Back to Stories'Walking Among Giants': A Writer’s Introduction to the Grizzly Bear
September 23, 2024
'Walking Among Giants': A Writer’s Introduction to the Grizzly BearIn the prologue to his new book, Kevin Grange discusses how he came to love North America’s mighty bears
Grizzly 815 guards over her three cubs of the year in 2018 near Roaring Mountain in Yellowstone National Park. Photo by Peter Mangolds
EDITOR’S NOTE: The
following is an excerpt from the prologue to writer Kevin Grange’s new book, Grizzly
Confidential: An Astounding Journey into the Secret
Life of North America’s Most Fearsome Predator, which hit bookstores and e-commerce sites on September
17. Don't miss the live conversation between Grange and MoJo Managing Editor Joseph T. O'Connor at the Country Bookshelf in Bozeman, Montana, on October 10.
“To Kevin, our family’s great pathfinder, fisherman, and outdoorsman on his birthday,” my father inscribed on the title page.
I pored over the bear prints in the Field Guide to Animal Tracks. The bean-shaped foot pad and oval toes were strangely human-like, and there was an enchanting calligraphy in the claws.
“That was awesome!” I said. “My first wild bear!”
“About a hundred yards!”
I heard what sounded like a sigh over the radio, and I could literally picture the dispatcher rolling her eyes. “So, you called to tell us there is a grizzly bear in Yellowstone National Park?”
One morning that October, I arrived at my home in the South Park area of Jackson Hole, bleary eyed and exhausted after a 48-hour shift at Jackson Hole Fire Department, to discover an orphaned, emaciated black bear cub perched in my cherry tree.
by
Kevin Grange
My
passion for watching wildlife began when I was 12 years old and my parents gave
me a new edition of the classic Field Guide to Animal Tracks, written by
the great biologist Olaus J. Murie in 1954.
“To Kevin, our family’s great pathfinder, fisherman, and outdoorsman on his birthday,” my father inscribed on the title page.
At the
time, my family lived on 46 wooded acres in Brentwood, New Hampshire. I was in
sixth grade and reading all the great books about boys and their dogs: Old
Yeller, Sounder, Shiloh, and Big Red. I dreamed of
hunting raccoons with two redbone hounds like Billy in Where the Red Fern
Grows, but instead of two new puppies, I shared ownership with my siblings
of a mutt named McGee. As for hunting, no one in my family had any experience,
so instead of a rifle, I received the Field Guide to Animal Tracks, a
subscription to Field & Stream, and a Havahart metal cage trap with
two spring-loaded doors that promised to safely and securely catch raccoons,
rabbits and squirrels.
Far
from being disappointed with my live animal trap and our timid beagle-black Lab
mix, I was thrilled, wandering the woods with my guidebook and scouting for
animals. During my backyard adventures, I spotted whitetail deer, raccoons,
squirrels, skunks, and red foxes and looked—futilely—for bears, the true
emblems of the wilderness.
I was
fascinated with bears. And as I looked around my life, I noticed bears
everywhere. A teddy bear tucked me in each night, promising companionship,
comfort, protection, and sweet dreams. My mom, a loyal and protective mother
bear, gave me a bear hug before I left for basketball camp each summer; my
father lamented the drop in stocks that occurred with a bear market; Smokey
Bear—with his flat-brimmed ranger hat—reminded me “Only You Can Prevent
Wildfires”; in geography class, I spotted a grizzly bear prowling prominently
across the California state flag; and on a starry night, I would gaze up at the
constellation Ursa Major (the Great Bear) in the northern sky with the utmost wonder.
I pored over the bear prints in the Field Guide to Animal Tracks. The bean-shaped foot pad and oval toes were strangely human-like, and there was an enchanting calligraphy in the claws.
I was fascinated with bears. And as I looked around my life, I noticed bears everywhere.
