The Mother We Shared: Reflections on the Life of Bear 399

It was the kind of tragic event that we’ll all remember exactly where we were when we heard the news. I learned of Bear 399’s passing on the morning of October 23 when I was about to give nearly two dozen second and third graders a tour of a fire engine. October is Fire Prevention Month and, as a firefighter paramedic with Jackson Hole Fire/EMS, my task that morning was to teach the students from Kelly Elementary—which borders Grand Teton National Park—about smoke detectors, the importance of having a family meeting spot outside their house in the event of a home fire, and give them a tour of the engine.

As the children filed out in a colorful line of winter coats and chatter, my cell phone began buzzing in my pocket like a large, annoying insect. It was a text from my friend Tyler Brasington, a Bear Management Ranger at Grand Teton National Park: “399 is dead,” it read. “A vehicle hit her south of town last night.”

I immediately felt sick and my eyes blurred with tears. Such behavior wasn’t like me. As a first responder, I was an expert at compartmentalization: show up on-scene of a medical emergency, see terrible things then put my own feelings and emotions aside so I can run the call with the steely precision of a fighter pilot or Navy SEAL. But 399’s passing hit differently. As the kids arrived at the engine, I  threw on sunglasses to hide the tears and struggled to collect myself.

“Hello everyone,” I began, my voice cracking with emotion. “Today we’re going to learn about this fire engine which holds a lot of hose, 740-gallons of water, and other tools to save lives…”

Unlike many people, I had not spent hours in the field—or by the roadside as part of the ursine paparazzi—watching 399 and her cubs over the years. Despite this, I owe most everything I’ve learned about bears and the natural world to 399. When she took her cubs on a walkabout near my home in Jackson Hole in 2021, I realized that along with loving grizzly bears, I was also terrified by them and felt conflicted about having them on the landscape. However, being a firefighter and journalist, I’ve been trained to go into those places that scare me—that the best way out is through—so I decided to venture into the wild with biologists, naturalists and guides to write a book and meet the North American grizzly bear face-to-face. My goal: learn everything I could about grizzlies, see if I could understand them, and answer the important question: How can we coexist?

My travels took me to magical places like Kodiak Island, Katmai National Park, and McNeil River State Game Sanctuary in Alaska, along with the Grizzly and Wolf Discovery Center in West Yellowstone, the Bear Center at Washington State University, and to the home of famed bear whisperers and conservationists, Doug and Lynne Seus. For years, the Seuses have trained bears for Hollywood films and they established the Vital Ground Foundation which conserves land for grizzlies (and other wildlife) and attempts to connect ecosystems such as the Greater Yellowstone and the Northern Continental Divide around Glacier National Park. Alongside venturing to incredible locales and meeting a wonderful array of people who genuinely care about our planet and are working hard to protect it, I also discovered most of what I thought I knew about grizzly bears was wrong.

Grizzlies were not primarily carnivores but rather “opportunistic omnivores” that eat a variety of food. They are highly intelligent and complex, with big, charismatic personalities. A bear standing on two legs was not preparing to attack, but rather wanted to get a better look—or sniff—of a person or animal it encountered in the woods. I learned that predators regulate the density and distribution of prey and are as important to an ecosystem as photosynthesis. Turns out, grizzlies are not true hibernators like the Arctic ground squirrel, whose temperature drops to 27 F, but rather spend the winter months in a state of torpor, a series of sleep-wake cycles, during which their temperature only drops of few degrees and the bruins can arouse almost instantly if they perceive a threat. 

I also discovered grizzlies have superpowers: they can turn their insulin sensitivity on and off like a light switch and without succumbing to diabetes; they pack on the pounds each fall but don’t get heart disease; and they can slow their heartbeat to 8-10 beats per minute without their blood clotting, reducing their risk of a life-threatening stroke. After 399 and her cubs got into a chicken coop in Jackson—and were fed grain and molasses by a well-intentioned but terribly misinformed Teton County resident—I discovered the best way to keep bears wild and prevent grizzly mortality is by securing attractants like food, garbage, compost, beehives, chicken coops, and bird feeders.

