Bear Story

It was the last week in April, the time of year in the north when bears are coming out of hibernation and are interested in only one thing, food to break the long winter's fast.

I was camped on the north shore of Snowbank Lake just south of the Canadian border and had just come in from some lake trout fishing, when I heard a crashing in back of the tent that sounded as though some big animal was willfully bashing the brush around to make as much noise as possible. At first I thought it might be a bull moose caught in a windfall, but when I heard the rending of a big log I knew it was a bear trying to get a meal of ants or grubs.

Creeping out cautiously, I listened again, but could see nothing. The ripping of wood went on and then, moving back into the trees a short distance, I saw a she bear and two cubs standing at the very end of a log that extended like a giant runway directly to where I stood. It was the butt end of that log they were working on.

The bear saw me just as I saw her and stood up on her hind legs to give me the once over. Knowing that bears in the spring are somewhat uncertain, especially when they happen to be females with cubs, I looked around for a tree that might be worth climbing in case of emergency. Just to one side and about two jumps away, was a scraggly jack pine that might serve.

At that moment the she bear boosted both cubs onto the end of the log and climbed up after them, all three facing me and, I was sure, wondering how best to dispose of the new hazard that had dropped out of nowhere into their hitherto tranquil lives.

For a full minute they stood there looking me over, and then they started down the long runway of that log directly toward me, the mother in the lead, the two cubs following dutifully behind. The bear was a big one, gaunt and emaciated from the winter's fast, and as she came on her great black head weaved slowly from side to side.

I sat there at the end of the log, fascinated by the sight and my growing predicament. Of course I knew that bears seldom bother humans. But this was spring and the bear had cubs and she was hungry and nervous and there was just a chance I'd be the exception. Swiftly I took stock of the situation, and out of the corner of one eye, saw the jack pine to one side. As a last resort I could scramble up into its branches and, even tough she could come up after me, I would have a chance.

But still I didn't move. About twenty feet away, she stopped, looked me over slowly, and, just as I was about ready to spring up into the jack, she slipped off the log and headed for the tent. Now I knew what she had in mind. She had smelled the trout in my packsack, had possibly not been aware of me at all.

One slashing rip of a front paw and my precious four-pound lake trout was out on the ground, and my chance of a good supper disappearing fast. The bear sniffed the prize eagerly, then grasped it back of the head and made for the log she had just left. Down the runway, they sped, the mother in the lead, the two cubs waddling along behind her. At the butt end where they had been digging for ants, they slid off into the brush and in a moment were gone from sight.

While I hated to lose that trout, I figured my three visitors could use it much better than I. At least I had eaten that morning, which was more than could be said for the old one whose last full meal was in October. No wonder that trout smelled good to her.