Saddle Sore: A soft spot for bears

Making my last irrigation stop of the late afternoon, as the last rays of the afternoon sun began to sink behind the horizon, a shadow scooted across the trail to my right, disappearing into the brush. Even before it was confirmed, I knew what it was but waited for its emergence from the willows to reveal its size.

A cub — dark brown, with an apparent mission on its mind — crossed about 30 yards in front of me, using that slinky, smooth-back walk that bears have. Just wait, the mother is sure to come into view at any moment. While I watched and quietly moved forward, the cub darted across the open expanse directly in front of me, and yet, there was no mother.

Both ears decorated in red, such a cute little creature, it must have been caught marauding a house or other human something-or-other, its momma likely euthanized for being caught in the act one-too-many times. It seemed lost but went directly to the empty house off to my left, appearing to scope it out, using it for cover.

Thankfully, I’d just loaded my dog, Tux, into the Jeep, although the sounds he was making were those of curiosity and friendship, not of alarm or distrust. The thought flashed across my mind that perhaps Tux and this little one could have an animal chat, reminded that three or four years ago, while clearing trails on the mountain, pup Tux and a smaller cub had taken up a friendship. To my surprise and concern, they had run up the trail together, about 50 yards, just to say “hi.” In that case, I was completely aware that the mother, who I had seen earlier, might be quickly running up the hill, as well — not to say “hi” but to severely scold my dog and me for interfering in the management of her cub.  

The other evening, as I edged closer, trying to get a good shot with my phone, a gust of wind swept in behind us, throwing dead grass and leaves onto the back of the cub, and he hugged the side of the house, trying to get some protection but also to look into the window beside his head. It will be a long winter for that little creature — or maybe not. He’ll probably be caught in someone’s house and killed by the authorities, or the snow will come and his caloric reserve will be too low to take him through the winter. We shall likely never know.

And with the sight of the cub scurrying around the house and yard and the gust of wind making my eyes squint, there was the announcement from Mother Nature that the autumn of our lives was upon us. At least for this year.

Years ago, coming down from a hunting camp at the base of Sloane Peak one early afternoon, black bears were scurrying around me like domestic dogs in Wagner Park. Two of them seemed to be a pair of cubs without a mother, lively as could be, but with that many roaming around, she could have been anywhere. I stopped counting at 12 or 13.

Making my rounds as a horseback U.S. Forest Service volunteer about 20 years ago, I came across some hunters very excited that they had killed a bear after years of trying. They were dragging the corpse behind their pickup truck, through the mud and fresh, wet snow, on the way to their camp. The game warden had arrived minutes before me, checking licenses, so there we were in the middle of the two-track road. Why the hunters were dragging the small black bear behind their truck befuddled both the warden and myself — the small juvenile couldn’t have weighted over 120 pounds. That’s a sight I will never forget and maybe explains why I have a soft spot for cub bears.

Don’t be fooled, however: Adults are a different story, not to be trifled with, and we all know where adult bears come from.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.