Close Encounters of the Ursine Kind; Lessons I've learned from Bears

I felt as though I was being watched.  I turned around.  I saw her immediately, staring right at me, not 20 yards off.  My heartrate quickened, and I began to tremble.  The golden colored, subadult female Brown Bear started to walk toward me….

     Bears.  I knew their general biology (large, omnivorous mammals, hibernators, extensive maternal care, etc.), but until I came to Alaska this was my knowledge base.  My experience was limited to zoo trips and several sightings of both Brown (Ursus arctos) and Black Bears (Ursus americanus) in Yellowstone National Park.  There is a growing population of Black Bears in Eastern Ohio, but it is still so small that many residents of my home state probably do not know it exists.  The species is classified as endangered there.  Conversely, the striking statistic often quoted for the Alaska Peninsula is that there are more bears (Brown) than people.  If you spend a summer on the Peninsula as I have done, sharing the same main protein source as bears (salmon), you will undoubtedly interact with these non-human neighbors.  These creatures are powerful not only in physical strength but in their influence on human minds and cultures.  If you look inside a bear's mouth (preferably not by the way I'm sure you are thinking about), you will see that aside from enlarged canines, it's teeth look similar to ours.  They are omnivores like us.  If you examine a bear's tracks, you will notice that they are five-toed like ours, and have smaller front than hind paws, like our hands and feet.  Sometimes they stand and even walk on their hind limbs like us.  Finally, if you spend time closely watching a bear, you might see certain behavioral similarities as well.  At this point I've spent a lot of time watching bears, and along with a mysterious wild wisdom, there is something strangely familiar in the eyes of a bear.  

     In many Native American cultures, the bear is a symbol of the wild, emotional side of ourselves.  Bears are typically solitary animals except for mothers with cubs.  Mystery surrounds the being that wanders the mountains alone; we can relate to a need at times for solitude and introspection.  On my trips into the Becharof National Wildlife Refuge wilderness last summer, bears were often the only other mammal seen each day, and aside from a mother with two cubs, each was alone.  I didn't know anything about these individual bears, except that they were powerful and deserved respect and distance.  My coworker explained how each bear has its own personality, and might respond to our presence differently on one day over another because “Bears have good and bad days too”.  If a smaller bear is chased numerous times by a larger bear, it might be more likely to stand its ground or become aggressive towards us (although this is rare).  Some bears would run immediately as they saw us or picked up our scent, others would stand and watch us.  It was clear that both we humans and those bears could feel the tension between our species.  We tread an invisible line; a delicate balance formed from a long history of competition and combat. 

     Bears show intense, arguably emotional, responses to different stimuli.  From the raised platform at Brooks Falls in Katmai National Park, I’ve been able to observe wild bears closely for hours.  I've watched a bear slap the water with anger after having a fish stolen from her, a mother charge a much larger boar (male bear) without hesitation as he came too close to her cubs, and many other conflicts.  I've seen a cub cry for its mother after being left in a tree, and I've seen footage of a mother in severe distress as her cub was killed by a boar.  I've also watched bears play; jumping on tree limbs and wrestling with each other for hours.  I've seen desperate hungry lunges at fish and genuine pleasure while stripping the skin off of a Sockeye Salmon.  I've seen pain and amazing recoveries from severe injuries.  

The boar on the left came too close to the sow that the bear on the right was courting.

The sow at the top right is growling at the other because she stole her fish.

The fierce look of a mother bear (her 3 cubs are outside of this frame).

Two young bears play in Brooks River.

A look of hunger and triumph.

Enjoying salmon.

Hungry cubs grab at a fish mom just caught.

Below: Contrast the face of Brooks Camp Bear #410 Four-ton, who is 26 years old, with Bear #500 Indy, a young subadult female (who is also who walked toward me in my introductory narrative).

One of many stories of perseverance and survival: Bear 130 Tundra suffered what appeared to be a superficial facial injury as a yearling cub.... (Photo by NPS)

She lived with only a scar to show.... (Photo by NPS/Mike Fitz)

It wasn't until after her death that biologists realized that her injury was not superficial.  130 Tundra had been living with a major skull deformity, perhaps from a blow to the head, that likely caused severe pain (Photo by NPS).

