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1
A FAMILY OF BEARS
Late June
Moving silently through deep forest shadows, the young black bear climbed up beside me onto the root-mass of a fallen cottonwood. I reached over and gently stroked her cheek at the junction where the short cream-colored fur of her muzzle gave way to the long black fur of her cheeks. A low rumbling purr revealed Jonjoanak’s pleasure in this contact–something I could not yet count on with this temperamental cub. Both her siblings, though, were now consistently affectionate after long weeks of effort to establish mutual trust and respect, the key to lasting personal relationships with bears. All three cubs now eagerly accompanied Alatanna and me on hikes where we explored for new sources of food, enjoyed adventures, and reveled in play.
Jonjoanak’s gaze joined mine, entranced, as a single shaft of sunlight poured like liquid silver over her sister’s brown fur and golden ears. Chrislee had rolled over onto her back, lifted a stick, and begun juggling it with her feet, languidly twirling the branch like a misshapen baton.
Suddenly, their ebony brother interrupted our serenity, dashing by, nipping Jonjoanak’s rump, and racing away. Exploding after Ontak, Jon quickly gained on the little male. Ontak leapt onto the trunk of a cottonwood, sank his forepaw claws into its deeply fissured bark, and hopped upwards.
He was too slow. Jonjoanak arrived, raced up the tree after him, and bit into one of his heels. Hanging on with her teeth, she dragged her brother back to the ground, where they sparred vigorously. This was all in fun, of course. But angry bears have dragged enemies, including people, out of trees in the same way.
Ontak broke free, ran, and now sought refuge in a birch. Racing toward the tree at full speed, he leapt onto the trunk, landing with his forepaws five feet above the ground and bounding to the top. Each stride began as he momentarily gripped the trunk with his hind paw claws, jumped upward, extending his body fully, and wrapped his forearms around the trunk. His “finger” claws dug an eighth of an inch into the thin white bark. Then, with a powerful pull of his forearms, his hindquarters were raised and his hindfeet planted firmly again, claws toward the sky, heels toward the ground.
Alatanna and I watched anxiously, lips and stomachs tight with dread. The cubs had taken many a tumble from slick-barked trees such as this birch, or aspen. But they never fell from a cottonwood with its heavy rough bark, which is why cottonwood’s are favored by black bears as “baby-sitter trees” in this part of Alaska. In other areas of North America, large white pine or hemlock trees are preferred for the same reason.
Secure refuges from which cubs seldom fall are be essential for safe rearing of the youngsters. Loss of such trees to logging, fires, or storms may substantially reduce the survival of black bear cubs. Some baby-sitter trees have been used for generations. Where scarce, they should be protected as a critical habitat component for bears.
Jonjoanak followed Ontak, just a second behind her night dark brother, racing toward the top of the birch. Her dark fur was now speckled with snow flakes of white bark. These had rained down on her as Ontak climbed. The two cubs sparred briefly up where the trunk was little thicker than one of their forearms.
“Tag, you're it!” Now the cubs' roles were reversed. It was Jonjoanak's turn to flee. Gripping the trunk loosely, she slid down as smoothly as a firefighter dropping down a stationhouse brass firepole, claws carving long parallel scratches in the bark.
As Jonjoanak neared the base of the tree, the little female turned to check her position, glanced at us briefly, then leapt to the ground near Alatanna and sprinted away. Not to be outdone, Ontak leapt too, from ten feet above, landing on his sister and knocking her over. Laughing gayly at their antics, Alatanna followed along as the youngsters locked together in mock battle and rolled down the hillside through tall fireweed. Pink and greenish-white hellbore blossoms soon spangled their coats like sequins on Las Vegas showgirls.
That the cubs were not really fighting was obvious from their body language and the fact that they were silent except for occasional grunts and grumbles, without any of the explosive woofing, repeated pant-huffing, and jaw popping or moans, growls and roars that often precede or accompany combat. Only in movies and TV programs do bears vocalize during play.
