Her expression was now one of concern.
“Yeah.”
We stood looking at each other. I not only was not inviting her in, my arm was on the doorjamb to let her know she’d have to physically overpower me to get in the house.
“Is your dad home?” Her moist blue eyes flitted around the empty house.
“No, he’s working today.”
“On a Sunday?”
“He’s working.”
She nodded in defeat. “Okay.” Her smile brightened. “Say, I brought this for you. It’s warm, but not hot. Can you take it?” She held out the pan.
My vast experience with casseroles told me the specimen I was being given belonged to the tuna noodle variety.
I knew exactly what I was going to do with it.
I think I pretty much had given up ever seeing the grizzly again, so I was surprised when I got to the creek and saw him standing in the shallows. His head was darting quickly from side to side as he stared intently into the water, which at that place in the creek was barely half a foot deep. I crouched down by the banks, the casserole, which I had dumped into a paper bag, at my feet. The wind was flowing into my face, keeping my scent from the bear.
All at once the grizzly pounced, making huge splashes as he pursued a fish in my direction, lunging back and forth and bounding with jabbing forepaws again and again. I was startled by the astounding agility of the bear, the way he could stop that huge bulk in an instant and spring to one side, stabbing those claws into the water. The contrast with yesterday’s buffalo couldn’t have been more stark: both immensely powerful creatures, but with bison it was all about charging in a straight line. This animal before me could just as easily move laterally, turning tightly, graceful as he was strong.
He thrust his snout below the surface, blowing bubbles, then raised his head and sneezed. This struck me as so comical I couldn’t help but laugh a little, but when I did the bear lifted his head and looked straight at me, and then I stopped laughing.
“I brought you some food,” I told him, my voice taking on an involuntary quaver.
When bears walk right at you their amazing muscles bunch under their fur in a way that completely belies their dexterity. If I’d not seen this huge creature leaping about just moments ago I might assume him to be clumsy and slow. I took an easy, careful breath, holding my ground. This close, he looked as big as Yvonne’s Chevy Vega.
I nudged the grocery bag with my feet. “I hope you like it,” I stuttered as the bear stuck his head in the bag, exactly the way he’d held his nose underwater just moments before. He inhaled and the sides of the bag collapsed.
What I now know about bears is that there was no worry he wouldn’t like it. Bears are amazing omnivores. They eat seeds, berries, roots, carrion, and honey. But they also graze like cattle and will attack a moth swarm or an anthill with determination and gusto.
The bear ate the casserole and also the paper bag it came in.
“So, okay then,” I said.
The bear and I looked at each other. I expected the same expression I’d seen in the eyes of the buffalo: black and implacable, seeing me but not assigning me any particular importance in their wild world. But there was something about this bear’s expression that seemed … friendly.
I was friends with a grizzly bear.
Many years later I was in my office when a man phoned from Montana wanting to speak to a “bear guy.” I explained what a bear biologist was, and he seemed satisfied, though not impressed, with my credentials. He was calling with a question. “What,” he asked, “do you feed a grizzly bear?”
I tightened my grip on the phone. “You don’t,” I replied honestly.
He was a former aerospace executive who had purchased a Montana ranch to play on and who had discovered a grizzly living on the edge of his property. The man’s wife thought the bear looked hungry.
I’ll bet.
“Mister, if you feed that bear even once, he’ll start
“Yeah.”
We stood looking at each other. I not only was not inviting her in, my arm was on the doorjamb to let her know she’d have to physically overpower me to get in the house.
“Is your dad home?” Her moist blue eyes flitted around the empty house.
“No, he’s working today.”
“On a Sunday?”
“He’s working.”
She nodded in defeat. “Okay.” Her smile brightened. “Say, I brought this for you. It’s warm, but not hot. Can you take it?” She held out the pan.
My vast experience with casseroles told me the specimen I was being given belonged to the tuna noodle variety.
I knew exactly what I was going to do with it.
I think I pretty much had given up ever seeing the grizzly again, so I was surprised when I got to the creek and saw him standing in the shallows. His head was darting quickly from side to side as he stared intently into the water, which at that place in the creek was barely half a foot deep. I crouched down by the banks, the casserole, which I had dumped into a paper bag, at my feet. The wind was flowing into my face, keeping my scent from the bear.
All at once the grizzly pounced, making huge splashes as he pursued a fish in my direction, lunging back and forth and bounding with jabbing forepaws again and again. I was startled by the astounding agility of the bear, the way he could stop that huge bulk in an instant and spring to one side, stabbing those claws into the water. The contrast with yesterday’s buffalo couldn’t have been more stark: both immensely powerful creatures, but with bison it was all about charging in a straight line. This animal before me could just as easily move laterally, turning tightly, graceful as he was strong.
He thrust his snout below the surface, blowing bubbles, then raised his head and sneezed. This struck me as so comical I couldn’t help but laugh a little, but when I did the bear lifted his head and looked straight at me, and then I stopped laughing.
“I brought you some food,” I told him, my voice taking on an involuntary quaver.
When bears walk right at you their amazing muscles bunch under their fur in a way that completely belies their dexterity. If I’d not seen this huge creature leaping about just moments ago I might assume him to be clumsy and slow. I took an easy, careful breath, holding my ground. This close, he looked as big as Yvonne’s Chevy Vega.
I nudged the grocery bag with my feet. “I hope you like it,” I stuttered as the bear stuck his head in the bag, exactly the way he’d held his nose underwater just moments before. He inhaled and the sides of the bag collapsed.
What I now know about bears is that there was no worry he wouldn’t like it. Bears are amazing omnivores. They eat seeds, berries, roots, carrion, and honey. But they also graze like cattle and will attack a moth swarm or an anthill with determination and gusto.
The bear ate the casserole and also the paper bag it came in.
“So, okay then,” I said.
The bear and I looked at each other. I expected the same expression I’d seen in the eyes of the buffalo: black and implacable, seeing me but not assigning me any particular importance in their wild world. But there was something about this bear’s expression that seemed … friendly.
I was friends with a grizzly bear.
Many years later I was in my office when a man phoned from Montana wanting to speak to a “bear guy.” I explained what a bear biologist was, and he seemed satisfied, though not impressed, with my credentials. He was calling with a question. “What,” he asked, “do you feed a grizzly bear?”
I tightened my grip on the phone. “You don’t,” I replied honestly.
He was a former aerospace executive who had purchased a Montana ranch to play on and who had discovered a grizzly living on the edge of his property. The man’s wife thought the bear looked hungry.
I’ll bet.
“Mister, if you feed that bear even once, he’ll start
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