WVMC Presents: The Bear Diaries, Vol. I
You’d be forgiven for forgetting that in West Van, concrete mansions with EV chargers and infinity pools sit right at the edge of the forest primeval. I forget it from time-to-time too, even though I should really know better. There are real-life consequences to these lapses, and I found this out--in a big way — last summer.
I live in a little house at the edge of the big woods — like Laura Ingalls Wilder in silly sequinned sneakers--and usually the forest is a serene backdrop for the sort of modern mom ephemera that fills up my brain. You can imagine-preschool drama, camp registration, nap strikes, etc.
So, on this one day, I had a brief window of time between leaving the grocery store and picking Max up from camp. I raced home, put the baby in his playpen, unloaded my goods and sundries. Nothing to see here. I left the garage door open — I’d only be home fifteen minutes.
And sure enough, in that very brief period of time, a big, beautiful, fluffy black bear waltzed into my garage and got to work. I have two little boys, and I can tell you--our garbage can was maxed out.
He looked, at first, like a big black shadow crouched at the mouth of the garage. Like a sleep paralysis demon. Like something very wrong in a place that was once friendly and familiar. It took a minute or two to see that it was a bear rather than an incubus. There was a moment of recognition and fear and then, of course, I anthropomorphized him.
“Look how cute!” I said to the baby. “Say ‘hello, Mr. Bear!’”
Seeing the bear through a pane of glass felt, in that moment, like a welcome break in my day. But after I took pictures and videos and texted my husband, I realized, with dawning horror, that this bear was settling in for a nice long stay. I can’t blame him--I had two full garbage cans and two full deep freezes in there. In theory, he could have hunkered down for a month. And Max’s camp dismissal drew ever closer.
So what is a 38 year old white, college-educated, upper-middle-class woman to do? You guessed it! I called THE POLICE.
And within fifteen minutes, a squad car pulled into the driveway, conveying to our home a single (cool, young, friendly) officer with an airhorn and a can of bear spray. No back-up required for this particular trespasser.
From there, though, things unfolded in an orderly fashion. The policeman sounded the airhorn, the bear retreated to the bushes, the man chased behind and gave him a good spray. The bear then disappeared into the brush behind our house, still clutching a garbage bag and leaving a trail of trash in his wake. I had to pick it up right away, of course--banana peels, pizza crusts, disgusting spoiled yogurt cups. A five-star buffet for a bear. And then I packed up the baby and went to meet my mother-in-law, who had picked up Max while I was trapped (my hero!).
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“Can I see a picture of the bear?” she asked. “Do you have a video?”
“Wow,” she said, after reviewing my supporting documents. “What a lovely gentle bear.”
It’s funny — when faced with a bear, those initial waves of awe and terror are almost physically overwhelming. There’s something uncanny valley about bears in particular; they’re so big and bulky and yet, at the same time, light-footed and sure of themselves. And then later on, after achieving a safe physical (and mental!) distance, we make sense of it all by attributing to the bear certain human traits: gentleness, curiosity, caution, fear. We build up a sense of kinship, so that we can tell ourselves that nature is inherently good--like we are, right?--rather than nasty, brutish and short. And we tell ourselves, sternly, that they belong here as much as we do. More, even.
The conservation society called shortly after, having been duly notified by the police.
“So what’s next?” I asked. “Is this guy coming back?”
“Yes,” the conservationist told me. “You can expect the bear to return in the next one to two weeks. If there’s no food left out for him then, he probably won’t be back.”
We dutifully waited the specified two weeks, but the bear never returned. I can make that claim with assurance, because every inch of our yard is surveyed by CCTV cameras. So in a way, we’re still waiting now, months later. We’ve started playing outside again, but make loud noises and look over our shoulders. We shut the garage door before we exit the car. Max still asks all the time about the bear, where he went, and if he’s been back yet.
“No, honey,” I tell him, “He never came back. I guess the conservation guy was wrong.”
“So,” he asks, “how do we know when we’re safe?”
“Don’t worry,” I say, but still he looks unsure. I wait to find the right words to comfort him, and, eventually, they come.
“Don’t worry, Max,” I say, “you’re safe. He’s a lovely, gentle bear.”
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