Hoping
to see them, I memorized the difference between Ursus americanus and Ursus
arctos: the claws of a black bear are smaller, and the toes are more
separated and curved. Grizzly bear claws are larger, and the toes are closer
together and less curved. But the ultimate test involved employing a ruler to
find the lowest point of the outside (largest toe) of the print. From there,
I’d find the highest point (or front) edge of the palm pad. Connect the two
points with the ruler and if 50 percent of the inside (smallest) toe is above
the line, it’s a grizzly bear. If more than 50 percent of the inside (smallest)
toe is below the line, it’s a black bear.
I never
stumbled across any bruin tracks in my backyard, but my family did run into a
black bear later that summer during a camping trip to Moose Brook State Park in
the White Mountains. We’d gone for a night hike around the campground after
dinner, and as we walked, I sensed that a bear was nearby. Like some kind of
animal ESP, I could feel the bruin before I saw him, and as we approached an
old water pump beside a lilac bush, I knew he was hiding in the dark shadows.
Suddenly,
we heard a low growl that clearly meant, “Don’t come closer.”
“Bear!”
I yelled, and my family did the one thing you should never do when encountering
a bruin: we ran and, by doing so, mimicked prey. Our mutt, McGee, definitely
wasn’t from the Old Yeller lineage—he left us all high and dry, clinging to the
old adage, “You don’t have to outrun the bear, you just have to run faster than
your friends.”
Thankfully,
the bear didn’t chase us. But shadowy ursid apparitions ambled through my
unconscious in the nights that followed, causing me to wake up and look under
my bed. The bear had become more present because of its absence.
The Grange family (L-R): Steve (Dad), Kevin (12), Sean (brother, 13), Kristine (17). Mt. Major, White Mountains, New Hampshire. Photo by Barb Grange (the author's mother), 1986
In
between homework assignments, I read more about bears and discovered there were
eight species in the world: Asiatic black bears, pandas, sun bears, speckled
bears, sloth bears, brown bears, black bears, and polar bears.
Grizzlies,
black bears and polar bears are all found in North America, though polar bears
are found only in Alaska and the northernmost parts of Canada. Despite their
names, color is not a great identifier for bears. There are “brown” black
bears, “black” brown bears, and every shade in between—cinnamon, blond,
bluish-gray, and even white. The Kermode bear, also known as the “spirit bear,”
is a white subspecies of black bears found in the central and north coast of
British Columbia, and there are rare cases of white grizzly bears, such as one
near Banff, Alberta, that locals called Nakoda, named after the Indigenous people
of Western Canada and the United States.
I
discovered the best way to differentiate between black and grizzly bears is by
their size and shape rather than their fur color. Brown bears are generally
bigger and can be distinguished from black bears by their long claws,
dish-shaped face and distinct shoulder humps—a large mass of muscle used for
digging, fighting and climbing.
Later
during that summer of my 12th year, I saw my first black bear, but it was hard
to call it “wild” since it was feeding on garbage in an open-air dump with a
bunch of other hungry bruins. That was in the 1980s, before people realized a
fed bear is a dead bear.
As soon
as I saw Thomas Mangelsen’s iconic photograph “Catch of the Day,” grizzlies
captured my interest. The picture—which has been called the most famous
wildlife photo in history—shows a large brown bear standing on the lip of
Brooks Falls in Alaska’s Katmai National Park, and it’s about to clamp its
massive jaws on a sockeye salmon leaping up the falls. I immediately bought a
poster of the photo, mounted it on posterboard, and hung it above my bed, next
to posters of basketball greats like Larry Bird and Michael Jordan.
Jackson Hole and Teton County are filled with people who love the outdoors, and we pride ourselves on protecting wildlife. Yet when it came to bears, we were not as up to date on bear safety as other communities like West Yellowstone, Montana, or Durango, Colorado.
It
wasn’t until after college that I finally encountered my first bear in the
wild, in Washington State’s North Cascade Range. My plan that afternoon had
been to hike up to the old fire lookout atop Sourdough Mountain, where poet
Gary Snyder spent a summer in 1953. On the way up, I ran into an off-duty park
ranger named Dena. This chance encounter would change my life forever.
