If a bear knew about the cuddly images which are made of him, he'd give a mighty load roar, raise to his full sometimes over six feet length, and forever banish the myth of what ignorant people claim him to be.
A long time age I was one of these people, having only watched a large caged black bear tramping back and forth behind bars in the John Ball Park zoo. I was ashamed to be one of the spectators' being a free spirit, my conscience bothered me.
On a camping adventure in the U.P. of Michigan, we fell in love with this wild beautiful land. Our first sight of a bear was one made of concrete. That statue fed by an artesian spring spewed fresh water from the animal's open mouth. Later on, further down U.S. 2, we noticed many signs of black bear; some were just of plywood cutouts decorating front lawns.
We noticed little black bears crawling over mailboxes. Bars had bear signs. Motels, too, had names like "Bear Inn" sporting a snoozing bear in a stocking hat. We thought that here in the U.P. folks had bear phobia, not unlike those who live in "the civilized world" with their pink colored Teddy bears.
We decided to pitch our old army tent in one of the primitive rustic campgrounds near Paradise. These rustic camping grounds had no showers and often no drinking water, but they were free and we had all the fish in the lake and wild berries too! Having brought our four older children with us, the floor was covered with six air mattresses. All of us had been huffing and puffing to prepare for a comfortable night's rest. The sleeping bags were rolled out and I prepared our evening meal. Claude made coffee in an empty spaghetti can and the children roamed about.
Wishing for privacy, we set up cap as far as possible from the one camping trailer in the park. Soon an elderly man wandered to our campfire. "Glad you came to keep us company," he said. "You may have another visitor tonight. Actually I wish you had not gone so far out and were closer to us."
I looked at Claude but he is always so polite and accommodating that he was wondering what to say. But one of our smart kids answered, "Mom said she did not like close neighbors." That ended the man's friendly conversation.
I smoothly mumbled, "No, we did not want to crowed the neighbors."
We did have a visitor stop by that night. The days are long up north and it was after ten o'clock before we finally bedded down. I heard a soft hissing and thought it might be a wild forest animal, but soon discovered my soft mattress had a leak. The hissing stopped and the uncomfortable ground hit me hard. Everyone slept and I listened to their rhythmic snoring.
All of a sudden, a clanging, crashing, banging noise woke my husband. "What's that?" he whispered.
"Why don't you look?" I said, glad, that he was the man of the house."
A dark shadow slowly moving along the canvas wall of the tent made me instantly pull him down again. Our children were sleeping soundly, but it was not their heavy breathing I heard. With a pounding heart I hugged the hard ground until another crashing noise further down made us realize that the neighbor's garbage can was being dumped. We had nothing left for the bear to eat. Our healthy kids liked their plates clean. The bear must have had better luck at our neighbor's. We did not hear him again, but it was a long night.
It took two cups of strong camp coffee the next morning before Claude and I could think clearly, and it was obvious we owed an apology to our neighbors. It wasn't difficult to find an excuse for the walk to their trailer, which was parked near one of the outhouses for the convenience of the man's invalid wife.
"We have paid for not being more friendly," I told the man sitting at the picnic table checking gear. I explained that we lived on a busy street and had hoped for a quiet restful night.
I tried to tell you. That bear has a path to the woods right where you pitched your tent. We've strung a wire across with empty soup cans so we can hear it coming. That was all the noise you heard," the man laughed.
"It scared us stiff! We didn't dare move all night," I told him.
His wife, hearing us talk, joined the conversation through the open window. "I don't go outside much," she said. "But I heard the children singing at your campfire. Are you going to stay another night? I may have a request number and could they come in for some popcorn today?"
We made new friends and told the man, I wouldn't have believed you if you did tell us a bear might be around. This is our first camping trip to the U.P."
We moved the tent and our new friend told us fantastic tales of hunters who came to the woods and froze to death in unexpected storms with snow piling up to two feet in twenty-four hours. Our children sat wide eyed around the campfire, loving the tales. They were full of popcorn. Honoring the lady's request, they happily sang the familiar camp songs.
It may have been the fire that Claude kept burning far into the night that kept the bear at a distance. The next morning we left and we now believe bears were roaming the dense U.P. forests.
But then, a nature lover is a person who, when treed by a bear, enjoys the view! And that is remembered by our neighbor, Edwin Ruotsula who wrote this story.
