adventurous spirits
on bears and holding onto the temporary
“What’s the big deal y’all?” my dad said as he drove by the black bear, not once, but twice, at 5:30 a.m, “We have to find a parking spot.”
I glanced out the window to the bare parking lots of Gatlinburg’s city center. We were en route to our favorite breakfast spot, wanting to make it to the trailhead before the afternoon rain swept in. At that moment we were one of three cars waiting for the manager to unclip his ring of keys and open the door.
The bear, in its early morning routine, had decided that the overgrown azalea bush behind the restaurant was a good place to take a nap. As we drove by the second time he popped his head out, as if to say, hello—and I’m tryin’ to sleep here! Perhaps he heard our enraged cries, begging Dad to hit the brakes. Instead, he drove on and we pouted. No waffle or sharp cup of coffee could sweeten our moods.
We droned on but my father wouldn’t hear it. A parking space was more important than a bear sighting.
“You just don’t have an adventurous spirit like we do.” My mother said gently. Her eyes glowed her attempt after 30 years of marriage to bring him into our secrets. We wouldn’t remember a parking spot, but we would remember a bear. Over bacon and runny eggs we as a family unanimously decided that Mom would be our driver for the remainder of the trip.
Over the course of our week in the Smokies we saw a total of 13 bears. Two were mothers teaching their cubs how to climb trees (left photo). Others simply crossed the roads, or continued ahead of us down the trails. As I waited for the bathroom at Grotto Falls one popped its head out from behind a trashcan, no doubt enjoying a midday nap before our voices jostled its dreams.
Bears might be my favorite encounter in the woods. It’s the interaction that requires the most respect, the most patience, and I always walk away feeling like I am floating on a mossy cloud of wonder.
Witnessing these bear encounters over the week made me think about one of my favorite events of the year—Fat Bear Week.
Typically beginning the first week in October Katmai National Park in Alaska hosts a March Madness type event . . . only we’re not betting on basketball teams.
We’re voting on our favorite chunky bear.
While we remark at their cute rolls and chubby cheeks and pot bellies that they earned by catching fish by the river, the bears are thinking about one thing: survival. Fat equals survival. Fat is an instinct. Fat is their way of life.
Fat Bear week began back in 2014. It’s a way for the national park to educate the public about bears, hibernation, and the variety of ways the ecosystem in the park operates. I’m not sure the park realized the impact it would have, or anticipated the thousands of fans that flock to Twitter each year to see how plump these bears have gotten.
Once the winner is announced hibernation begins. We deal with our holidays and return to our normal lives before summer begins and the bears emerge from their hiding places. We see mamas nursing their cubs and teaching them how to fish and fend for themselves, we see the once strapping males challenge others for the best spot on the shore, and we hold our breath as we wait for our favorites to make the yearly voyage back to the falls.
There’s one bear, my favorite bear, that has yet to cancel his out of office message.
Otis has won Fat Bear Week a total of four times, including its inaugural bracket. He and I, as it turns out, are both 28 years old. He’s garnered over 5,800 Facebook followers and even has his own Wikipedia page. Originally known as Bear 480, Otis has a dark blonde coat and wide set ears, notably his floppy right ear has won the hearts of many. His most recognizable trait comes when the leaves change, as we prepare for Halloween and our Thanksgiving meals, his body goes from slim summer berry bear to walrus shaped, his neck thick and oh so wrinkly.
His fishing technique is one to praise, preferring the jacuzzi method (meaning, he likes to sit in the plunge pool at Brooks Falls and wait for salmon to swim to him). It’s DoorDash for national parks. He doesn’t mind that other bears join him for dinner, although they wait for him to take the first bite (preferring his scraps to a fresh kill). When he was younger he was often seen playing with two bears affectionately known as Popeye and Ted. But he’s not one for violence, he avoids it, preferring the peace and quiet of the water. His adventurous spirit is one deeply connected with the river.
It’s not hard to figure out why the internet, which is often such a wild and chaotic place, could have fallen in love with a bear like Otis. Each week this summer I’ve read comments on the park’s social media pages, wishing for his safe return, wondering in all caps where he is. Park Rangers have said it’s still possible he’ll make his return, he’s a late bloomer through and through.
A part of me hopes that this is his longest summer, he’s made us wait many times after all. He loves to arrive late into the summer when all hope seems to be lost. Another part of me hopes that he slept peacefully, that his memory as a fat bear will continue to warm our hearts as we remember him. One of the reasons I think we’re here on this earth is to learn the lesson of temporary. We’re also here to hope and dream, and sometimes they can strangely collide.
For now I hold onto the hope that Otis has simply hit his snooze button one too many times. That this temporary will last a little longer and we will fight for his place on the Fat Bear Week bracket once again. Until then, I’ll be tuning into the Brooks Falls live webcam, hoping that signature floppy ear and blonde ale shaded coat will pass into the frame.
Also:
Remember Hank the Tank? The bear that ