Suddenly I Saw Mother Grizzly Bear. Then He Rising On His Hind Feet

Debates about the future of our country are heated these days, and there is a certain lack of anthropocentrism and humility when we as humans interact and think about our world.

I learned once again from nature how to keep my preoccupation with my family, work and politics in perspective.

It was the kind of autumn day you never want to end. Clear blue skies and a gentle breeze caused yellow cottonwood leaves to dance as they fell to the forest floor.

My partner, Natalie, and I launched our canoe to paddle six miles on the Blackfoot River. I was excited because this trip would take me away from the stressors in my life.

The water was glassy and we could see large schools of rocky mountain whitefish swimming effortlessly in the shadow of our canoe deep in the river’s blue sandy pools.

Kayaking is a beautiful and thought-provoking pastime. It allows you to forget human concerns and focus on nature: Sunlight shining on the water dripping from the oar; the river gurgles and sings as it flows downstream; and the smell of the damp earth and the willows that grow on the banks and provide food and home to wild animals.

There is something fascinating, comforting, and ancient about the way one’s body moves against, rather than against, the energy of the river and the paddle while canoeing. It’s therapy where you don’t need words, the couch, or anyone else to validate your feelings.

Time takes on a new meaning, driven not by deadlines or accomplishments, but by the possibility of how hungry you are for an afternoon thunderstorm, a cold beer from the cooler, or a sharp cheddar cheese sandwich in your spare bag.

Canoeing is an ancient art, and it is easy to see why it is still popular thousands of years after the first canoe was created.

It was midday when we stood on a rocky shore about 25 meters below a deep pool where we planned to take our last weak dive of the season. As is often the case, Natalie dove in first, then I dove in to avoid being called a chicken.

We splashed around, but the water was cold and we quickly turned to our towels to dry off and look at the river rocks.

Natalie is a geologist by training and our favorite kayaking pastime is collecting unusual river rocks. Montana’s river rocks are unrivaled in their beauty and diversity.

There were many times while fly fishing that I stopped fishing to admire the rainbow colors of wet river rocks and the way they glistened and glittered in the sunlight. The variety of sizes, shapes, colors and textures is amazing and endless.

On this riverbank there were heart-shaped rocks, bird-shaped rocks, and rocks that looked like a human face. Oval, ellipse, triangular and egg shaped rocks. Reddish sandstone rocks with yellow markings. Emerald green rocks, gray rocks, black rocks and canary yellow rocks. Rocks with striations, pits, pits and jagged edges.

We were so preoccupied with deciding which ones to take home that we barely noticed the enormous cacophony of ravens on the opposite shore.

A few minutes later we heard a very loud mule-like braying followed by the noise of a large animal moving through the bushes. We didn’t pay much attention because we were in cattle country and thought it was a cow.

Suddenly, three large figures appeared from the cottonwood forest along the opposite river bank. I looked up and realized it was a huge mother grizzly bear with two cubs.

I felt disbelief and fear reaching to the pit of my stomach. Time stopped.

The mother grizzly bear was very large and her two cubs were also large; both were larger than adult Bernese Mountain dogs. The mother’s characteristic gray hump on her back was visible, as was her saucer-shaped face and light brown fur.

The bears were less than 100 feet away on the opposite side of the river; They were much closer than the 100 meters that experts say is safe for viewing grizzly bears.

I put my hand on Natalie’s arm and said, “Grizzly.” He looked up and his mouth opened wide. I grabbed the bear spray without my pants on and started talking to the grizzly bear to put distance between us as we walked down the river.

“Hey bear” I said. “We’re not here to bother you or your pups.”

The mother grizzly bear stood up on her hind legs and turned her head from side to side. “Keep walking,” I told Natalie as we walked down through the thigh-high grass and bushes.

At that moment, I thought the mother grizzly bear was going to charge across the river. A grizzly bear can reach speeds of up to 35 miles per hour and I have noticed that it can approach 100 feet in a matter of seconds.

To be honest, even though I know how to use bear spray, I don’t think I can apply it in time.

I felt a bit of a funny disaster because I was naked from the waist down and had nothing but confusion on my face, a can of bear spray in one hand and a river rock in the other.

I thought about what the news headline might read if we were attacked: “Naked Kayaker Barely Escapes Bear Attack.”

But the mother grizzly bear did not attack. He got down on all fours and began splashing and drinking in the river. One of her cubs started to wander away and he took her back to the river.

And suddenly they were gone, disappearing like ghosts among the poplar trees.

We got back into our canoe and floated downriver in awe, lost in our thoughts.

After our encounter with the grizzly bear, I realized how humble and insignificant I felt.

Not in a bad way, but more of a realization that the concerns I carry every day about family, work and politics may be important to me, but perhaps not in the larger context of our fragile, blue-green planet.

We may feel that human endeavors are the most important events on Earth, but are they really?

The brutality of this grizzly encounter, the sense of fear I felt, my limitations as a human, and the perspective it gave me forever changed the way I think about our world.

Seth Shteir has been exploring the public lands of the American West for more than 35 years. He is a natural resource, grants, environmental policy and education expert with more than twenty years of experience.

All opinions expressed are those of the author.

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