It is a good year for Mona, the 700 pound brown bear. She birthed a rare three-cub litter near the cove this spring. The cove is their domain, but oddly they don’t mind as long as we stay in the boat. When I say “The Cove” I mean one of the most plentiful areas for bears viewed by people. It’s one small nook on a lake so rich in resources that browns, blacks, cubs and boars have been seen mingling about, paying no mind, swimming across the deep emerald basin, drinking from streams and waterfalls that sculpt alder covered crags and cliffs jutting at awkward angles from the lake’s crystal surface. Mona’s cubs are some of the most photographed in the world this year.
The cubs jump into the pool without a thought about tomorrow or yesterday. I welcome a deepening wonder, a sense of care-freeness, and a hint of envy toward these particular cubs. I call the largest “Dozer” because he pushes everyone around, even mother. The middle cub, a female, Cleo the tomboy. She follows Dozer everywhere, trying to outdo him, and the runt Scout is usually napping, wandering off or trying to snuggle up to Mona. to score some tasty morsels of fish. Of course, Scout is the one the tourists talk about most.
The bears nap, catch fish and sniff out the patches of green, organic debris that sails into the cove with each westerly wind. The cubs never venture far from Mona – the thickets are dense with flora and fauna, the trails up the surrounding thicket-covered hilss are narrow and well-traveled, though rarely braved by human kind. Out here, the people are the least of the sow’s concern. She bellows a huff of air from her throat warning the cubs scurry to a safe place – a nearby boulder, or close to her side.
All three yearlings are healthy on an average day. They poke about, pawing and gnawing at carcasses left by Maggie and the other bears after each school of reds push up the creek. Day in and day out I come back and see them grow. I feel privelaged because I bring people to see this rarity. A tourist will stay a few hours. I will stay the summer. The bears just stay. I label their personalities and compare them to myself or people I know. They’re so animated, so agile and intelligent. It’s easy to like them and give them names.
July is hot. The water is low. When the waters alight with schools of “red gold”, the cubs start their whining and crying – inhaling every scrap of the beached sockeye salmon they can smuggle past Mona’s hungry jaws. Like any organism, whether top or bottom of the food chain, their instinct provides the determination and focus for developing skills essential to daily life. Character becomes an obvious factor in the fate of each cub. Dozer gets bigger. Cleo too. Scout seems too preoccupied with chasing butterflies to eat. He leans toward Mona’s graciousness, but receives no favoritism for being cuddly or lackadaisical. His runt status becomes even more apparent, but so does the cuteness factor – the smaller Scout looks, the more the people say kind and cuddly things about him.
Toward the middle of July, all three cubs fall ill. No one knows exactly why, but have probably all eaten of the same rotten unknown. Even Mona seems pretty sick. Some say it might be trash, rotten salmon, parasites – anything. They all quit eating for some time. They sleep a lot. A week or two passes and they show no recovery. They laze about on the rocks in their den some 25 yards above us and the water. They’re out of sight for several more days. Other bears move into the cove for a spell.
It’s a wakeup call to watch some things transpire in nature. As powerful as I think think people can be, feel so powerless sometimes. But beyond the empathy I feel for the sick cubs and sow, natural selection is a not-too-distant reality. If I jumped out of the boat and wandered up that trail, I would be a lump of digested meat and bone, piled high on the shore somewhere a day from now. Maybe my feelings of loss are just human selfishness. Sure, I worry about the bears. I don’t want them to suffer, but they have laced my summer with positive memories, feelings of happiness and immunity from the complexities of being a person in an ever-disappointing society.
Another week passes. The bears have started to recover. Unfortunately, Scouts condition hasn’t improved. More than ever, he seems to want and need the attention and protection of his mother. Still a bit ill, she’s not in the best condition for providing for three needy cubs. She seems too distant to notice his pathetic nuzzles. Deterred, he turns around and perches on an outcrop for a long nap.
Dozer and Cleo gnaw at a ripe fish head in a timeless fashion. Scout lay on the rocks breathing deeply, Mona nearby. Camera shutters echo against the rocks and dissapate across the lake. Over the buzz of a mosquito someone whispers. “What a great place to watch the bears.”
About 2pm by my watch, Scout lifts his head and climbs up to get closer to Mona, now coming down from the den. She must be fearing these moments so acutely. The bears in the area are well aware of their opportunity, but have kept their distance to avoid encountering Mona in her state. After some exchanges with the cubs, Mona approaches Scout, who rises to his mother’s side. Together they wander off into the Alder thicket. Dozer and Cleo continue to rummage through piles, flipping and turning them to uncover scraps of fish. A half hour lager, Mona returns alone.
People still talk about that day as if Mona made a conscious choice. We all saw it, but none of us want to believe that it was anything more than instinct that told her she should put an end to Scouts misery. How could there be less than reasonable intelligence involved in such a decision. Never the less, she accomplished something I would have pored over hours to build up enough courage to do. I am fascinated by the idea that a “right” or “moral” decision could be instinctive. If I turn off the societal influences, will I still make the right decisions? Would I be short-sighted, or merely preserving my existence? So why do people look down, turn up their noses, when a man choses to live an “unrefined” existence, as if being politically or socially adept is actually better than a hunter-gatherer? I have only experienced a few days at a time of the simple life. Truth is: I feel healthier. I think clearly. My stamina and physique are at their best. I don’t experience self doubt.
Somewhere, society must harbor fear of the primitive man. Stripped of “culture” and “skills” – so instinctive he would kill in order to thrive – someone with the likeness of Mona.
Scout and Mona – Photo Taken By Rusty Clarke, a good friend who has other great photos of Wolverine Creek and Big River at http://web.mac.com/rustyclarke/life_wild_photography/Bears.htmlSometime in