08 Oct Bear Quest
We’d barely dropped from the ridge into our first flower-studded meadow along Mt. Rainier’s Northern Loop Trail when my hiking buddy popped the question – “What’s the wildlife goal this time?”
I had to laugh; this woman knew me well. She’d trudged through parks in Miami seeking various species for my Attracting Birds to South Florida Gardens wildlife gardening book and listened to me obsess over the endemic pink rattlesnake when we’d hiked rim to rim in the Grand Canyon. She was accustomed to me constantly scanning the landscape, looking for even the smallest beetle. Yet she also knew that while I might be pleased with a beetle, there was a short list of target animals per trip that seeing, better yet photographing, would truly make me happy. One species was often the pinnacle of that target list. Just as it was the pink rattlesnake in the Grand Canyon, here in Mt. Rainier it was a black bear.
This marked my third bear quest in a year. The first was last fall with my arctic expedition to see polar bears before their habitat disappeared. Walking to polar bears proved more gratifying than I had imagined (see my Arctic Face-off post), and I’d been excited about the trip to begin with. Unfortunately, my second quest, taking photographs for my new book project with the University Press of Florida, Florida Wild: The Animals of the Sunshine State, has so far proven less gratifying than I’d imagined from a bear perspective. The closest I’ve come to photographing a Florida bear since starting this quest in the spring has been a loud snort from a bush in Ocala National Forest (see my Bear Expedition #1 blog). It sounded far too close for my lens, and my comfort level, and while the bear no doubt had a good view of me, I saw nothing beyond thick vegetation. Perhaps my Florida failures to date were the real reason bears topped my Mt. Rainier list; I needed bear gratification.
Bears in Washington seemed an achievable goal. I’d seen a mom bear and cub on the outskirts of my campground when I’d backpacked through Washington’s Cascades National Park several years prior, and the ranger who’d given us our Northern Loop Trail permit claimed there’d been many bear sightings along our intended route. By day three though, we’d only seen signs of bears – trees with stripped bark that bore teeth marks where bears fresh from hibernation had gnawed into the cambium for nutrients. It was the first I’d seen this type of bear sign and it fascinated me, but it wasn’t the same as seeing a bear.
Mid-day that third day, we decided to take a side hike to the Natural Bridge. Following bear protocol, we removed the food and toiletries from our packs before stowing them near the trailhead, though such bear precautions were beginning to feel like a farce. The trail wound through boulder fields strewn with towering beargrass, a wildflower that had become one of my favorites, possibly because it was as close to a bear as I’d gotten. The hike culminated in a sweeping vista that included a giant bridge-like rock arch in the foreground with background scenery that provided a retrospective on our progress along the Northern Loop Trail. The lakes we saw included one that we’d camped at the night before. There was also a notable patch of previously burned forest that through the days of our trek had transitioned from a dark speck far above us, to trail-side forest, and was now a diminishing patch below us.
Feeling buoyant about our advancement, I jokingly announced I was on pika patrol. I marched back up the trail, one hand held above my eyes in mock scout stance as I scanned for animals. It was the middle of a sunny and regionally sweltering day though; I had no real expectation of spotting wildlife on these hot rocks. As I glanced over the edge of the trail to a boulder patch below, I noticed some beargrass moving in non-wind assisted ways. I gasped, fumbling with my camera as the grasses parted and a lone black bear emerged.
The bear stepped into the open, looking straight up at me for a moment before meandering along the boulders. It stayed visible for several minutes as it sniffed the air, examined this rock or that shrub, then finally flopped into the beargrass and disappeared from sight.
I was pleased that I’d officially met my goal, but knowing that Yellowstone Cliffs, our campground for the night, was allegedly a bear hot spot, I wanted more. I eyed a couple of large patches of flattened wildflowers hopefully as we hiked the final stretch into camp. The crushed vegetation looked fresh, perhaps bears had bedded there the night before. When I asked a researcher who spent much of the summer camped in this backcountry about my chances of seeing bear here, though, he shook his head no.
The campground was heavily wooded so as sunset neared, I headed down trail to find a potential viewing spot. I began to hear the whistled call of some animal as I neared an opening, a marmot perhaps. I sat quietly on a large rock at the edge of the boulder field near where the noise was most prevalent and scanned the terrain for my quarry. A chipmunk scampered across the trail and paused nearby, eyeing me for quite some time before scurrying off.
I heard another loud whistle in the direction the chipmunk had run and spotted a pika sitting atop a rock. I was certain that this little animal couldn’t be the source of such a loud sound, until it opened its mouth. It gazed at me a moment, then boomed out several more calls before diving into a nearby crevasse.
The mountains before me were now deep in shadows, but a shaft of golden light appeared to aim straight down the valley in the direction of camp. It occurred to me that I hadn’t fully explored the stream below camp and that there might be a view from there toward this light. I rushed back only to discover that there was no clear view and that the light had shifted in such a way that my original vantage point, back where the pika had been whistling, was probably my best bet.
I rushed back along the trail through the meadow, picking up speed as I neared the intersection where the camp trail met the main trail. I rounded one last bend and froze. There stood a mother bear and her cub. She was in the lead, thirty feet or so ahead of me faced in my direction with the cub lagging behind. The mother bear stared at me. I stared at the mother bear. The cub, likely striving for a better view, stood on its hind legs and placed a paw on the camp directional sign while looking toward me.
It felt like minutes though I’m sure it was mere seconds before I remembered to lift my camera and take a few pictures. The mother cocked her head, then turned around, ambling back up the camp trail and turning down the main trail in the direction of my potential sunset spot. The cub stood there a moment longer, paw on the sign as it looked back and forth between its mom and me, finally dropping to all fours and following Mom down the trail. I took a couple of steps in that direction, but the vegetation was too dense. To continue would be reckless. There was no way to tell whether they’d kept walking or if they’d settled down in the trail-side bushes.
I couldn’t help but pause next to the patches of flattened vegetation on my way back to camp. Were these the beds of that mother and cub? Would they return to them later that night?
When I got back to camp, without a word, I lifted the back of my camera toward my friend and watched looks of surprise and envy flood her features as she saw what I’d seen.
The next morning, after we’d hoisted our packs onto our backs, my friend said, “Come on Grizzly, let’s see if we can’t find another bear.”
We didn’t, but apparently my trail name had been found – Grizzly. I liked it. Hopefully it’ll yield a Florida bear!
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