Dena
was the first “bear person” I’d ever met. She was comfortable living and
working in bear country and didn’t mind incurring a little bit of risk because
of the many benefits of having bruins on the landscape. She took pains to
secure things like garbage, compost, bird feeders and beehives around their house
so as to keep bears wild and not attract them to human areas.
As Dena
and I hiked down from the lookout that sunny afternoon, I rounded a corner and
saw a black bear with tiny eyes, seated on his haunches, feasting on
huckleberries.
“Bear!”
I exclaimed, as the bruin stood tall.
“Don’t
run,” said Dena, grabbing my arm.
“He’s
going to attack,” I whispered nervously.
“He’s
just getting a better view and smelling us,” Dena replied. “Stay calm.”
She
pointed out that the bear wasn’t showing any signs of aggression
or
agitation. “He’s just curious.”
I was
amazed. Dena seemed to speak the same language as the bruin, understanding and
knowing how to interpret its behavior.
Moments
later, as the bear grew disinterested, wandering away up the hillside, Dena led
us down the trail.
“That was awesome!” I said. “My first wild bear!”
As we
continued, descending over 4,500 feet down the steep trail with switchbacks,
Dena told me about her job working for the National Park Service. She was an
interpretative ranger who staffed visitor centers and gave campfire chats at
Joshua Tree, North Cascades and Isle Royale. She told me about her colleagues
who manned entrance stations, handled maintenance, or served as law enforcement
rangers and ambulance workers.
“Sounds
like a dream job,” I said. I was amazed at the idea that people could be paid
to live and work in magical places like Zion, Glacier, Acadia, or the Great
Smoky Mountains.
Consequently,
years later after I graduated from paramedic school, I eagerly applied to work
at Yellowstone and was eventually hired as a summer seasonal paramedic in the
Old Faithful District.
It was
there that I encountered my first grizzly in the wild, crossing the Firehole
River near Morning Glory Hot Spring.
This no name/unnumbered bear photograph was taken on Togwotee Pass, east of Grand Teton National Park, in May 2022. The grizzly is one of Bear 863's, aka Felecia's, cubs. Photo by Peter Mangolds
A few
tourists standing beside me happily snapped pictures as I freaked out and
fumbled into my pack for my bear repellent and radio when I spotted the tawny
brown fur, the shoulder hump and the flat, dish-like face.
“Dispatch,”
I said, keying my radio2. “We’ve got an emergency at Morning Glory. There’s a
grizzly!”
The
dispatcher copied my radio traffic. “How far away is the bear?”
“About a hundred yards!”
“Is it
approaching people?”
“No,
ma’am.”
“Are
people approaching the bear?”
“Negative.”
“Is
anyone hurt?”
“No.”
I heard what sounded like a sigh over the radio, and I could literally picture the dispatcher rolling her eyes. “So, you called to tell us there is a grizzly bear in Yellowstone National Park?”
I felt
like such an idiot. Even the tourists, city slickers from Boston, looked at me
like I was crazy.
“Um
yeah,” I replied. “I guess so.”
“Are
you in danger?”
I said
no.
“Do you
need additional resources?”
“Negative,”
I replied. “Sorry for wasting your time.”
As I
turned off my radio, the bear disappeared into the woods.
My
radio transmission had been broadcast over the entire Old Faithful District. I
felt utterly ashamed, but I was terrified by grizzlies.
Over
the next five summer seasons I worked at Yellowstone and Grand Teton, I saw
probably a dozen brown bears. But the bruins were often far away in the Lamar
or Hayden Valleys or ambling along the distant tree line of Pacific or Pilgrim
Creeks. I’d watch the bears through binoculars or from the safety of my car or
the ambulance—as if at some drive-in wildlife movie theater—and then go home
each night comforted by the thought that I lived near but not in bear country.
I encountered my first grizzly in the wild, crossing the Firehole River near Morning Glory Hot Spring.
Things
began to change in 2019.
One morning that October, I arrived at my home in the South Park area of Jackson Hole, bleary eyed and exhausted after a 48-hour shift at Jackson Hole Fire Department, to discover an orphaned, emaciated black bear cub perched in my cherry tree.
