A plaintive cry carried through my bedroom window woke me at dawn. A forested hill rises behind my country house in Montana, steep and slippery with layers of loose pine needles. It's surprisingly hard to climb - for humans anyway. But the wildlife—lions, wolves, fox, deer, elk, bear after bear—take advantage of it all the time, leading all kinds of forest creatures to track down the open trees that peek out at my family while we sleep.
This mixing of the wild is the reason we live here on the borders of a vast national forest. I once saw a big black bear with three cubs waltzing near my door, close enough to touch if I opened it. I found new mountain lion tracks on hill game trails, and coyote pelts just feet from my bedroom window.
So when I heard the frequent loud crying, I knew it could be anything. Whatever the creature was, it wasn't happy. I've heard cries for help in the mountains over the years - a wolf mother desperate for her lost pup, deer slaughtered by coyotes, desperate elk groping through the woods. This had the same spirit of fear and dread.
I have spent much of my life eagerly exploring wild places, but since the pestilence finally struck me nine months ago, most days I have been too ill to get out of bed. (Despite the traditional perception of “moderation,” covid infection can disabling, sometimes permanently.) Suddenly and unexpectedly, my world shrank into my house and into my yard on the good ol’ days. Words can't quite convey how deeply I missed wandering in the wild with my animal companions, so I jumped at the chance to do it in my backyard.
The call of woodpeckers cut through the chilly morning air and cracked dry pine needles underfoot as I clambered up the slope in hastily worn sweatpants and sandals. I paused and looked around - no bushes trembled, no shadows fell between the trees. Then another cry, but to my surprise now behind me from below. I spun and slipped on loose needles, and they fell on my thighs. I really have lost it, Tisdale, I thought to myself as I stood, whistling, heart pounding alarmingly. Then, on the street where I least expected it, there was a bear.
The road was heading towards me. He wasn't big, but he was a bear. It disappeared behind the garage roofline, and I knew it was back up the hill, its likely path leading right up to me. I crossed about 30 feet to allow her space. She appeared moments later, climbing steadily where I had just slipped. She stood right in front of me, crying out a loud burp-like cry for such a small animal. I can now see how tiny she is, a stately, inky-black cub that can't weigh more than 25 pounds. I was sick longer than I was alive. I now realize that he is afraid and is calling his mother.
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I stood still and was silent. Had the cub identified me as a threat, it would have quickly climbed a tree and been out of reach. But it seemed to me that he considered me benign. After thinking about me and yelling for a few moments, she lined across the hillside above me, darting through the bushes in and out of sight. Now about 30 feet away, he came back down the hill, stopped, and lunged at the world with all the volume his tiny lungs could muster. Then he turned and came directly towards me.
This was the last thing I expected. The cub raced in my direction, almost running, until, perhaps 20 feet away, he caught my eye and stopped, his front left paw hanging mid-step. In his panic, did he forget I was here? Then he startled me again by continuing to fall towards me, now slowly, screaming again and again. He paused again, shaking his head and ears in that endearing, dog-like manner. Because it was a small bear, the shake almost fell over, but then it turned around to where I was standing a few feet away and came right up to me.
What was he thinking? Did you imagine that I could help him? As much as I wanted to keep calm and see what was going on in Little Bear's mind - is he touching me? Can i pick it up? - I knew I had to push him away. (Some biologists would give me an issue for not doing something to scare it earlier.) It is always best for any wild animal to remain wary of people. Familiar bears often end up in trouble, as they inevitably find food left by careless humans. They return for more, growing bolder as their fear of people subsides, until they become menacing and are put down. Already this year, a poor year for the berries which are their natural seasonal food source, so many bears in our neighborhood have been so caught up in this falling whirl that they have already forced their way into the houses to raid the kitchens.
Most importantly, at least from my primitive amygdala-driven view, where was my mom? I was worried something might happen to her; Bears have recently been trapped in the area. But most likely it was close. Bears are adept at disguising themselves at will, and I had no idea how close they could get. She must have heard her cub's cries by now. The last thing I needed was for my mom to see her cub approaching me and burst out from the shadows to defend him.
So I spoke to the cub softly, sweetly, my voice weak and nine months old hoarse. "Don't come here," I shouted, and at the first word the cub froze, his dull eyes black staring straight into my face. "I can't help you, my friend. I'm sorry."
The cub slowly swung its head to one side and then the other, as if to process this new information. Then he let out another belching shriek and lunged backwards towards the nearest log, his flight instinct finally kicking in. He kind of hisses as I yell, "It's okay, I won't hurt you."
Screaming now going on, she looked up at the tree for a moment, ready to scratch it, but she determined again with her little senses that I—standing still and quiet and emitting no sign of aggression—was not an immediate threat. Instead, he turned away and did the slow walk of the classic wary bear, looked back at me momentarily, and lifted his nose to suck in my scent. He let out staccato, rhythmic growls, a classic nervousness behavior I've never seen in a bear so young.
From about 20 feet away, she carefully assessed me for the last time. I said I am sorry". I thought about this for a moment, took a last whiff, turned away, striding slowly at first, then darting down a slope and joining in the tall, shady grass. I watched her leave through the foliage, burst out, weep, look at me from time to time, and return to the hills, far from me and the temptations and dangers of human civilization at the bottom of the valley.
I said to the bushes and the trees and any creatures that might listen, "I'm going now." I felt sad for the little cub. I know something about being lost in this world, feeling disoriented in your own home, being apart from those you love, and being terrified that this is the way things are going to be forever now.
As I took the first steps into my house a large, dark figure stole through the bushes to my left, heading upwards. This, finally, was the mother. She moved like a fluid Ursin, swiftly and quietly down the hillside, concealing herself astonishingly astonishingly for such a large animal and more surreptitiously than her oblivious offspring. At a gap in the bushes directly above me, perhaps 40 feet away, I paused and looked down.
For a moment of grace, Bear and I closed our eyes. I felt relief and joy, for the cub and the mother. I felt the joy and humility of sharing space with a wild creature more powerful than myself. As always in these moments, the world collapsed and I forgot everything, a sensation I had not felt for a long time. I was dealing with my animal buddies again.
Cub cried from the top of the hill. The seed moved away, walked slowly, and then snapped at a bouncing bear that soared up the slope. "Good job," I whispered to the bears and myself. At this moment, things were fine. Not every lost cub finds its mother, and not every sick cub recovers. But one cub did and this morning that was enough.
This piece first appeared on mountain range It is republished here with permission.
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