We followed the cubs downhill as Ontak and Jonjoanak were joined by their sister. Chrislee tussled with them, then scampered up onto a log, coming between us and the sun. Backlit, her nut-brown coat was turned into a golden halo of fur surrounding the black silhouette of her body. At this age, the lighter color of the females had nothing to do with gender; it was an accident of genetics. But as bears age, any light-colored collar or chest patch tends to darken. Among both black and grizzly/brown bears, adult males tend to become the darkest of all.
Ontak broke free of his sisters and raced away through the waist-high grass and blueberry bushes with thumbnail-sized emerald leaves.
The sisters continued wrestling. Standing on hind legs, forepaws raking one another's shoulders, Chrislee and Jonjoanak gently traded swats and bites, each exposing her light pink mouth and tongue, bordered by gleaming ivory teeth. Their lips were as pink as those of a human baby where the flesh was seldom exposed to sunshine, but black where melanin pigment was needed to protect the tissue from ultraviolet light. The nose of a young cub still in the den may be entirely pink or even cherry red, but by the time a cub leaves the den, black pigment covers all of its nose except deep inside the nostrils.
Their sparring ended when Jonjoanak bit her sister too hard and the smaller female threatened in response, head low and ears back as she moaned in outrage. Almost half of the cubs’ play bouts ended when one cub got too rough and the victim either attacked in retaliation or threatened to do so.
The two females moved apart and began feeding on tiny red bunchberries. Half an hour passed before Chrislee was satiated. She walked up behind Jonjoanak and laid one paw over her sister’s shoulder, inviting play. Jonjoanak obliged.
As the sisters shoved and chewed on one another’s cheeks and shoulders, the ears of both cubs were aimed more or less sideways in the lateral position used in many different social and solitary contexts. When Chrislee tripped and rolled onto her flank, however, she was momentarily frightened, laying her ears back against her skull. As Jonjoanak stepped closer, her own ears now aimed forward, directly at her fallen sibling, Chrislee’s warning intensified; she puckered her upper lip forward and sucked in her cheeks, producing what I called a long-face threat.
Jonjoanak refrained from leaping onto Chrislee until the lighter-colored cub regained confidence and tucked her chin onto her chest, ears again in lateral position, lip corners curved up playfully in an ursine “smile” much like a dog’s, all four paws extended upward. When Jonjoanak did leap, she landed on Chrislee's hind feet, which thrust her into the air and dumped her off sideways.
While Alatanna remained with the two tussling females, I followed their brother, lumbering under the weight of more than a hundred pounds of video camera and batteries.
Ontak raced to and fro among trees and bushes, splashed through a creek, then fought with a stick. Running with a dark yard-long piece of wood in his mouth, he shook his head from side to side as though practicing the neck-snap that many carnivores use to kill small prey, once it has been grasped by the head within the animal’s jaws. Sticks and other rigid objects aren’t usually shaken as vigorously as floppy ones like a dying ground squirrel or one of my sneakers. Fortunately, none of the cubs had a puppy’s fondness for chewing on shoes.
Several times, Ontak slowed to a walk, or stood upright, shaking his head all the harder and batting at the stick with his paws. High above, the sky was bleached by incandescent sunlight. Waves of heat distorted my view of him a mere hundred feet away. He waded into a shadowed creek and dropped the stick. Reflections of tall dark trees with luminescent leaves and the pale blue sky danced around his own shimmering obsidian image.
His toy was ignored as the cub sank completely under water for half a minute. First his nostrils emerged, then his eyes. For several minutes, this is all I could see of him.
On surfacing, Ontak shook his head powerfully, clearing his ears of water and sending spray in all directions, showering plants on both sides of the creek and spattering my lens. When I grunted in irritation and pulled out a lens cloth, Ontak glanced toward me with such an air of deviltry I could almost imagine that he’d splashed the camcorder on purpose. Like many bears, he was sometimes irritated by the "stare" of a camera lens with a person behind it–which may be one reason why bear photographers are occasionally mauled.
Mouth and back just above the surface, ears in lateral position, Ontak swam around the pool for several minutes. Moving into the shallows, he remained neck-deep, lapping water and panting. But for the camcorder, I would have been right in there with him.
For Alaska, this was unusually hot weather. Even there in the shady brook, the temperature felt above 90 degrees, and the air was clouded by mosquitos, no-see-ums, white-socks, and other nasty little creatures–just the memory is enough to make my skin prickle.