     Through these experiences, watching the lives of bears and interacting with them on occasion, I’ve learned a lot.  I will discuss three important lessons.  The first is to be strong.  This may seem immediately obvious, but it runs deeper than being able to knock a tree over.  130 Tundra and others have recovered from major injuries, showing resiliency and perseverance through struggle.  Bears continue on even when they are in pain.  

     Second, bears have taught me to face my fears, to stay calm in potential danger.  When I first came to Alaska and started to read Stephen Herrero’s Bear Attacks: Their Causes and Avoidance, the fact that bears are dangerous animals that can kill people began to cause a sick feeling in my stomach; fear.  Training in bear biology and behavior, how to react when encountering a bear, and bear spray and firearms helped build confidence, but I still nervously anticipated my first encounter.  It was on my second field mission to take a survey of bird species and abundances.  I had seen bear trails and scat on my first, but no bears.  I was canoeing the Kejulik River with my coworker to our field site.  It was cold, wet, and windy; so miserable that both of us had ceased speaking and my thoughts were of warm places and a longing to be curled up in my sleeping bag.  I heard “Bear”, in a serious tone and looked ahead to see a giant dark figure on the shore downstream from us.  I shook not from the cold now, knowing that we would have to canoe by the bear.  The mighty creature took one look at us and then turned and ran up a hill with such ease that I was entranced by its power.  We saw many bears on that trip, and I’ve seen many bears since, but there are several encounters that stand out in my mind.  

It is a humbling moment to have eye contact with a large, sentient, nonhuman being; both of us are mutually aware of each other, and both of us are curious and afraid.  In addition to facing my fears, bears have taught me humility.  I am reminded of my small size (in both a literal and abstract sense) when in the presence of bears.  Returning to my introductory narrative; I was on my way back to Brooks Camp after a walk on the beach and had walked into the forest to examine a beaver pond when I turned to see a young bear.  She was obviously a curious subadult by her small size and approach; head up and an unsure walk.  I talked to her, repeating “Hey bear” and “Stay back” in as firm a voice as I could manage.  I had to make several turns, returning to the beach before she finally lost interest.  I will never know her motivations beyond curiosity, but she looked lonely and confused by my hostility.  Subadult bears are chased away by their mothers and must learn to survive on their own.  I hoped that I had helped to teach her an important lesson; to stay away from humans. 

The subadult female after she had stopped following me.

There is much we can learn from bears.  If the bear represents our wild side, then are we left confused like the subadult female?  Do we fear the darker side of our own nature, or do we turn and look it in the eye?  We will likely never completely understand, but we can acknowledge our different sides and grow.  The very essence of wild is intangible, and therefore unattainable.  We are left to wander, respecting the bear and learning when to use its power.  

Backpacking The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes

     On June 6th, 1912, the lush, green Ukak River Valley was transformed; buried under hundreds of feet of ash over the next 60 hours, it is now known by a different name.  When Robert Griggs, a botanist with the National Geographic Society, explored the valley in 1916, he and his comrades discovered a desolate, steaming landscape.....

"The sight that flashed into view...was one of the most amazing visions ever beheld by mortal eye. The whole valley as far as the eye could reach was full of hundreds, no thousands--literally tens of thousands--of smokes curling up from its fissured floor…It was as though all the steam engines in the world, assembled together, had popped their safety valves at once and were letting off surplus steam in concert."

      From that point on, this place has been known as the Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes.  The explorers' emotions are reflected in names such as Mount Cerebus, named for the three-headed dog that guards the Gates of Hell in Greek mythology, and the River Lethe, one of the rivers of Hades also in Greek mythology.  Much has changed over the past century; the valley is no longer full of smokes, we now know that Novarupta, a strange, new volcano capped by a lava dome, is the culprit of the eruption rather than Mount Katmai- which collapsed into a caldera during the eruption, and amazingly, life is slowly reclaiming the valley.  Nevertheless it remains that the 1912 eruption was one of the largest eruptions in human history, and over a century later the scarred valley still echoes the unyielding, unforgiving power of the Alaskan wilderness.

