It was a fragrant summer afternoon in my sister’s herb garden on the mountainside. Towering cedar trees speared the vast Canadian sky as bald eagles wheeled overhead and bees drowsed among the clover. I was gathering lavender and thyme in the sun, rewarding myself with succulent strawberries from plants that grew not in tidy rows but randomly in the overgrown borders. Silence echoed around the forest clearing, punctuated by the heady perfume of herbs. The lavender lay in the flat basket like a painting. It was all quite idyllic. As I plunged my arms deep into the plants after another strawberry I was grateful that there would be no centipede, scorpion or pit viper lurking there. But there are larger creatures in these northern woods.
Bears.
Robin’s nearest neighbour had come by the day before and they offhandedly chatted about the bear and three cubs that were wandering the dense undergrowth and wild berry bushes which marked perimeter of their properties. I squeaked in alarm. Our young cousin had been killed by a bear in the interior of British Columbia many years ago and I’ve never really felt comfortable in the woods ever since. Oh all right, let’s be blunt; I’m a neurotic coward about bears.
The hardened mountain folk eyed me patronizingly. I was told that bears are nothing to worry about. Just clap your hands or call “Boo!” and they’ll amble off, I was advised. “Hum,” suggested Robin helpfully, with the casualness of someone who has been encountering ursine interlopers in the basil patch lo these many years. Then, equally casually, the stories started about bears drawn onto porches by the scent of barbequing meat. Bears tearing open the trunks of cars to reach a freshly caught salmon. Bears trashing kitchens. The bear that ripped the siding from a house down the road while a lone woman with small children cowered within. “Didn’t they dart that one and translocate it?” “Nope, had to shoot it.”
By this time the rustle of the cat prowling the undergrowth had me on high alert. A pine cone dropped from a tall tree nearby and I jumped like a rabbit. Robin and the neighbour kindly explained the difference between a Normal Bear, a Hungry Bear and a Bad Bear. Normal Bears are shy and would really rather have nothing to do with you. A Hungry Bear is a bold bear. And a Bad Bear kills little girls and gives her relatives nightmares. Later, Robin sent me back to the forest garden for more lavender. I eyed the ripe berries by the path with alarm; perfect bear bait. That evening some friends came for supper and sent their two small children to pick the berries, out of sight. I was the only one who was uncomfortable with this. These are people who routinely factor large, predatory mammals into their day, weigh the odds and get on with it.
Then there are the cougars (mountain lions), known for their lightning-swift attacks on pets, farm animals and the occasional passerby. A local explains that if one or two people think they might have seen a cougar, you don’t really pay much attention. But if three people mention that they may have sighted one about the same time, it’s probably a good idea to bring the dog in at night and confine the chickens like dangerous criminals.
One autumn, Robin made a deal with rampageous bears not to eat the apples from a certain tree. They trashed all the other trees in the orchard, tearing off the limbs and stripping them of fruit, but left her favourite tree alone. I have no difficulty believing this. I’ve negotiated similar deals with wildlife on my land in Bali; in fact, I have a renewable contract with the snakes in my garden not to come near the house. My brother-in-law tells of a Bear Whisperer on Vancouver Island, who can talk bears down from trees and lead them deep into the forest, safely away from civilization. These are Normal Bears, of course. There’s not much you can say to a Bad Bear. “Boo” isn’t going to cut much ice. Hungry Bears usually have their own agenda, too.
I realize now that the reptiles in my garden are other people’s bears. One woman from Singapore refused to leave the security of my patio lest she encounter a deadly cobra or vicious tokay on the lawn. (In Singapore, you can call a pest service to come and kill all your house lizards, and people actually do this routinely.) Another would not visit me at all because I kept ducks, and she felt I was irresponsibly dicing with death by courting Bird Flu. “You can’t live in fear,” I say. “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them,” I say. But just look at me in the forest. Scared bearless. Unbearably nervous. Way out of my comfort zone.
I was sitting on my porch in Bali with a friend newly arrived from Canada recently. It was late at night; the full moon illuminated the garden and the night-blooming jasmine poured its intoxicating perfume into the velvet air. Frogs celebrated in the pond. A warm breeze teased among the leaves. It was a glorious tropical night and all she could think about was snakes. We had to go inside. With sinister Bad Bears still lurking in my mind, I was more sympathetic about this than I used to be.
I factor the possibility of encountering snakes and lizards into my day and get on with it. But the thought of sharing a forest with a perfectly innocent bear minding its own business is way too scary. Comfort zones. Go figure.