Ontak nosed the creek bank as though searching for something. “What?” I wondered. His explorations continued underwater, bubbles bursting upward from his nostrils. When his head emerged this time, a clump of glistening emerald moss hung from his mouth. Raising his left paw, he dropped the moss onto the back of this paw, then used it like I might have used the palm of my hand to hold the underwater plant for closer investigation. It may have tasted foul, for after nibbling a few pieces, Ontak shook his head as if to rid his mouth of it, then lowered his right paw back into the water, where the remaining moss washed gently free.
Ignored, but not forgotten, the stick had floated a few body lengths beyond the young bear. He bounded downstream with a high rocking horse motion that lifted his forequarters half out of the water with each bound, bursting with that magical exuberance of young animals and children.
Catching up with the stick, Ontak made no effort to retrieve it, but instead just followed it at the current's pace, batting the toy now and then, knocking one end underwater as the other end rose into the air. Each time, he lunged to catch the upper end of the stick before it sank again, or the stick was shoved down, submerged completely in the coffee-colored muskeg water, then released so that it popped to the surface again with a splash.
Chin on chest, ears forward, the cub walked on his hind feet, right paw held higher than his left, poised to strike. “Go get ’em, Tiger!” I called in encouragement.
Like most bears I have observed, my cubs were all right-handed. It was usually with just his right paw that Ontak swatted the stick. Occasionally, though, he threw his whole body into the attack, landing on the stick with both paws and a mighty splash that drove the stick completely underwater.
The stick stuck to the muddy bottom. Initially just curious about the disappearance of his toy, Ontak reared up on his hind legs and looked around for it. Nothing. Dropping down, head dipping underwater, he looked there too. Swirling silt probably masked the stick. Again, he stood, ears now laid back, cheeks sucked in, upper lip pursed and chin dropped onto his chest in long-faced irritation.
Frustrated and angry, he flew into a tantrum that would have done justice to any two-year-old kid, slapping the water repeatedly with his right paw, then with both paws alternately, as he whipped his head from side to side, as though thrashing an opponent. His turbulence popped the stick free and it bobbed to the surface.
Ontak’s ire disappeared as suddenly as it had begun. Curiosity took over. Ears returning to lateral, then forward, he cautiously approached and gently nosed the stick–all okay. His paw rose a few inches above the toy, hung briefly suspended, then slapped down suddenly, hitting the stick so hard that it flipped over, the far end rising into the air, then dropping to bonk him on the muzzle. Ouch! Just imagining what it must have felt like made my own nose throb as though it were tender.
Leaping back in surprise, the cub shook his head. Ears back again, lip puckered, he stalked the toy, pounced again, and killed the wooden demon.
A light breeze had been blowing all morning. Now it strengthened, swaying the tall green horsetail stems and brown willow canes that lined the creek bank near where I sat. Ontak turned to watch. Standing, he hooked a springy cane a dozen feet from me and pulled the cane to the water's surface. The cane slipped free and snapped upright, whipping back and forth. Again, the cub grabbed the willow under the claws of one paw and pulled the cane down. Now the cane was released on purpose while the cub watched it intently, like a cat mesmerized by the sight of feeding birds. Again and again, at least twenty times, this maneuver was repeated with variations. Different stems were tried, some of which were extremely springy and whipped powerfully. Others just broke or were pulled out by the roots.
Now Ontak remembered his floating stick. Looking around frantically, he turned and bounded downstream, forelegs reaching far in front, hind legs trailing behind with each leap, chest pushing a sparkling six-inch bow wave. He caught up with the toy a hundred yards farther on, at a spot where flotsam and froth gathered in the small eddy below a half-sunken cottonwood.
Keeping my eye glued to the camcorder to capture the action, I followed along on the creek bank. Grasping the stick in his jaws, the small black male lunged up the sheer rocky bank, then slipped and fell back into the water. Drifting downstream in the current a dozen yards, the cub tried again, with better luck. After shaking himself dry, spraying water all around him, Ontak found a sunny spot where he plopped onto his back. Relaxing his jaws, the cub took the stick in his hands and held it aloft. Using both hands and feet, he twirled the stick slowly, dropping it often, then retrieving it lazily with outstretched hands or jaws.
