The conifer branch, weighted and creaking, dipped. All night, and then all day, the bear straddled the thick branch in the great tree that rose from the slope beside my house, dense with its tangle of fir and aspen; the magic edge between here and there where my son once built his childhood elven strongholds.
The old, thick arm of the tree stretched almost to my roof. The bear, perched in the tree and no doubt used to planning sudden escapes, seemed content with this arrangement. I sat (at a safe distance) on the deck all afternoon and watched as night slipped in and blurred the edges of his face, and the bear became a thicker, darker point among the shadows of the tree.
[Image: Debra Bokur]
My house and land borders the National Forest. The bear and I knew each other fairly well; his sound and my scent as distinctive to each of us as a signature. There had been past disputes over hummingbird feeders, sunflower seeds and the maximum weight allowance for deck chairs. The bear was always clear in his opinions, and seemed openly critical of my singing in the garden, making huffing noises in response to my off-key attempts at melody as I worked in the soil at dusk or early in the day, and he kept his distance in the copse of old, soaring trees.
He was not too high up, but not too far from the top, either; lest some sudden need to disappear should present itself. The neighbors, though a fair distance away, spotted him, and made a call to the authorities, despite my protests.
The photographer from the local newspaper came, a stupid man who planted a ladder against a tree in the neighbor’s yard and made silly noises to get the bear to turn his head. After an hour, the photographer relocated to the neighbor’s roof, looking for that perfect shot, the one that would take him from our tiny weekly mountain bulletin to National Geographic, or perhaps The Discovery Channel. Surely, I thought, at some point an award-winning wildlife documentary would be made by someone else about the photographer’s sudden demise, resulting from the insanity of pestering a bear from a second-story roof.
At first, the far more sensible bear ignored the photographer. A wildlife official arrived to advise the neighbors to leave the bear alone, and to sequester any noisy dogs inside. The neighbors, fresh from the coast and new to the mountains, responded by calling friends and inviting them to join them on a bear watch. They set up lawn chairs facing my house, and brought their children. By the end of the second day, the bear could be heard to huff a few times in aggravation, rubbing the tree branches together and popping his jaw loudly to emphasize his point. He wanted to come down, but there were too many humans within proximity of the tree.
At last, both the photographer and the wildlife official went away, warning all watchers to leave the bear alone. I sat inside near the window with a cup of tea; a place far more safe and comfortable, at least in theory, than the branch supporting the great hind end of the surely weary bear.
Nightfall came at last, and the bear moved up, a few feet closer to the stars, shaking the entire tree and causing a few late-to-roost magpies to protest and scold him.
Though I’d never actually checked, I surmised the bear was male, operating from the assumption that no female bear would have gotten herself into such a predicament to begin with. As the mountain air grew cool and darkness settled on the slopes, everyone, including the neighbors and the host of local dogs, seemed to lose interest in his presence.
[Image: Debra Bokur]
Except for me. I worried about him growing dizzy from dehydration, and falling to the ground far below. A bear with a broken limb is a bear embroiled in the throes of a serious dilemma.
The bear sat there for two days and nearly three nights, perched like a great furred beast with folded wings. I wondered if during the wee hours while I slept, he shapeshifted into a great flying thing and soared down from the heights of the massive conifer to land beside some warm and cozy cave: somewhere he could briefly rest, or have a snack, or rehydrate from the lake at the foot of our hill.
The night he finally went on his way, perhaps reassured by the lack of activity on the ground, I thanked him for his visit, a gesture that went unanswered. Not that it mattered very much in the greater scheme of things. Perhaps his choice of tree came down to the fact that he (along with the local foxes, bobcats, rabbits and other critters) have learned that I am not given to shrieking or hysterics, know to keep my distance and not interact, and accept that I live by choice in the wilderness on the top of a mountain that was inhabited by bears long before humans showed up to alter the natural surroundings and build their homes.
[Image: Debra Bokur]
Regardless of what anyone might think about my relationships with animals, I knew then, and without doubt, that this was a memory worth thanking the bear for. So I wished him a safe escape, and a raspberry thicket lush with fruit on the path leading back further up the mountain.
The glorious wonder of a bear on a nearby branch should never be underestimated, or disregarded for the singular event that it is. It will continue to be my fervent belief that even the most rudimentary bonds should be celebrated, and never restricted by the rules imposed by others regarding appropriateness, time, place—or species.
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