Living with the Wild

A short time ago, before the first real snow of winter, and while fall's palette was at its most extravagant, a friend and I took a trip into the Purcell Mountains of British Columbia. On arriving at the trailhead, I spoke to a man who owned a nearby cabin, who advised us that there was a good deal of bear activity in the area, and that we should be careful. Heeding his words, but not intending, for having heard them, to deviate from our plan, we shouldered our packs and set off. Though we had not doubted the warning, we were nevertheless surprised at the quantity of bear tracks on the trail. There were tracks of both black and grizzly bears, some superimposed upon one another, and some lying side by side, preserved, in the near-frozen ground, from the boots of the few humans inclined to the area at that time of year.

We followed a wilderness trail that led eventually to some hot springs beneath a broad cirque. Because of the long, slow drive to the trailhead, it was already late afternoon when we began hiking, and we knew that we would have to hurry to reach the springs and make camp before dark. As we walked, we were aware that the land around us was the quintessence of Rocky Mountain bear habitat, and, while we did not conjure bears that did not exist, we expected them at every turn. We were completely attuned to the likelihood of an encounter. With pepper spray and a noise-making device in easy reach, we talked loudly, leaving no lull in the conversation unpunctuated by a loud call to advertise our presence. These things were done out of respect, respect for the fact that the bears lived in this place and that for us to walk there blithely, assuming we would not encounter one, would be arrogance.

We reached the springs as the light began to fade, and were putting up the tent and gathering wood for a fire as night came down into the cirque. The stars arrayed themselves above the silhouetted peaks as the cold crept down from where it had waited in the day. As we cooked, we took care not to spill any food or to leave any litter that bears or other animals might find. We crouched near to the fire for warmth from the small amount of wood we had been able to gather before dark and drank a bottle of wine with our supper. Before retiring, we put our food in plastic bags, attached them to the tip of a twenty-foot lodgepole pine teepee pole that was lying nearby, and then stood it up, leaning into a dense thicket of trees. Later, before sleep, we lay bundled against the cold in our sleeping bags and listened to the silence where the bears of our imaginations were abroad. And there, with our arsenal of noise and pepper at hand, we lay ready, with anything that could attract a bear, even toothpaste, hanging from the lodgepole, slowly freezing, forty yards away.

During the night my companion woke me saying she thought there was an animal outside; we lay and listened, but could hear nothing, and I called out and then listened again for some corresponding movement, but there was nothing. If there had been something, it had been farther off, brought nearer by the disorientation of sleep, looming from reality into imagination, moving on its way, aware of us, certainly, and also likely to be as keen to avoid us as we were to avoid it, whatever it was, moose or hare, bear or deer. And then again we slept, in the silence and cold, until the gray light of morning wakened us, brave, and ready to lie in hot water until the sun found its way over the peaks and down into the valley.

As we hiked back down the trail, I thought of the layers of mountains around us, and I considered what it is that lures some people into wilderness, despite its being potentially inhospitable and dangerous, while it is fearsome anathema to others. And as I walked, ever vigilant, a number of things occurred to me: Wilderness, by definition, is intact, or complete, so the biological systems within it function harmoniously and in accord with one another. This accord has developed over timespans that mock our perspective of time. If an area of land, or a region, is degraded or developed, we tend to refer to it as something other than wilderness, it becomes a park or a recreation area or a special management zone. Wilderness is a superlative that is applied to pristine or untouched areas.

I believe that we need this integrity to fully appreciate nature, and that certain conduct can allow us to be part of wilderness, and so experience what we originated from. How could a human being experience life and their place in the universe more fully than by shedding all artificiality, all human infrastructure, and going into wilderness? And how much more do we understand our place in the universe when we are compatible with wilderness, when we understand how to survive there, know what we need to fear there, and what we fear only out of ignorance? To many people who are otherwise rational in their modern, urban lives, wilderness is inhospitable, and they fear it, and when such people, who are quite unlikely to venture into real wilderness, make a brief foray into a rural or unpopulated place, all manner of primeval fears overcome them. Wild animals lurk in every shadow, while climate, movement, sound, water, rock, everything, seems threatening. It is at such times that our inadequacy as individuals, outside the walls of society's fortress, is most glaringly obvious. Intelligent, modern human beings, exposed as utterly inadequate, and rendered little better than useless in the "real" world of nature through their lack of knowledge, and their dependency on the comforts of the modern world.