Finally tiring, Ontak dropped the stick behind his head. Drowsily, he arched his body, looking back upside down at the stick as he pawed it into his mouth. Biting down on the toy, Ontak rolled to his feet. The stick was carried to a shady spot and dropped. Scratching the ground listlessly, Ontak’s claws slowly removed the sun-baked duff of dead vegetation and warm organic soil on the forest floor until he reached cool, moist mineral soil. The cub plopped down, belly and groin flat against the soft, refreshing earth. Chin resting on the stick, he was soon asleep.
While engrossed with Ontak, I had lost track of his sisters. Once they arrived, with Alatanna in tow, they quickly succumbed to the afternoon's heat, stretched out on their backs in the shade of a thick log, hind legs splayed, forepaws beside their ears, muzzles pointed toward the sky, snoring lightly.
Alatanna and I relaxed out on the heavily shaded end of that same log–my back leaning against its root-mass, Alatanna cradled in my arms with her head against my chest. Watching the cubs deep in slumber, I pressed my cheek against my bride's corn-silk hair, intoxicated by its floral scent.
It was the finest morning we had ever spent with our adopted youngsters. That I’d finally been able to videotape the cubs was just icing on the cake. What mattered most is that, after nearly a month of effort to tame our little foundlings, while building trust and respect, we had finally been accepted by the cubs as members of their rollicking, insatiably curious, and sometimes ferocious family. The amount of effort and patience required had been phenomenal. But such are the joys and challenges of parenthood–or, in this case, bearenthood.
Goldilocks and the three bears –no fellow ever had a nicer family.
SOUL MATE
Alatanna and I had met the previous summer when I was studying grizzly bears on the Alaska Peninsula, in the region between Katmai and Lake Clark National Parks and Preserves. My research focused on bear body language–on the system of postures, gestures, and vocalizations by which bears inform or manipulate one another. The ability to recognize a bear’s mood and intentions can greatly reduce the risk of disturbing bears or of being injured by them during close encounters.
One key to understanding signals that bears display toward people is understanding their meanings when displayed toward other bears. I had therefore divided each week into two three-day work periods, one period to be spent near Czar Lake Lodge documenting bear–human interactions, and the other period to be spent far into the backcountry documenting bear–bear interactions where the animals were much more numerous and free from human disturbance.
A few miles from Czar Lake, up Wolf River, I found a good observation site. The river cut through a gorge, the walls of which rose steeply for a hundred feet, then sloped away more gently. The brink of the cliff provided a clear view of a large gravel bar with water shallow enough to make fishing easy for bears. I set up camp there and succeeded in filming several confrontations over which bear would utilize a given fishing site, as well as a variety of more benign interactions.
Three days later, pleased with my progress, I headed back toward the tent-cabin I had been assigned along Czar Lake. I stunk like a goat and badly needed to shower and relax. After a single day off, I would again observe bear-human interactions near the lodge for three days, then head back upstream.
Walking the path down Wolf River, about a mile above Czar Lake, I saw a woman on the trail ahead of me, walking in my direction. Between us was a log bridge spanning Bath Creek that drained into Wolf River. Just before reaching the bridge, she turned and climbed a path beside the creek.
I continued past the bridge perhaps fifty yards before curiosity got the better of me. I hiked back to the path she had taken, then up it until I saw her a few hundred yards ahead, climbing with the quick graceful steps of an athlete. This was one foxy lady!
She stopped beside the creek and slipped off her outer clothing. Betraying no sign that she saw me approaching, she stepped gingerly into the water and out of sight, on her way to the thermal area for which Bath Creek had been named.
I didn’t want to be pushy. But I had to see her face again, if just for a moment. Reaching the spot where her clothing was piled, I found shirts and jeans from several people. I had no swimming suit, but didn’t mind getting my jeans wet. Stripping off my shirt and boots, I waded into the creek. Downstream maybe twenty yards, I saw five people lounging in steaming water where the creek was warmed by a hot spring.