"My Experience with a Black Bear"
When I was almost 19 years old in 1934, I was picking ferns in the woods, which were about a mile from where I lived in North Ironwood. Ferns were used at funerals at that time. There was a buyer in North Ironwood who, every fall for about two months, would buy them, pack them and then ship them to the Minneapolis greenhouses. A lot of people especially large families, earned money for winter clothes by picking greens during the depression. They paid a good wage for that time, so I went to pick ferns also. It was very peaceful in the woods, I heard noises of birds and squirrels so I did not pay much attention to them. But then, one noise sounded a little louder so I looked up and saw a bear about a hundred feet away coming towards me. I figured that the bear did not see me and I'd have to shout to scare him away. As soon as I hollered to him, instead of him running away from me, he started coming towards me. I knew that I could not out run him or fight him so my only escape was to climb up a tree. There was a hard maple tree, about 6 inches around at the bottom close by, so I started climbing up the tree. I chose a small tree for a safe escape from the bear because I knew that a 400-500 pound bear is smart enough to know a young sapling would break under his weight. When I was about 8 to 10 feet up, the bear was up by the tree and started looking at me but didn't try to climb up. I went higher and the bear still kept watching me. I tried to scare him away by hollering but he did not move. Then I changed my voice by screaming with a high tone. That he didn't like. Every time I screamed he jumped about 20 feet away. I did that several times and finally he settled about 200 feet away from me and stood sideways looking at away from me. I did not want to stay up in a tree on those little branches too long, so I came down and tried to scare him once more, but he stayed there. Then I looked some distance away and picked a small tree. I ran fast to that tree and was ready to climb but the bear did not come after me. I did the same several times but by then I think the bear was lost. Then I made big circle in the woods in order to get home. I got my gun and a neighbor boy with his gun, and went back to get my lunch and the ferns. The bear was gone. I questioned the game warden and other hunters as to why that had happened but nobody was able to explain it. Usually bears run away when they see people. Being young and wanting to earn a good wage, I went to pick ferns at the same place the next day. I had my Winchester with me but that was a nuisance so I joined with big families that made a lot of noise by singing or by banging on trees with an ax or club. I wanted bears to know that I was around and did not want to give them a chance to accidentally bump into me.
Bears in the woods of the U.P. were no reason for the Van Ooyen family to change their vacation plans. The following summer found us again in the Upper Peninsula forest. We shunned the "Big Parks" crowded with fancy R.V.s and showers, flush toilets and all the conveniences of home. A clean clear lake with rocks and a sandy beach were more to our liking. We lived in the wild forest for most of our summer with raccoons, porcupines, deer, bear and all the other smaller creatures.
We kept our Sunday clothes separate in a sturdy beer box stored in trunk of the car. We found out that even there, they were not quite safe. Our dog Julie had come camping too. She was an obedient, sullen animal. When we told her, "Julie, time to go to bed," she crawled under the car. She did have a habit of not eating her plate empty, saving some for a midnight snack, and that was a mistake when a hungry skunk tried to steal her food. Julie awakened and unaware of the "kitty's powerful weapon, she received a full blast, and quickly retreated under the car. The stink of it was so bad that we had to eat our breakfast at another campsite. I believe we became used to the smell after awhile.
On Sunday we dressed for church in Ironwood, a distance of forty-five miles, and were welcome by a friendly usher who placed us in the last pew of the church. We thought that it was a little odd. There was plenty of room up further up front. It wasn't until the offering was taken that a boy, turning in the pew ahead of us, said, "Phew, you stink like a skunk!" He held his nose to emphasize his blunt statement. Quickly depositing our money we left the church. "Mom, we told you to skip church for a Sunday," the children said, and they agreed never to set a foot in that church again.
At that same park, near King Lake, a man came to tell us of a very large bear, "Old Max" he called it. This time we believed his story and took precautions. All of the food was stored in the car. No midnight snack was left for Julie, the dog. This man must have been lonely too. He was the owner of a parcel of land that had been in his family for a long time and he was a good storyteller. He was a dedicated fly fishermen and let me know the he looked down on those who fished with worms like I did. One of the children showed him the twenty inch small mouth bass I had caught, but it didn't change his opinion. "A green bas, oh yes. They'll take anything," he said. "Old Max might come to creel this evening. He visited me last night. I thought I would warn you."
Tired from the long day outdoors, we slept soundly. I thought I had heard some female voices and a noise like hammering on the tent stakes, but then all got quiet. We did not wake up until late that morning and immediately two girls came running, one crying, the other telling us there had been a big bear in camp. "You come, see what he did to our tent," she said.
Their tent was ripped and plastered with clay. Because it had rained the day before, the huge paw tracks identified the robber. "He stole our cooler too. We've no food - nothing," the crying girls sobbed.
They had been waiting in the car until we woke up. We shared our huge pile of pancakes and fried eggs. By then the girls had decided to go home, saying they would never plan to camp at a rustic campground again.
"Please, when you go, will you stop by the D.N.R. in Baraga and ask if they will set a trap?" we asked.
We decided that we would sleep in our car for one night and wait for "Old Max" who was supposed to weigh over five hundred pounds hoping he would get caught.
While sitting around the campfire, we heard a loud slam. Thinking that it was the trap, we all piled in he car, turned on the car's headlights and there was "Old Max" eating. Then he began banging on that trap. The growling and banging bear did not keep the children awake, it was me. I kept saying in Dutch, ‘Klaas! Klaas! Hy komt er uit? Claude, Claude, will he escape? Is that trap strong enough?' We didn't sleep a wink. It was worth it because we caught "Old Max'"!
