapt inside and slammed the door, heart pounding.

“Did you kill him??” queried an anxious Jean.

“Not exactly, my dear, but I was thinking, it’s only dog food, I mean, you know, cheap, dog food really. Let’s just let him eat his fill, eh?”

“Whatever you think is best, Bwana.”

For the next two hours, the enraged beast circled the house throwing patio furniture, raking the siding and windows. The three little pigs huddled inside. The magic of this bear encounter was gone.

“Hello, Department of Wildlife, this is Melody.”

“Melody, I have a little marauding bear problem; tell me, if I shoot this bear...”

“Don’t you dare shoot that bear!”

“Melody, you don’t understand, we’re not talking about a spotted owl here, this is a fearless, 500-pound, salivating, reeking killing machine, he’s outgrown dog food and he’s coming after the family unit, tonight!! I can’t shoot this beast if it attacks us?”

“When he makes the first move, when he attacks and your life is threatened, then you can shoot.”

That was the governmental policy in Vietnam also, as I recalled.

“Ok, what do we do?”

“We’ll trap the bear, tag him and relocate him.”

“How many bears do you relocate every year?” I inquired.

“Maybe about 200 in the state,” she replied.

Somewhere, gentle reader, in this state, is a very dangerous section of woods literally jammed with delinquent bears. Think about it.

“I’m sending two of our best men. Don’t do anything.”

“Thank you, Melody.” I hung up and did nothing.

An hour later that guilt-inducing truck of the Wildlife Department, the one with all the whistles and bells, pulled down the drive. Officers Tom Spezze and Wayne Brown introduced themselves and began investigating the scene of the crime.

“First of all, Steve, you’ve built your house in an ancient bear meeting ground. See these old claw marks on certain trees here? Bears mark their territory and leave messages on the same trees year after year, kinda’ the Bear’s Bulliten Board.”

“Tell me the good news, Tom,” I asked.

“Well, it’s a male, maybe 300 pounds, good sized for Gunnison, Colorado.”

“How can you tell if it’s a male?”

“Well, Steve, you look between its legs, and if there’s a...”

“No, no, I mean now, you know it’s a male?”

“The size of the stool.”

“Oh.”
“I thought only sick or wounded bears would approach humans,” I offered.

“Bears do exactly what they want to do,” Wayne explained.

“Tell me then, just what should a person do when confronted by a bear?” A stupid question, I knew what to do - run!

“Never, never run, Steve. Do not wave and scream. Avoid eye contact and slowly back away. Bears are very strong, even a yearling can kill you. One this size could tear a car door off.”

“Might this bear come into the house after food?” I asked.

“Very well could, Steve.”

“I find this discouraging, Tom.”

“No worries, we’re going to trap this guy.”

Not noticing a trap, I ventured another stupid question, “When?”

“Well, unfortunately, all our traps are busy right now, but maybe tomorrow. You’re on your own tonight.”

“You realize this beast is getting more aggressive every night. You’ll notice this is a very small house, and we’re dealing with a very large bear here. We’re feeling like the three little pigs,” I ventured.

“I understand,” said Tom.

“I may have to shoot this bear,” I said.

“Don’t miss,” said Wayne. “A  bear’s skull is very thick, a direct shot could bounce right off his head. A bear shot in the heart could live five minutes or more, and in that five minutes, he’ll flatten this house and everyone in it. Only if he’s coming through the front door shoot him and only a side shot, right below the ear, will stop him. Don’t miss.”

“If I do have to kill it, can I keep the pelt?”

“Nope, property of the state, we don’t want to encourage this shooting at all. If you do shoot him, call us immediately, even if it’s 2:00 in the morning, we’ll be up at dawn to determone whether it was a self-defense.”

“I understand,” although I didn’t.

The Napa Auto Parts store of a pick-up pulled away, we walked into the cabin, weary at the thought of another sleepless night with the bear from hell. And we’d thought that pack rat had been a problem...

-To be continued

 

The bear facts: Part 3

by Steve Church

 

“Hello, Bob? Bob Brazell? Famous photographer extraordinaire? King of Kodachrome? High priest of video voodoo, exalted...”

“What do you want now, Church?”

“Well, Bob, I’ve got this bear...”

“Forget it.”

