Close Encounters: My First Bear

Perhaps wading through a rushing stream in search of fish. Or tearing apart a rotten tree stump for a tasty grub snack. Or even teaching a few cubs the delicate art of procuring honey from a beehive. This was how I envisioned my first sighting of the magnificent American black bear.

Because I'd recently moved to Minnesota from Chicago, the only bears I had seen before played at Soldiers Field. A north woods black bear would be the perfect addition to the Black Hills bison and Yellowstone elk in my wildlife photo album.

Now most people are uneasy at the prospect of meeting a bear face to face. But I was not... or so I thought. I reasoned that black bears are not vicious, bloodthirsty man-eaters. They have poor eyesight. They are mostly concerned with finding nuts and berries. And they typically streak into the woods at the first sight of a human. So when fate landed me in front of my first bruin, I planned to stand firm and snap a photo worthy of National Geographic.

It's funny how reality differs from fantasy. That Saturday had been a disaster from the start. With my wife gone for the weekend, I had intended to take full advantage of my time alone by working in the back yard for a bit and then heading up north to camp for the night. It was the first sunny, warm day in May, and I was itching to get out in the woods. But my landscaping ineptitude had turned a simple planting project into an all-day affair, and by the time I packed up the car and made the two-hour drive to St. Croix State Park, it was dusk. Still enough light for a sunset hike, I thought.

Looking at the map, I selected a trail that led to Bear Creek, figuring that might be the best place to see the creek's namesake. But 50 yards onto the densely wooded trail, I was besieged by Minnesota's two most despicable forms of wildlife: mosquitoes and biting flies. Swatting wildly, I was fighting a losing battle and contemplating surrender when I rounded a corner and met fate.

Ambling toward me at a clumsy, shuffling gait was a giant ebony mound. It was as dark as night. Darker than night. So dark that it shone like a black beacon against the graying hues of the evening. I peered through my binoculars to confirm my astonishment: a bear. A big one. About a football field away. I could just make out his gray snout and round ears. His scythelike claws dangled from his paws, and his giant shoulders bobbed up and down with every step.

Unlike past reveries, my feeling at that moment was not giddy excitement. In fact, it was abject fear. I was frozen stiff, like a rabbit trying not to be seen. Bugs no longer bothered me. All I heard was my quickened breath. All I felt was the sweat trickling from my brow. All I saw was this massive 300-pound-plus bear headed straight toward me.

Well, not straight for me. He seemed to be mostly concerned with poking his nose into the bushes on either side of the trail, keeping his heavy head low to the ground. Eventually, I broke from my frozen state to rummage through my pack for the camera. Thrill was slowly replacing fear as I began to realize that this was my dream come true. This was even better than the scenarios I had envisaged. This was my bear, and I would have him for my album.

Now all I had to do was find my camera among all this junk I had packed for a trail dinner. Honey-glazed granola bars. A PBJ sandwich. Two cans of Coke. A bag of sour-cream-and-onion Frito-Lay chips.

Uh-oh. Thrill receded again, but the occupant in my stomach now was dire panic. And it felt like a lead ball. Hurriedly, I checked the bear's status through the binoculars and found that he had just crossed the 50-yard line. Now wait a second, Gus, I reasoned with myself. Bears have poor eyesight, right? He hasn't even looked up from the ground yet, so he doesn't know you're here. And once he does, he'll vanish into the woods.

True, but then my mind recalled another bit of black bear trivia: They have an excellent sense of smell. Maybe he wasn't sniffing the sides of the trail at all. Maybe he was trying to locate the idiot who had stuffed all the ingredients of a Yogi Bear picnic basket into his backpack.

A third look through the binoculars revealed that my bear had picked up his pace. No longer zigzagging, he now stuck to the center of the trail. And his features were becoming more distinct: I could see the nostrils on his black nose flare as he took in the smells of the forest.

My legs felt like jelly, but somehow I picked up my pack and briskly walked back toward the car. Nervously looking over my shoulder every few paces, I could see the trail was quickly becoming enveloped in the night's shroud. If the bear was behind me, I likely wouldn't see him. A few minutes later, I was back in my car, driving toward my campsite and away from my first bear encounter.

To look back on it now, I actually revel at being humbled by nature. I may not have a photo for my album, but I do have a vivid image of that beautiful animal indelibly etched in my memory. My bear has even visited me in dreams. But this time I'm not afraid. This time, I'm able to fully admire the elegance of his ungainly shuffle and the richness of his midnight fur.