“We’ve
named him Hissy because of the sound he makes,” Taz, my 10-year-old neighbor,
said. “He’s been here for two days.”
“He’s
been sitting in your tree during the days and sleeping under the deck,” added
Taz’s mom, Heide. “We’ve called Game and Fish.”
The wildlife
team arrived an hour later, and Heide filmed the biologists as they darted
Hissy with a tranquilizer then prepared to catch him in a large tarp when he
fell from the tree.
When
Heide later posted the video online, it immediately went viral, racking up
millions of views on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok. There was something so
heartwarming and human-like about how Hissy dangled from the tree by his two
forepaws with his legs hanging below as if participating in some kind of
team-building exercise, seeming to say, “You guys will catch me, right? You
promise?” before letting go and landing safely in the tarp.
Hissy
spent the winter in a wildlife rehab facility in Idaho and was released into
the wild later that spring as a healthy, 112-pound yearling. I’d assumed the
encounter with Hissy would be a one-off incident, but little did I realize that
he was a harbinger of things to come.
Two
years later, in the fall of 2021, the grizzlies arrived.
Famed Grizzly 399 with her four yearlings lead the parade in Grand Teton National Park just south of Pilgrim Creek and north of Grand View. Photo by Peter Mangolds
It
began with an email and a subject line reading: “SAGE MEADOWS HOA: Notice
Regarding Bear 399 & Cubs.”
Bear
399 was the scientific number biologists had given to a 26-year-old sow born in
Grand Teton National Park. She was also known as the Matriarch of the Tetons,
famous for raising her cubs roadside. To the delight of millions around the
world, she had raised more than six litters around Pacific and Pilgrim Creeks
since 2006. She was also a muse of Jackson Hole photographer Thomas Mangelsen,
who had shot hundreds of photos of the celebrity sow.
Bear
399’s fame grew in 2020 when she emerged from the den with four cubs, a rare
feat in the ursine world. Sadly, celebrity also had a dark side: two of her
cubs from previous litters were killed by vehicles over the years, numerous of
her offspring were captured or killed due to conflict, and in the fall of 2020
the family of five got into unsecured compost, livestock feed and a beehive
south of Grand Teton and were fed molasses-enriched grain by an eccentric
homeowner in the Solitude subdivision who believed she had a special bond with
wild animals and routinely fed bears, moose, elk and deer in her backyard. The
problem with bears obtaining food from humans is they forgo natural foods and
become increasingly emboldened. They gradually lose their fear of people and
are more likely to attack someone or cause property damage.
Bear 399’s fame grew in 2020 when she emerged from the den with four cubs, a rare feat in the ursine world.
Fast-forward
to the fall of 2021. I opened the email from my homeowner’s association and
read, “399 and her cubs are not back north near Grand Teton National Park. The
bear clan was spotted south of the town in a big area known as South Park.
Please keep dogs on a leash, secure food and garbage cans inside home or
garage. Be alert when walking outdoors and carry bear spray.”
Apparently,
the ursine clan was on an extended walkabout around Jackson Hole and Teton
County. They’d strolled through the parking lot outside the police station, a
block from the fire station where I worked. They’d wandered on the hillside
above Albertson’s grocery store where I shopped. They’d also been spotted on
Josie’s Ridge, my favorite hiking trail, and even at the rafting take-out spot
on Snake River where Meaghan and I ended our river trips. I no longer relished the
thought of living in bear country. Bear 399’s presence felt personal, intrusive
and, to be honest, a bit predatory.
Turned
out 399 and her four cubs weren’t the only grizzlies near our home. Another
friend spotted eight brown bears on my favorite mountain biking trail, Munger
Mountain, and a big cabin-brown boar with white claws had raided my buddy’s
chicken coop down the street from us. The bear had to be caught in a culvert
trap by wildlife officials.
After
reading the email from my HOA, I leaped up from my computer and hurried
downstairs. When I worked in Yellowstone and Grand Teton, I was terrified of
grizzlies. Now, as they invaded my community, I considered them a dangerous
nuisance.