A neighboring valley gives an idea of what the Ukak Valley looked like (The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes is off to the right).  

The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes when Griggs first explored it (Photo from National Geographic).  

The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes today.  

     I don't tend to anthropomorphize places, however, I cannot help but feel that the Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes has a certain essence and personality.  Most of the time it is ill-tempered, showing no mercy on its travelers.  We had started our 22 mile drive to the Valley, on the only developed road to the park, under cloudy skies and decent temperatures.  As we reached the Valley, a strong, cold wind whipped against us, chilling even through Patagonia windbreakers and down jackets.  Droplets of rain pelted our faces at an angle, further dampening the situation.  My first view of the Valley was breathtaking.  The strangest landscape stretched in front of me; a red, gold, and tan floor, sliced by a deep gorge winding across, surrounded by towering mountains, most of which are actually volcanoes.  Dark clouds hung over it, and it was visibly raining farther out.  It looked worst just beyond the curving Buttress Range, where I and other backpackers would be headed the next morning.  It was anything but inviting.

     For the first day, we descended 800 feet into the Valley, viewing the confluence of the River Lethe and Windy Creek, one of the jump points (where backpackers can jump across the river gorge- there's no return if a mistake is made), and Ukak Falls.  Water rushed over the rocks, roaring angrily screaming danger and power to my ears.  The water was brown, and fossil fumaroles raced up the ash wall that towered above us.  We tossed pieces of pumice, which is a type of volcanic rock that floats due to copious bubbles formed from rapid cooling and depressurizing of gases within it during eruption, into the water, and watched them disappear in rapids and reappear as they spun around in a whirlpool at a curve in the river.  We climbed up and down the ash, which felt like rougher, thicker sand beneath my feet and hands.  We found burnt wood pieces and roots that had been killed over 100 years ago, and examined dark cryptobiotic soil (a mix of cyanobacteria, lichens, fungi, bacteria, and more) reblanketing the Valley just off of the trail.  Back at the overlook/Visitor Center, I spent the rest of the evening pondering what I had seen.  I felt excited and nervous at the prospect of backpacking into this place.  The wind had picked up even more, and farther out in the Valley the rain had as well.

River Lethe and Windy Creek confluence.

Ukak Falls

Fossil fumaroles

Burnt roots from trees alive before the 1912 eruption.

     I woke up the next morning feeling like Bilbo Baggins from J. R. R. Tolkein's The Hobbit.  The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes could easily be part of the title of an adventure movie.  The weather was somewhat better, although the sun still did not shine.  We descended into the Valley around 9:00, and quickly came to our first river crossing.  My first time fording, I clumsily stuffed clothing layers into my backpack, stripping down to underwear on my lower half.  The water was cold, and the current strong.  We carefully moved against it, my legs feeling as though they were being pricked with pins and needles.  Quickly re-dressing and pulling our bags back over our shoulders, we hiked onward.  I agree with others' descriptions of the Valley as analagous to the surface of the moon or a desert.  We crossed small stream after stream, and ascended as we hugged the side of the Buttress Range.  We occasionally came across bear tracks, and I smiled, acknowledging that both bears and humans maintained the thin, weaving trail we were on.  The largely barren Valley is still easier to travel across than its more fruitful, mountainous, brushy surroundings; the bears are willing to make that trade-off.

     I will admit that after a while, I became rather frustrated and irritable.  I later found out that I was not wearing my backpack correctly, letting the weight fall on my shoulders rather than my hips, I was hungry, and most of the group I was in were wanting to go at a much faster pace.  I am not a speed hiker.  We faced a strong headwind and rain.  I walked through thick brush, branches entangling with my bag and attempting to pull me back more.  I climbed several small gorges where waterfalls flowed.  Lunch and water collected from the second waterfall refueled me, but the need to press onward was accentuated by how cold I became sitting still in sweat and rain.

Crossing small waterfalls and gorges.

These colors are formed by different minerals at different temperatures being released during the eruption.