Thanks to myths and movies, I’d always assumed grizzlies were blood-thirsty beasts, but I came to realize that was more fiction than fact. Grizzly bears usually only made the news when they did something bad, and the chance of a human dying in a place like Yellowstone National Park was around 0.04 percent per 1 million visits. Despite their size and strength, grizzlies are still surprisingly vulnerable. They, too have a kryptonite: humans—fellow predators, bipeds and omnivores who compete for the same land and resources and hold the fate of the grizzlies’ survival in their hands.

Over the course of my travels, I eventually came to see the value of brown bears. They are ecosystem engineers that till soil with their claws, disperse seeds through scat, and discard salmon carcasses that feed nitrogen and phosphorous to the forest. Grizzlies also have a cultural value: many Native Americans believe grizzlies connect them to their past. And the bears have an economic value that brought millions of tourist dollars to places like Grand Teton and Brooks Falls at Katmai National Park. Grizzlies are an indicator of ecosystem health. “Where the grizzly can walk, the earth is healthy and whole,” Lynne Seus told me.

Bear 399 was also instrumental in my wife Meaghan and I bear-proofing our home. When the Matriarch of the Tetons went on her walkabout in 2021, the house we shared in Jackson’s South Park neighborhood had unsecured garbage, compost, a birdfeeder and dog bowls outside. However, in the years since, we have become bear-smart and secured all of our attractants, including changing out our bird feeder for a bird bath. Instead of being a pain, Meaghan and I have discovered that coexistence with grizzlies is not only worthwhile, but it is also quite easy and the discipline it requires brings a joy that can only come from living for something outside and larger than oneself.

In the days following 399’s death, there was a palpable sense of loss and grief around Teton County. 399’s life and death were the topic of most every conversation around town and a memorial with flowers, photos and a teddy bear was placed below the famed antler arch at Jackson Hole’s town square. “RIP 399,” read one sympathy card. “Your legacy lives on in our hearts.”

Seeking solace and something positive to take away from 399’s death, I reached out to Tyler Brasington, who had texted me the news. Despite being inundated with interview requests, he still took the time to answer my questions.

Brasington’s relationship with Grizzly 399 had been primarily centered around managing the human-wildlife interface in Grand Teton National Park. This had mainly involved facilitating safe bear-viewing opportunities and educating visitors about grizzly bear biology and conservation. Working with 399 over the years, he witnessed the joy and excitement she brought to thousands of park visitors. She inspired people to recognize the value of grizzly bears on the landscape and the prevailing importance of grizzly bear conservation.

“Grizzly 399 is an ambassador for her species and exemplifies successful grizzly bear conservation in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem,” Brasington told me. “It is a natural human desire to seek connection with the natural world and wildlife, which is why 399 resonated with so many people. As a highly visible and predictable bear in the national park, she allowed a glimpse into the life of a grizzly bear. Many people drew parallels between her experiences and their own lives, recognizing the struggles of raising children and being able to provide security and nourishment. People were also drawn to the wisdom she imparted about adaptability, resiliency, flexibility and loyalty.”

I asked about Brasington about his relationship with the bear.

“For me, 399 was not just one bear; she was an important link that allowed me to share my passion for grizzly bear research, biology and conservation with the public. Grizzly 399 played a crucial role in many of the outreach and education initiatives in the park focused on conservation, grizzly bear management, and safely living and recreating in bear country.”

“Why do you think her story resonated with so many people?”

“People traveled from all over the country and the world for the chance to see 399,” Brasington said. “Her resilience in the face of adversity and numerous unique reproductive life history events increased her following and popularity. In 2011, she participated in a natural cub adoption event with her daughter, Grizzly 610. In 2020, she gave birth to four cubs, becoming the 14th quadruplet litter documented since 1959. Lastly, in 2023, she became the oldest grizzly bear on record in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem to have a cub at 27 years old. Any one of these single events is remarkable; the combination of these events is impressive and highlights her unique and extraordinary life history.”

When I asked Brasington how 399 changed Teton County, he told me that after her conflicts in 2021, she inspired and rallied the community to help mitigate human-bear conflicts utilizing bear-resistant infrastructure and increasing community outreach and education initiatives.

“So what can we take away from her death?”