Getting there was an ordeal. Above the hot spring, Bath Creek was so cold that every muscle in my belly and chest tightened like a fist, making me gasp for breath.
Each of the people sat on or against a boulder, where they could lay back easily in comfort. But there was no free boulder for me. In fact, the only open seat was beside the woman I had followed up the slope. That bold, I was not; I could face a belligerent moose or grizzly a lot easier than I could a pretty woman.
I knelt at a spot where the hot and cold currents ebbed and flowed. One moment I was boiling, the next freezing. Statistically, I may have been quite comfortable on average, but that’s not how it felt. I could never relax, knowing that the temperature would shift abruptly at any moment.
Suddenly, a plume of hot water roasted me, and I stood up with a gasp. Conversation ceased, and everyone burst out laughing.
The blond goddess took pity on me. "I wondered how long you would last out there," she laughed. "Here, sit next to me; best seat in the house." That it was... that it surely was!
She told me that her name was Alatanna and introduced her girlfriend Rhoda and their companions.
I stayed maybe fifteen minutes, intrigued, but all too aware of being an intruder.
Well, I’d met the lady–I’d get to know her another time, under more auspicious circumstances.
I waded back upstream through the icy water, chilling rapidly. Covered with goose bumps and shivering, I had no sooner stripped off my jeans and underwear to wring them out than I noticed that I was not alone. Fifty yards away, a roly-poly platinum-colored sow grizzly was gorging on bright–red and orange salmonberries. Another blond–just what I needed.
She gave no sign of aggression, or of even being aware that I was nearby. But nothing unnerves me quite as much as meeting a grizzly in my birthday suit.
Slowly, not wanting to attract her attention, I picked up my jeans with the toes of one foot, then backed into the creek. Once there, I sat down, slipped on my pants, then floated downstream to warn my new companions.
"That's probably just Old Gertrude," Alatanna laughed.
She had known this sow for years. The bear usually ignored them and their clothing unless someone was carrying food–someone like me. After three days in the backcountry, I still had a small bag of trail mix in a pack pocket. Oh well, not any more.
Gertrude's coming broke the ice between me and the group. But I was still so nervous that I kept quiet, unaware of how much my silence intrigued Alatanna. She was used to men who monopolized conversations.
I was smitten. Alatanna seemed to sparkle with gay energy and warmth. The ring of her laughter, the flirting tilt of her head, the glint of her sparkling sea-green eyes enchanted me. When she focused on me, I felt like the most important person in her world. I felt the glowing warmth of a fine spring day after a long cold winter. When she turned away, blizzards swept back through me. I hate falling in love!
Finally, as the evening grew dark, the group rose to leave. I got back to the clothing first. Sure enough, my trail mix was gone, but nothing was damaged. The bear was apparently familiar with zippers, for she had opened the pack pocket as neatly as a person would have done–my first hint of how dextrously bears can use their claws.
As we walked down the trail, Alatanna’s friend Rhoda came up beside me and began chatting. Suddenly, as if a dam had burst inside me, I relaxed. Talking to Rhoda was easy, and I was soon chattering away. Funny stories kept springing to mind. We laughed most of the way back to the lodge.
That, however, was nothing compared to the laughter I heard a week later, when I came back out of the hinterland to give a lecture at the lodge about my previous studies on moose.
The talk went well as I showed more than a hundred slides, mixing humorous anecdotes with scientific information on the ecology of these giant deer–focusing on how mother moose raise their calves, and how their populations are impacted by trophy hunting so intense that it eliminates most fully mature bulls. I also told of rearing two orphaned calves.
After the question–and–answer period, as I was boxing up my slides, a woman's voice came from behind. "That was a good talk. You sure know a lot about moose. But actually, I thought you were a bare biologist.”
I had several slides balanced in my hand and didn’t turn around. The voice, stifled with barely contained laughter, continued. "I'm sure Gertrude was impressed. There's nothing she likes better than bare biologists."
Several seconds passed before the name Gertrude struck a chord of memory, and I understood the pun; not "bear" biologist, but "bare" biologist. Gertrude was the tolerant sow grizzly I had met in the buff at the hot–spring. I whirled around and nearly bumped into Alatanna and Rhoda. They burst out laughing.