As I walked through the dappling rays of sunlight, which slanted through the canopy, emerging occasionally into meadows and avalanche tracks flecked with the autumn colour of aspen and cottonwood trees, I considered the difference between those who embrace wilderness and those who fear it. Most of the people I know live quite conventionally, on one hand, while embracing wilderness on the other; because they are mostly outdoor oriented and educated, they tend to understand what wilderness requires of us to survive there. Understanding, in this case, is what tempers fear, allowing us to survive without an irrational notion of what can do us harm. It amuses me, how easily many people see themselves in a hostile place; a country road, nightfall in a strange place, an isolated house, and how quickly they reach superlatives to describe it; 'the middle of nowhere', 'the boonies', 'the sticks', 'the back of beyond'. The irony is that generally these places are simply less developed than where most people normally live, but in reality human activity has ensured that they actually bear no resemblance at all to the real back of beyond. The problem in these misconceptions is that they breed intolerance and promote fear, and they are fundamental to many of the infractions perpetrated on wild land by human beings. This sensationalism extends to wildlife, particularly large carnivores, resulting in misconception of the real behaviours of particular animals, and an over-prioritizing of human safety. This is evident in most reports about supposed conflict between wildlife and people.

As the path descends to the creekside, where the water runs in spate, the sound of its rushing fills my ears, and I am aware that I am deaf to the subtler sounds of the forest that may be my first warning of a possible encounter with a bear. I switch to a higher degree of alertness, call loudly, reassuringly check the noise-making device clipped to the sternum strap of my pack, suspicious, expectant, pride and arrogance having been put away.

Wary by the creek, I shout loudly to advertise my presence to any bears that may be nearby, each corner bringing a rise of anticipation and then relief. As I walk, I further consider how wilderness affects us individually; tolerance, indifference, love, hate, and that we have very different understandings of what is required to preserve it, or even that it requires preservation at all. I climb away from the creek, and the sound of the water lessens by degrees, like tuning the static out of a radio, bringing the silence of the forest into sharp contrast. I feel an advantage in having my ears again, but now the valley seems enlarged, away from the confining, insulating noise of the creek. I wonder if there will be a bear in the trail ahead; that there may be one there now that I shall not see, or one that I will come upon later, silent a little too long, forgetful, having lost anticipation and expectancy? I put myself in this situation voluntarily, made myself vulnerable; in my human frailty, will I become the victim of an encounter like a number of others during the past summer? What, in my behavior, could prevent that? Can the benefit to being out here outweigh the potential danger it presents? As I ponder this, I think of the many people I know who are often in bear country, and who avoid encounters and attacks, and I consider that we may be in more danger from ignorance than from the wild.

The trail, now steep, now blocked by a fallen tree, meanders back to the creek and its rushing chatter over stones; the smell of water, plants and wet earth rising to me as I near it. And then there are voices, which we only hear when they are very close; several hikers pass us on the other side of the creek, populating the place momentarily before being enveloped by the silence of the place, and the trees, and the sound of the water. We walk briefly in their wake, feeling an illusion of safety where they had broken the silence. But after a few minutes, my vigilance is fully restored, as the eyes of the forest bear down on us again.

My mind wanders now to the full extent of these mountains, to the whole ecosystem, and I consider that only 80 years ago, grizzly bears could be found in all the states of the western United States. Today, due primarily to development and habitat loss, they only exist in northeast Idaho, northwest Montana and Wyoming, and part of Washington State. These relics of grizzly bear range, representing some of the last "intact" wilderness in the contiguous US, are under heavy threat from many quarters. Grizzly bears enjoy vast recognition, but while they are listed as endangered in the US, the public's idolatry does not seem to extend to any real recognition of their present status. There are also people who are arrogant enough to believe that more stringent bear conservation is not necessary, and that the trend of the past 80 years will simply cease. The United States is now completely dependent on Canada to enrich its grizzly bear gene stock, and to assist in re- populating what is left of its viable grizzly habitat.

The fragmentation of habitat in Montana's Bitterroot Mountains, and in adjacent areas such as the Swan Valley and the Cabinet/Yaak, is indicative of a consistent process of human intrusion that has occurred since European settlement. This is also true of the North Cascades and the Yellowstone Ecosystem, which are the only areas in the contiguous US separate from the Crown of the Continent and its periphery, that still support grizzly bears. As the West has been developed, so its grizzly bear habitat has been diminished; a tide of development, pushing the last of the bears towards the Canadian border. This hitherto inexorable drive into the wild land creates pathways of development, which, in turn, result in tendrils of undeveloped land that are laterally isolated. When these tendrils narrow to a certain extent, they become non-viable and the flow of wildlife into them dwindles, leaving them as an island or relic of wilderness which, in time, ceases to function as such at all.

It is believed there is no longer a permanent population of grizzly bears in the Bitterroots, which has led to agreement on a programme of reintroduction if it can be proved that the area is still used by a certain number of bears. As a result, conservationists are presently working hard, through a scheme known as "The Great Grizzly Search", to meet this criterion. However, the re-introduction debate is divisive and complex, touching on many sensitive issues involving a large number of people. Like many conservation initiatives of a similar scale, the scheme is being promoted and overseen by a dedicated few that in reality are probably supported by a majority of people, though that support may not be active. Typically, the opponents of such a scheme are a small and vociferous minority who feel directly threatened by a particular conservation proposal. Such a threat often stems from individuals? perception of the impact of conservation on their potential economic prosperity, or to perceived interference from outsiders, bureaucrats, or government. Often, opposition to conservation planning is very base and comes from a narrow and limited outlook; ignorance can play a major part, and, particularly in the case of large, predatory mammal management, so can fear. These things, in different ratios, are largely what is behind opposition to the Bitterroot grizzly bear re-introduction proposal. Despite broad general support, the success of such scheme is always dependent on withstanding and winning-over a minority of opponents.