“No, wait. This is great stuff national exposure, this bear, ya see, has been hanging around my house. The Wildlife Department shipping the beast to bear reformatory tomorrow. But in the meantime the bear returns and we’ve got a dummy of our illustrious mayor, Jim Deli, waiting with the key to the city. However, the mayor is dripping in honey and our furry friend tears His Honor to pieces as the cameras of Bob Brazell capture the grizzly event. Think of it ‘Mayor mauled to mincemeat,’ or ‘Schmidt bit!! film at 11:00.’ How about ‘Deli in the belly’ ... 9 News...CNN...”

“You can’t do that, Church.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not the truth, didn’t happen... and it’s probably illegal.”

“Details, details. Look, Bob. I’ll be right behind you with the old 30-30, if he charges. I’ll shoot you, no pain, no problem, no...”

“Call me if you get a bonefish up there.” Click.

I needed a picture, some proof... I’d get it myself, picking up high-speed film and the Time-Life book of night photography and throwing together a cheap imitation of Saddam Hussein holding a roast chicken named “Freedom.” Figured George Bush could use a shot like this in his re-election campaign:

“We’re bearish on America.” The bear didn’t show. The next afternoon, rattling down the drive appeared warden Wayne Brown and the beartrap. four-foot culvert pipe on wheels, end welded shut, the other a guillotine-type door. The bear enters the pipe, pulls on a bait, wham! the door slams shut. Boxed bear. We crawled into the freshly steam-cleaned trap (the bear won’t enter with another bear’s scent in it). He then prepared a feast of gastronomical proportions. The first course, spread about the ground, consisited of rotten peaches and pears, followed by appetizers of day-old doughnuts, a tasteful garnish of lettuce heads perfectly complimenting the entree of bacon a la trigger device, all covered with honey and

baked with a propane torch to a golden brown. Wayne explained that one has to be most alert about placing the safety latch before playing with the trigger mechanism. More than one embarrassed ranger has found himself trapped inside the trap, sometimes for days at a time with nothing to eat but sour jelly doughnuts. It doesn’t aid in his rescue, the words DANGER, LIVE BEAR, and STAY CLEAR!! plastered over the exterior. Wayne then explained that whatever the bear
had wrecked, I could get back by filling out the Wildlife Damage Report BGD-3.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“Our government pays for damages done by its bears?”

“Yes.”

What a country. I was in awe a country where I can’t afford to buy health insurance has its bears fully covered. The TV! The Kibbles! Warden Brown left us with the baited trap and the instructions “Do nothing!”
At 2:00 in the morning, tired of doing nothing, we jumped each...just kidding... the bear returned. For an hour, he circled and banged on the trap. It was too easy, he didn’t like it. Dog food was an unexpected delight, but a banquet? One minute
we’re shooting at him, next we’re having dinner catered? Finally, the honey soaked bacon was a prize worth any mortal risk and in he went. Wham!! The door slammed shut... things were very very quiet, then things got very, very loud as he
realized his blunder. As if not comprehending the fact there was no escape, the caged bear crashed and moaned pitifully. He hissed, grunted and snorted his disgust at his own greed, it was a sad and restless time for all. Then the poor
beast seemed to be talking directly to me. “Hey, pilgrim! Hey, milktoast in the house. Have I got something wrong here? Is this not the ancient bear meeting place? Am I not the only bear here?” The dumb animal continued, “lt seems to me you’re the one who ought to be relocated. You and your Kibbles ‘n’ Bits!” He raved till dawn, bear babble...

Warden Brown arrived at dawn. I asked to accompany him on the indoctrination of the bear, partly a journalistic quest for the truth, mostly guilt.

As we waited for the tranquilizer to take effect, Chief Warden Tom Henry told me a few bear facts which I’d like to misquote at this time. Fifty bears (Tom figures) inhabit the valley between Gunnison and Marble. Hard to count, being nocturnal and all. The population has been stable for 40 years or so, but he worries with the present moratorium on the spring hunt and the influx of more people, bear encounters will become more prevalent. The only sure way to tell you’ve got too many bears is when they’re running rampant down Main Street.

“He’s out,” ventured Mr. Henry. “Climb in there and turn him around, Wayne. You’re stronger than I am,” he added diplomatically.

“Yeah, Wayne, climb on in therre,” I added, always willing to help.

The beast looked wide awake to me, eyes open, teeth bared.

“Find out the sex, Wayne,” Tom continued.

“It’s a male,” stated Wayne, without even looking.

“How do you know it’s a male?” I asked bewildered.

“You look between it’s legs, if there’s a ...“ Mr. Henry explained.

The bear was ear-tagged, lip tattooed, age and weight estimated, then driven to that “secret” relocation location. He will be given two more chances to behave like a bear should. At least, how we think he should.