     The River Lethe is only fordable in several places, outside of those it is a deep and deadly gorge.  Our destination for the evening, the Baked Mountain Huts, was still barely visible in the distance, and would involve a strenuous climb.  The wind was picking up, and I knew once I crossed the river I was committed to that destination.  The water here was even colder, but shallower.  It was a rather tame crossing for my group (that is not always the case depending on snowmelt, rain, etc.), and the only unnerving part was ash slightly sinking beneath us in several spots.  After again climbing to the top of the ash layer, the wind carried not only rain but pumice, hitting my face like glass shards.  I donned a pair of sunglasses and my buff, attempting to keep pumice out of my eyes, nose, and mouth.  Now unsheltered from the Buttress Range and on the other side of the river, we faced a long, flat expanse of ash, over 30 mile an hour winds (my estimates) attempting to push us back with every step.  "I sure picked a helluva place for my first backpacking trip", I thought to myself.  I kept my head towards the ground, occasionally turning around and walking backwards when too much pumice funnelled at us.  In squinting glances, the huts never seemed to get closer.  Time appeared to have stopped, and I was solely aware of two things; the misery of this stretch and the need to get to shelter.  After several hours (what seemed like more), we finally reached Baked Mountain.  Two fellow backpackers kindly helped me adjust my pack and lightened my load; I had learned a valuable lesson about the importance of weight and spatial distribution in backpacking.  My feet throbbing with fresh blisters and back aching, I slowly climbed.

One of the River Lethe crossing points.

     The huts were small, dilapidated, and moldy, but they felt like a 5 star hotel at the time.  The view was spectacular, and that I couldn't see where we had started gave me an idea of how far we had come (~11 miles).  I was exhausted.  Hoping that the weather would improve tomorrow, I enjoyed a hot Backpacker's Pantry (freeze-dried food packet) and settled into my sleeping bag, falling asleep to the wind pelting pumice against the huts and threatening to rip them apart.

Baked Mountain Huts outside view.

Baked Mountain Huts inside view.

     Miraculously, the sun was shining through cloud patches when I woke up the next day.  I ate breakfast, collected, melted, and filtered snow from the mountain for drinking water, and headed out to view Novarupta, which was only several miles away.  I (along with a friend) walked over snowfields on the slopes of Baked and Broken Mountains, occasionally sinking up to my knee, and holding my walking/fording stick horizontally in case I fell deeper.  While climbing up a final slope, a spectacular sight came into view.  A huge, unearthly, black dome of lava stood out from its surroundings.  Novarupta: the origin of the miles of ash we had walked on.  Steam coming off of the active volcano made it appear even more menacing.  We would have gone closer, but the subvalley that Novarupta sat in was funneling wind and rain.  I took in the view, pondering it while eating Peanut Butter on Pilot Bread (large, dense crackers).  Eventually, I turned back into the sun, already planning a future trip to go closer.

View back towards the Huts while walking to Novarupta.

Novarupta is in the middle of the frame.

Mount Cerebus to far right, unknown mountain to left, right of Novarupta (out of view to left).

     Time passes slower in the backcountry.  Without the distractions of modern technologies and other amenities, the mind is able to wander more freely.  We spent the rest of the day inventing games that involved throwing rocks and pumice and playing cards.  A beautiful rainbow appeared over the area; symbolizing protection even in this harsh place.  It was the perfect end to my second day in the Valley.

     Early the next morning we began our trek back.  Most of the way was either downhill or flat, which made for quick travel.  The sun was peaking out of the clouds again, and I was able to view tall Mount Griggs and glimpse the bottom of Mount Mageik.  I won't say much about the trip back, besides feeling both fatigued and contemplative by the end of the trip.

The fog that morning almost looked as though the Valley was smoking again.

     The first few days following a return from a trip ino the wilderness are strange.  Typically things are relatively the same as you left them, but you are different.  Removed from the modern world, then cast back into it; given a new understanding and then forced to reconcile it with your previous perspective, is difficult to swallow.  Nevertheless, this feeling of displacement subsides, and you do your best to retain the most vivid memories of your experience and incorporate an intangible wild lesson into your normal life.  The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes challenged me physically and mentally more than any other place has.  Being consumed by it; enveloped by ash swirls and rain, and then thrown out again, was a strong experience that has taught me.  Humbled by the Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes, its power and wild wisdom, I continue to explore and seek out wilderness.