Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, September 20, 1993 TAG: 9310150332
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: B6 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: DUNCAN ADAMS
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
``Are you practicing?'' she asked cheerfully.
``No,'' I replied in a low voice. ``We just saw one.''
For years I had yearned to see a grizzly. Even before moving to Montana in 1990, I had been fascinated by this wild and powerful creature. I collected bear stories. I read accounts of bear attacks. I cut clippings. I scanned Montana clearings with binoculars, hoping for a glimpse of this elusive bruin.
As a native Roanoker, I had spent many days and more than a few nights in themountains of Southwest Virginia, where I had remained alert for copperheads, rattlesnakes and black bears. But hiking in grizzly country, in the domain of a superior predator, differs from all other back-country travel. Dulled senses sharpen, honed by fear and anticipation.
My longed-for grizzly sighting finally happened. The circumstances of the encounter were less than ideal.
Cynthia, my wife, had told our friend, Pam Leigh, visiting from Harrisonburg, that the trailhead sign warning of grizzly activity was a routine admonition in Glacier National Park. Glacier is one of the few and precious places grizzlies still roam in the lower 48.
``They put those on all the trails,'' Cynthia had reassured Pam, who had responded with a skeptical and slightly twitchy smile.
We were near the Many Glacier Hotel, a charming lodge built from 1914 to 1917 by the Great Northern Railway. We had just checked in, hiked to Redrock Falls and were returning to the trailhead. It was dusk, around 8 p.m.
I wore bear bells, as many hikers do in grizzly country. The intent is to provide the bears adequate warning of your approach. Surprised bears can be thrown into biology's archetypal dilemma, ``fight or flight.'' And no fragile and puny human with a lick of sense wants a big-toothed and razor-clawed grizzly to choose ``fight.''
So, I wore the bells, even though some skeptics call them ``dinner bells.'' They provided a paltry ring, a tiny and tinny sound undoubtedly swallowed up in the thick brush near the beginning of the Swiftcurrent Pass trail. Cynthia and Pam were conversing, but quietly. The experts emphasize volume -loud talking, clapping, singing - to warn bears of your approach.
But just a quarter mile from the trailhead, with the Swiftcurrent Motor Inn and a campground close at hand, my thoughts were not on bears. My sharpened senses had begun the rapid deterioration to dullish. That's when Cynthia screamed.
I was 15 or so feet behind Cynthia and Pam on the trail. At Cynthia's scream I saw the grizzly. We determined later that he, or she, was just 34 feet ahead of us at the time. This, it is safe to say, is closer than most people would ever want to be to a grizzly.
The bear was beautiful, blond , powerful and graceful. It moved quickly across the trail and then stopped.
My response might be consideredstrange by some. I put my arms around both women and said, twice, ``You are very lucky. You have just seen a grizzly bear.'' I meant it.
``What do we do, now?'' asked one of the women. I cannot remember whether it was Pam or Cynthia. But there was urgency in the voice.
At that moment, I was afraid, certainly. But I was also thrilled, absolutely. I felt the grizzly's presence as a blessing.
Slowly, then, almost as one organism, the three of us backed down the trail, putting distance between us and the bear. The experts advise against running. It triggers something in the bear, something that says ``prey.'' And grizzly bears are fast, incredibly so.
I glanced around to look for more bears, or worse, a cub, but saw none. Our ``ursus horribills'' browsed nonchalantly nearby, showing us its enormous rump.
Although the ``business end,'' the one with the teeth, was turned away, I felt uneasy that the bear still lingered. When Pam asked whether climbing a tree might not be prudent, I did not disagree. She and Cynthia found a relatively good tree nearby, one with low branches, and began to ascend. I climbed another, hoping for both refuge and a better view of the bear. By now, however, the grizzly had disappeared into the brush.
For several minutes, we kept our positions. Then, quietly, we began to wonder aloud when we might risk returning to the trail. We did not want to wait too long. Night was approaching.
Suddenly, we saw two hikers approaching from the direction we wanted to go. That's when the woman spotted Cynthia and Pam in the tree.
After hearing our story, she and her companions elected to cancel their evening stroll. We all headed in the direction of the trailhead, clapping, and singing (to the tune of ``When Johnny Comes Marching Home''):
``The ants go marching one-by-one, hurrah, hurrah. The ants go marching one- by-one, hurrah, hurrah. The ants go marching one-by-one, the little one stops to suck his thumb. And they all go marching down to the ground, to get out of the rain.''
In retrospect, it seems the kind of song that would provoke an attack from even the least aggressive grizzly.
The three of us slept poorly that night, each probably for different reasons. I kept replaying the sighting, feeling honored and blessed, feeling grateful for wild places like Glacier National Park where such events remain possible.
The grizzly had been one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen. Vicariously, I had reveled in its wildness, its power and grace. I was ready to see another.
\ Duncan Adams is a Roanoke native who lives in a log cabin west of Anaconda, Montana. He is a free-lance writer, and author of a weekly column for ``The Montana Standard,'' a daily newspaper based in Butte.
by CNB