There was an unexpected noise. The noise happened just as the evening news was about to come on, so we ignored it. But then came another commotion, this time comprised of neighbors with flashlights, so we had to investigate. Our area, mainly residential, is predictably quiet at night. It is also in town and not what you’d consider a wild-life habitat. However, many of our back yards abut the Green River and woods, so there are the occasional appearances of deer, beaver, bobcat and eagles. And of course, there are the homesteading woodchucks and rabbits who have laid waste to many a garden. But bears? Never bears. Which is why we hadn’t thought about our bird feeder. Except the other night there was a sleek, large Mama Bear and her three shiny, fat cubs at our bird feeder.
Soon after the bear family arrived in our yard, they settled down to a feast. They started with our tall bird feeder. In no time they had bent it flat to the ground, its metal staff twisted into a perfect right angle. The mesh seed baskets were flung off, their contents devoured. Then, Mama moved on to the large bin that stored the black oil sunflower seeds. The bear party was now head first and tunneled inside the seed bin or huddled around it. The bears, in full eating-focus mode, seemed utterly oblivious to gawkers or the proximity of town and traffic. We were by now situated well behind window glass content to shift our gaze from world news to the local spectacle of bears. They ate on. At various times, the mother paused, abandoning her crew and sauntered over to survey the road, perhaps gauging the ambience of her dining room, then, seemingly satisfied, she returned to the task of eating. Fortunately, all stayed quiet, except for a low hum that might have been bear song. Do bears sing?
We watched for a long time. As transfixed as the bears were in their food pantry. It was hard not to admire their sheer size, their appetites, their concentration, their sense of purpose. And to feel the privilege of being almost able to reach out and touch wild things. It was tempting to join the huddle, which was deceptive in its domesticity and contentment. But common sense prevailed. Wild life, we knew was wild. My husband locked the doors and snuck the garbage pail off the porch and into the basement, to deter further exploration. Our cats initially standing sentry at the kitchen window, went back to sleep. Then after some time, perhaps an hour, the bears left, returning to the woods and their den, we hoped. They returned one more time around midnight, according to my husband’s vigils. But not the next day, not after the remnants of bird feeder and food stocks were properly removed.
“They will keep coming until the food is gone,” a naturalist friend reported. It sounded a warning. We had shared our curiosity with our friend who writes on nature for The Independent. She texted the following: “At this time of the year, black bears are in hyperphagia mode, meaning they are trying to consume up to 20,000 calories a day in order store enough fat make it through hibernation. Only when there is no more food available will they hibernate but this year was a very good year with tons and tons of acorns so they may still be making the rounds.”
I did not mind (maybe I minded a little bit) the loss of my bird feeder. No doubt, I will continue to feed the birds once it’s safe to do so. The awe of seeing such magnificent animals is what will stay with me a very long time. And the knowledge that we are so close to what is wild and untamed fills me with gratitude. However, what I have since learned is that this is not absolutely a good thing. In truth, this very proximity to human areas endangers the bears. If they become habituated to our bird seeds rather than depend on what they find in the wild, and if in leaner times, they become more emboldened to seek out food from humans, these same bears will face a dire fate. Still, I hope there a future for peaceful, co-existence with our neighbors, the wild ones and the tamer ones? I hope . . . I hope.
Ruth Charney is a resident of Greenfield.