Growing up in Alaska, I've read a number of bear stories. Maulings, deaths, bears getting into trash. Sometimes, I wonder if I've read too many. The bear stories give you a taste of what mortal fear is like. Too often, I think that's all people take away from them.
I realized recently that as I've gotten older, when hiking I rarely venture off the beaten path anymore. A fear born of all those bear stories persists in the back of my mind.
It wasn't always that way. As a kid growing up in Eagle River, I blissfully entered the woods without a care, or fear, in the world. In our explorations, my friends and I happened upon crumbling homesteader cabins deep in the woods and hidden meadows that emerged suddenly from the brush. Once we found dinner-plate sized bear tracks while wandering along the banks of Eagle River. The long claw marks were sharply defined in the silty mud. There was no panic, only curiosity. We simply went the other way.
A recent hike near Eagle River, near one of those very places I used to frequent, got me thinking about all this. My girlfriend and I hiked up Baldy Mountain, a relatively short climb with a view that overlooks Eagle River. Instead of following the main trail that cuts through alpine tundra, we moseyed our way up through the brush, sometimes following little-used paths I played on as a kid. Being in woods that were familiar sequestered the fear. After all, in all the times I rambled around in that brush as a kid, I never once saw a bear.
We reached the top and gazed along the ridgeline leading to Blacktail Rocks. We were about to venture down when someone from another party of hikers called out.
"There's a bear. Just below you. It's moving away."
We couldn't see it so we walked a few feet back up to the ridge for a better view. About 300 yards away down the modest incline, a young grizzly ambled along. It stopped, turned to look at us and then went on its way.
"It looks like a cub," someone else said. "I wonder where the mother is."
Gazing at the big behind and broad shoulders through binoculars, it didn't look like a cub to me. I felt no fear -- the bear was plenty far away and quite a number of people were on the mountain top that day -- but it was strange to see a bear in an area that was so familiar, especially a grizzly.
The times that I have seen bears, I've never been afraid. Once, while living in downtown Juneau, I opened the front door and a black bear ran by not five feet from me. I jumped back inside. It glanced at me and went on its way. Another time, near Juneau, a black bear popped out of the brush from across a creek just as I was pulling in a silver salmon. It didn't even look at me but stood on a log and tried to swat at fish swirling in the pool below. It almost lost its balance and fell in. It was like watching those old Disney movies with bears comically frolicking in woods.
Grizzlies I've seen have been equally uninterested in people. Two years ago I scored a lottery road pass to drive through Denali National Park. We saw a large grizzly less than 50 yards from the road. Bears there are conditioned to seeing hordes of gawking tourists, so this one paid us little mind as it walked along in the evening light. A mother bear and two cubs seemed just as indifferent. On a backpacking trip in Wrangell-St Elias National Park, my girlfriend and I spotted a young brown bear as it crossed our trail perhaps 500 yards away. It glanced our way and disappeared into the brush.
It's when I'm hiking alone that the anxiety surfaces. The details of those one-in-a-million encounters, such as the mauling that occurred this summer at the Russian River, creep into the back of my mind. I suppose that's when the fear should take hold. A bear is much more likely to attack a person alone than a group.
Back on Baldy Mountain, we continued to watch the young bear through binoculars as it lumbered up the valley. At one point, it broke into a run, perhaps spooked by all the hikers in the area. It was amazing to see a wild animal in its habitat. I briefly thought of the recent deaths by mauling of Timothy Treadwell and his girlfriend in Katmai National Park. The details of Treadwell's death didn't disturb me. Treadwell, who made a name for himself by portraying bears as cuddly, innocent things, obviously loved and respected bears, but I don't think he feared them.
The bear stories aren't lies. We should fear bears. But it should be a healthy fear that informs our actions. I'm going to learn more about bears and I urge you do to the same. The purpose of the bear stories should be to educate, not terrorize.
This column is the opinion of Daily News sports reporter Ron Wilmot. He can be reached at rwilmot@adn.com or 1-907-352-6712.