The game warden was concerned about the racket that the bear made too. He hitched the trap securely to his truck, and drove him to the Porcupine Mountain State park, admiring the huge animal saying,"We'llgive this one extra room to roam where he won't be a nuisance."
I sensed the disappointment of the elderly man when we told him "Old Max" was gone. "He must have gotten senile. I would think him too smart to get trapped," he said sadly.
Now living in the U.P. our home is regularly visited by a bear. This is their territory; having the rights to this land.
Edwin Ruotsala owns a twenty on our road and where his property ends, about a quarter of a mile from Lake road, a big elm died many years before we came to live here. The hollowed trunk still stands. It is now home to rabbits, raccoons and porcupines, besides the smaller rodents, all-waiting out the cold winter. Turds of all kinds of inhabitants have piled up, spilling from the front door, the smaller ones of bats and squirrels, larger round pellets of rabbits, and the oblong bigger ones of porcupines, who have no sanitary habits at all.
That old monarch of a tree must have been over fifty feet high at one time. Its naked arms now reach out for companionship. Where the ranches meet the hollow trunk, there is a triangular window. I admire that old tree and picture it in its glory days towering above the environment. During the days of logging, when the white pines were king of the forest, that tree must have been spared as being worthless. Passing there, it is often a lookout for a pair of ravens cozying up to each other. Once in awhile an eagle rests there too.
Then, one day, the tree gave me a real surprise. Two bear cubs peeking from the open window had good-naturedly comprised for the view, one looking over the shoulder of the other to the world below. I stopped the car but stayed inside because Mom bear could not be far. It became a secret of mine and our grandchildren who immediately called it the "baby honey bear" tree. The name of those bear cubs may have been realistic because one night a bear raided our one bee hive here at home, doing a lot of damage. But who can blame her for giving her kids a little sweet treat?
All summer we watched them sunning on one of the bare branches, dozing very contentedly, balancing themselves carelessly on a limb with no need to hold on for support being perfectly comfortable.
We missed them in the fall, and against all good reason for a dedicated bee keeper, we posted our property with "No Hunting" signs, hoping that the little family would have safe shelter in our woods from the hunters using dogs with radio monitoring collars; in our opinion, an unfair practice.
March arrived with one of those balmy days when it is impossible to stay inside. Having a bad case of "cabin fever" I told Claude that I had to get outside. He was drilling holes in the maple trees, hoping the sap would run in abundance. He didn't pay much attention to me saying good-bye but said, "Amy, be home before dusk. It is too dangerous to be in the woods when it gets dark."
I took a walk to Mud Creek. It is where our road stops to the south, about two miles from our home, there the snowplow turns around leaving a huge mound of snow before it goes back to Lake Road on its way to Lake Superior and Little Girls Point. It was easy walking and at places the road was bare gravel. My plan was to check if the break-up of ice would make it possible for good trout fishing on "opening day," April first. Mud Creek is practically impossible to reach in the summer because of the many springs that keep the last 200 feet of the path swampy.
Standing on a small bridge used by snowmobilers, I speculated about the many trout now ready to be caught. I thought that it was about time to go home when horrified, I watched a huge black bear crossing the road and did not see it reappear from behind the pile of snow. The bear, groggy after sleeping through a long winter, I presumed, had found a resting-place in the shelter of that snow heap. There was not much to do except to wait until the bear was ready to move, even though I knew that Claude would be worried.
I had heard that bears don't appreciate people much, and one should make lots of noise when passing through bear country. I decided to shout, "Whoo! Hey, Hey There!, Hee-haw!" Then I thought singing was better. Oddly, none of the old camp songs came to mind like "The ants go marching down, one by one." All that came to mind was the thunder Psalm, the twenty ninth, and in Dutch!
My voice has more quantity than quality. Although I sing in tune, there is a lot of volume, and it must have scared the bear as much as it did myself.
The voice of Jehovah, the God of all glory,
Rolls over the waters, the thunders awake
Wild beast are frightened the forest laid bare
And through all creation, his wonders declare.
I did not see the bear run into the woods but a rough image of the bear' rear in the snow told me where the beast sat!
Rushing home, I fell down on a kitchen chair! " It was Psalms 29 that chased the bear in the woods!" I told Claude.
"Oh," he said. "It was too late in the day for you to take a walk."
The next morning at breakfast we decided to join the native "U.P.ers." Claude erected a fine sign with a black bear on the corner of Lake and Partridge Road hoping to attract the tourists to buy our good "Little Girls Point" honey.
Now many folks from Down-State stop by and ask, "Have you ever seen a real bear?"
"Oh yes!" we say.
There is no need for an explanation. The Tourists who believe us hurry back to their cars and the others who don't can not be convinced.