“Ultimately, no one wanted 399 to leave this world the way she did. It is tragic whenever wildlife dies at the hands of humans,” Brasington said. “However, her passing and death demonstrate the significant amount of work that still exists for successful grizzly bear conservation. Her death highlights the necessity for effective measures to reduce wildlife-vehicle collisions while also improving strategies to promote coexistence in this part of the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem.”

Mike Fitz, a naturalist with explore.org and one of the founders of the annual Fat Bear Week contest that takes place at Brooks Falls in Alaska’s Katmai National Park and Preserve, spoke to me about the concept of a gateway bear. “When an anonymous bear dies, its death matters. Yet that story usually doesn't resonate with people as strongly as the death of a bear like 399,” Fitz said. “My fellow interpreters on the bear cams at Katmai this summer discussed the concept of a ‘gateway bear,’ which is the bear that a webcam viewer either first learns to identify on their own or the bear whose story resonates strongly with a person. These bears open the opportunity to for people to connect emotionally with individual wild animals. Through them, we learn more about the lives of bears through stories of survival, resilience and adaptability. Through them, we begin to express greater awareness of bears and can begin to work to better protect bears. Famous bears like Otis at Katmai and 399 were gateway bears for millions of people.”

Along with 399 being a gateway bear for people to enter the ursine world, her death offers us a gateway to having new discussions about how to conserve bears in the future.

“Bears are killed by cars frequently, but we, collectively, usually don't even blink at the tragedy,” Fitz added. “Perhaps 399's death can be used to catalyze greater efforts to reduce the number of animals killed by automobiles.”

Ben Goldfarb, author of Crossings: How Road Ecology Is Shaping the Future of Our Planet, echoed a similar thought. “The cruel irony of 399's fate is that many of the same traits that made her so beloved—in particular, her comfort with traffic and humans—ultimately led to her death,” he wrote in an email. “Few forces are more dangerous to wild animals than roads: More than a million vertebrate animals are killed by cars in the U.S. every day, and collisions pose one of the leading threats to rare species such as the Florida panther, the ocelot—and the grizzly bear. But we also know that solutions exist. Wildlife overpasses and underpasses, in combination with fences that keep animals off highways and guide them to safe passages, typically reduce wildlife-vehicle collisions by more than 90 percent, and allow bears and other critters to reach the habitats they need to thrive. The best way to honor 399's extraordinary life is by building more wildlife crossings in Wyoming, Montana, and beyond, so that future generations of grizzlies can safely navigate the landscape.”

Elsewhere, social media sites like Grand Teton National Park’s Instagram page asked followers to post their favorite 399 memory. “Saw her once with her cubs back in 2014,” wrote one follower. “Going to miss her so much.”

“Saw her for the 1^st and last time at Moran turnout this past Summer with her cub Spirit (Rowdy). Didn’t know it till after but it oddly made it all the more meaningful,” wrote another follower. “Fly high Queen of the Tetons. Thank you for the lessons you’ve taught in beating the odds, year after year. May your death not be in vain but a lesson to all.”

Days later, as I drove around Jackson Hole, delivering bear-resistant trash cans for Jackson Hole Bear Solutions with the goal of improving human-bear coexistence, I realized I would miss the possibility of seeing bear 399 as much as the actually spotting the bruin. Since moving to Jackson Hole in 2015, I had thought of 399 on every hike, trail run, mountain bike ride, or float down the Snake River. Knowing she was out on the landscape, working hard to raise her cubs, awakened my sense of awe; it ensured I always followed the best practices of “leave no trace” recreation and reminded me that we live on a beautiful and fragile planet.

Ultimately, after three years of spending time with grizzlies and experts in the field, along with researching and writing my book, I decided I was a “bear person.” But that didn’t just mean I believe in securing attractants, it also meant I supported intact ecosystems, connected habitats, clean water, abundant salmon streams and supporting all the flora and fauna that falls beneath the grizzly bear. And when I think of the magnificent creature who set me on this journey, I think of one bear who helped me reconnect with the wildness in me; I think of one devoted mother who filled me with a joyous awe at the beauty and mystery of our planet; I think of the Matriarch of the Tetons. I think of 399.