“Asher,
come inside!” I called to our golden retriever in the backyard. “Let’s go!”
It was
overcast and windy outside, the way it looks in the movies before a big storm
or aliens arrive. Once Asher was safely inside, I went into the backyard and
grabbed our bird feeder.
“What’s
going on?” Meaghan asked as I tore through the kitchen. “What about my
hummingbirds?”
“The
grizzlies are here!” I exclaimed and raced back to the deck to bring inside two
big white compost buckets, overflowing with eggshells, banana peels, coffee
grounds and wilting lettuce.
“This
compost has to go!” I exclaimed.
“Huh?”
Meaghan replied.
“The
bears!” I declared. “We need to batten down the hatches!”
Meaghan
watched in amusement as I ran between the back deck and garage, removing
anything that a curious bear might find interesting. After my final trip to the
garage, I gave her a can of bear spray. “Don’t go anywhere without this!”
“You’re
insane,” Meaghan said with a laugh.
“And we
need to keep the dog on a leash at all times!”
Even
Asher was looking up at me like I was crazy.
The
next week felt like a Hollywood movie. Bear 399 and her four cubs toured most
of Jackson Hole, getting into food and damaging property. Due to the onslaught
of incidents and phone calls, Wyoming Game and Fish had to call in the feds. U.S.
Fish and Wildlife launched “Operation 399,” which consisted of personnel “bear
sitting” the ursine family 24–7 as they roamed around Teton County, trailed
relentlessly by wildlife paparazzi photographers.
“We’ve
had repeated conflicts over a three- or four-day period, way down south,” Game
and Fish large carnivore biologist Mike Boyce told the Jackson Hole News &
Guide. “Property damage, livestock feed and apiary damage. We’re having grizzly
bear conflict way down south. That’s been a change.”
The
irony is that the town of Jackson Hole and Teton County is filled with people
who love the outdoors, and we pride ourselves on protecting wildlife. Yet when
it came to bears, we were not as up to date on bear safety as other communities
like West Yellowstone, Montana, or Durango, Colorado.
“The
whole county is kind of behind the times in terms of trash and storage and
conflict prevention,” said Hilary Cooley, grizzly bear recovery coordinator
with U.S. Fish and Wildlife. “Beehives, livestock feed, open dumpsters. Almost
everywhere you look there’s something.”
Fortunately,
despite 10 conflicts involving 399 and her cubs, the family eventually returned
to Grand Teton National Park and went to den without having to be relocated or
killed; however, six other grizzlies in the area—including three descendants of
399—had to be euthanized due to causing property damage and bypassing native
foods in favor of raiding garbage cans, beehives and chicken coops.
Grizzly 815 and her cubs near roaring mountain in Yellowstone National Park during the spring of 2018. Photo by Peter Mangolds
Am I a
bear person? I wondered one day while gazing out at the Tetons. Now that they
were in my backyard, I felt strangely conflicted.
I
wasn’t alone. After grizzlies were placed on the endangered species list in
1975, their recovery in the Lower 48 has been one of the great conservation
success stories. As brown bears increased in numbers and expanded their range
beyond protected areas, millions of people in the West found themselves at a
similar crossroad. What risks do grizzly bears pose? Is it worthwhile having
them in the landscape? How can I stay safe in bear country? And, most
importantly, how can we coexist?
I
wanted answers, but I also realized I needed more information. Beyond their
size, strength and perceived ferocity, I knew very little about brown bears.
A few
weeks later, I was surfing the web when I happened upon a link for the Sixth
International Human-Bear Conflict Workshop, held in Lake Tahoe in October,
which promised four days of nonstop lectures, panels and presentations about
conserving bears and connecting people.
Seems
like a good place to start, I thought, registering and booking a flight. I had
no idea my relationship with brown bears and the natural world would change
forever.
I
thought I was just going to a conference.
Excerpt
taken from Grizzly
Confidential by Kevin Grange. Copyright © 2024 Kevin Grange. Used by
permission of Harper Horizon, an imprint of HarperCollins Focus, LLC. Find
your copy at amazon.com
or wherever books are sold.
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