Golfer drives home lesson on bear awareness

"We have met the enemy, and he is us." — Pogo (as written by Walt Kelly)

I thought of that quote last week after I had to fend off another black bear with a golf club. This time, I used my driver.

The first time, about a year ago, all I had was a putter when this little guy came trotting onto the green while I was eyeing a birdie putt at the Moose Run Creek Course. It was probably hoping for a handout — word was, other golfers had been feeding bears. I had no food, but the bear certainly had teeth and claws and it kept coming at me despite my yelling and waving my putter at it. Another golfer in a cart finally came, and the bear scooted into the woods. I still have some post-traumatic stress disorder whenever I reach that green in regulation.

[Watch black bear cubs frolic at an Anchorage golf course]

Anyway, that encounter made me a "fed-bear-is-a-dead-bear" advocate. These slobs who leave trash out in bear country — whether intentionally or not — I say cite the hell of them and post their pictures in the paper! That's the sort of rant I have posted under ADN stories on garbage bears.

Then came last week. I was at Moose Run again, on the range practicing my Ben Hogan power move, when another golfer a few bays down yelled, "Bear!"

"Where?" I said.

"There!" she said, pointing to the far side of the parking lot, about a pitching wedge away.

"Holy crap!" I said. "He's casing cars!" My Jeep was there, and I had left my windows rolled down in the 63-degree heat wave we were having. I ran toward the parking lot, leaving behind all of my clubs except the driver.

Sure enough, the immature black bear was circling my vehicle. We met head-on at my open window. I cocked the driver, ready to lead with my hips. It took a step toward me. Those black, indifferent eyes. This little fellow showed no fear.

"No! Bear, NO!"

It rose on its hind legs and put its front feet on the windowsill. I needed to whack this this guy, hard, and right now. But I was afraid to take a full swing at it. Instead I used the club as a sword and poked at the bear with the big driver head. Take that. And that!

It worked. The bear stood down and walked back into the woods. It was over.

[Bears and moose are par for the course in Anchorage golfing]

Spectators had gathered. "He was trying to break in to my vehicle," I said to them.

"Yeah, that would have been one hot mess," a lady said.

I nodded, gave her my reluctant hero look.

"Is there food in your vehicle?" asked a man holding his toddler.

"What? No." I said. "Nothing." I went to roll up my windows. I could smell the tuna sandwich I had eaten on the way to the range, the wrapper in my little trash bag. Cookie crumbs were on the driver's seat, and in the back lay the "carcass" of a giant Hershey's Kiss, a birthday gift that I had been eating on for a month.

On the way home, I picked the last shards of chocolate from the crinkled foil and ate them. Destroying the evidence? Or was it comfort food to help me shoo away the guilt of being a liar? I tried to justify it all. I mean, according to the political news of the day, you can't be called a liar without proof of intent, right?

It was no use. The truth hit me. That father must have been very nervous having a bear foraging so close to his child. And what about the bear? It would probably end up having to be put down because it had lost its fear of humans while developing an addiction to people food.

It was then I thought of the Pogo quote. It is me.

I made two decisions. From now on I would roll up my windows in bear country, and no more would I go online to judge other ignorant slobs like me.

But I still get to rant against Trump, don't I? Ah, c'mon!

Tony Bickert is a former Alaska journalist, current teacher and avid golfer.

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