They had loved my stories about raising the orphaned calves, especially when I told of having to feed the foundlings and clear up their messes every couple of hours around the clock.
“A man doing woman’s work!” Alatanna kidded me. "Maybe we should call you 'Mother Moose,' " I smiled weakly, hardly thrilled with the nickname.
Rhoda came to my rescue. "Better yet, `Pappy Moose.' "
They turned and walked off, glancing back just long enough to make sure I was watching.
After my third and last visit to the backcountry, I returned to Czar Lake Lodge where I met Alatanna again. With a picnic supper of foods unlikely to attract bears, we returned to the hot–spring. We ate, then slipped into the soothing water, resting side–by–side at her favorite spot.
Before coming to Alaska, Alatanna had studied acting in New York. Professionally, she was a third generation lineal descendant of Stanislavski–a protégée of the Master's own protégée. She had been a rising star of the Broadway stage who seemed destined for great things–until the price became too steep to pay.
Hours passed as conversation eventually ceased and we let bliss overtake us. Occasionally, our hands or feet touched, then moved away. Finally, I summoned the courage to hold her hand. Gradually, our shoulders slid together until her head rested on my shoulder, and my head leaned against hers. The scent of her hair made me feel like I had been drinking champagne.
Above us, the mist began to glow. In the distance, out of sight, the sun was setting. It turned the steam around us into an enchanted veil of rose translucence. I squeezed her hand and felt her answering grasp.
Finally, as the forest darkened, we rose, dressed, and started hiking back to the lodge. Although pretty much at ease with bears this close to camp, neither of us wanted to run into a grouchy individual. This was just the time of night when the more wary grizzlies, especially the giant males, started using the trails.
Back at the lodge, when it came time to part, we hugged tightly, clinging together for an eternity. Then someone emerged from the building and walked toward us, breaking the spell. I took Alatanna's face in my hands, shivering with excitement and fear. My lips pressed gently on her forehead. She hugged me tightly, then turned and walked away.
That was my last evening at Czar Lake. The next morning I would catch a plane to Katmai National Park to begin the next phase of my pilot study on grizzlies. As much as I wanted to stay there with Alatanna, I had a commitment to the National Park Service which I could not break.
* * *
In mid-September, Alatanna and I performed what we called our “Indian wedding” ceremony that bound us together romantically, if not legally.
We had all the love in the world, but almost no money. Nearly broke and unemployed, without job prospects before spring, we were beginning to despair of finding a way to stretch our meager savings that long. Then my friend Cliff Wright saved the day by offering to let us use his cabin deep in the Wrangle Mountains, at the border between Alaska and the Yukon Territory, in what is now the heart of the Wrangle/St. Elias International Park. Living off the land, in one of the most awesome environments on earth, we not only survived, but thrived.
WEDDING
In May, we returned to civilization and were married officially. My golden–haired bride was radiant in an exquisite white satin dress, its shoulders covered with flowery brown silk–the product of many long winter nights with needle and thread, working by kerosene light.
The official wedding words were spoken by a justice of the peace. He had arrived among us an intrusive stranger, imposed on us by the legal system, yet quickly became a delightful friend; bonds form or break quickly on the frontier.
After being pronounced man and wife, we held a spiritual ceremony. In place of a priest, our ceremony was conducted by the man whom we thought of as our tribal elder, Tony Zak. Although reared in the coal mines of Pennsylvania, with little formal schooling, Tony had a great love of literature and poetry. His renditions of Robert Service verses were unsurpassed. Now, at our wedding, Tony’s deeply moving words were followed by a recording of Wilderness Rhapsody, a piano piece which I had composed for the occasion.
Intoxicated with love, we spun romantic fantasies of what our future would hold, and of the children we might someday have–never dreaming that parenthood of another sort was just weeks away, or of the tragedy that would orphan three lovable young bear cubs.
(From this point on, the book relates how our relationship with the cubs developed,
and how we helped them learn to become increasingly independent.
They had to master not only finding plants to eat,
but hunting prey such as mammals, birds, and fish.
Their growing success catching salmon is described in Ch. 11.
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