Much of the problem in gaining acceptance for re-introduction is semantic. The term "re- introduction", engenders all manner of debate and opposition that 'supplement' does not. Unfortunately, no proof of a resident population has been found, although this does not detract from the irony of the fact that Bitterroot residents who rail against the "reintroduction" of grizzly bears, probably live with itinerant grizzlies in close proximity to their homes several times a year. The question is very much about our perception, and what we know about living with bears. Detractors also live with black bears all the time, and it would be interesting to know why they would consider living with black bears so much more acceptable than living with grizzlies.

The sun passes over the western rim of the valley, and a warm, golden band lifts slowly up the flanks of the peaks on its eastern side, leaving a damp coolness to fill the space briefly occupied by the warmth of the day. I consider that there are many who would refute that opposition to conservation is so simplistic, and yet it is difficult to see what other arguments there can be. Conservation as a governing concept, and all of the individual initiatives that combine beneath its banner, cannot be reasonably argued against in any kind of advanced society that has any hope at all for its future and, more simply, its continuation. There are those who would argue that our continuation is not dependent on the free ranging of large predators, and there are those who would say that the maintenance and promotion of such animals is retrograde and dangerous. Such people argue from the basis of a false philanthropy, like the resident of the Bitterroot who, at one meeting, held his tiny daughter up to the crowd saying that in terms of the reintroduction plan, she was grizzly bear bait. Emotive stuff, and who could want or tolerate such a thing, but the corruption of the truth in such a circumstance is what is appalling to conservationists, and what hinders our learning to live with bears.

I consider the whole length of the mountains, and the line of gradual encroachment from the south. Nothing will stop the continued reduction of the numbers and habitat of grizzly bears without significant conservation initiatives and the full support of people living in the areas where they will be operated. Nowhere is this presently more important than in the Bitterroots, the inter stitial zone between potential viability and potential extinction. What happens in the Bitterroots in the next few years will say much about the future retention of grizzly bears in the contiguous United States. It will also say much about whether or not we can see beyond the selfishness of our own potential prosperity, limited by ignorance, and recognize the importance and simplicity of preventing the regional extinction of the grizzly.

The sunlight slips off the peaks to the east, like a loosened veil drifting into the ether, and in the silence and crepuscular chill of the descending valley, the magnitude of our misunderstanding and disconnection looms at me. As I step between the 9-inch long tracks of a grizzly bear, hardening again after having spent the day vulnerable under the sun's warmth, I feel a certainty that we can live with the bears. I know that with understanding to take the place of fear and ignorance, we can exist and prosper in an environment that includes them. Perhaps, if we probe the dark of our imaginations, we can see that imagination is all that we fear. The trail is short now, and there is shadow between the trees and across the forest floor, and I keep myself wary against complacency at the short distance remaining; any corner, any inattentive moment, could bring an encounter and negate all the judicious behavior of the past two days. The tracks are thick on the widening trail as I cross the creek and emerge from the trees into the grassy space where we left our vehicle. We release ourselves from our heavy packs, and, after some water and a little to eat, we load them into the car and begin the long drive home.

The track from the trailhead widens into a rough forestry road after a few miles, and the valley into which we have turned opens out into a broad vista, clinging to a last vestige of sunlight. As always, at such a time, I feel satisfaction at having been deeply imbued in nature, paralleled with a feeling of being at odds with the modern society to which we always seem to have to return. The feeling of having strengthened an acquaintance with the wild, and having lived for a while on a vital edge, alert, attuned, sits in odd paradox with a return to a tamer, sometimes banal world, where senses often operate at a low ebb. The realm of bear and wolf and mountain lion fades behind us into the layerings of gold-swathed mountains and the paling light of evening, and the gradually improving road leads us, finally, back to asphalt and to the lights of towns. I think of our intolerant progress; of the fact that every human being, no matter how base, that every aspect of our infrastructure, no matter how crass, sits higher in our hierarchy of priorities than bears, and of true wilderness. Somehow, we allow them to be dominated and overrun by our endeavoring, without seeking to understand how we can live with them, and yet to do so is simple, requiring little more than compassion, a view of the future and some commitment. Staring down the yellow lines of the road, in my headlights, I long for the serenity of last night's camp; of the great arc of the cirque above us, for the stars and the firelight, and the silence, and deep, deep within it, the spirit of the wild, that awaits our understanding.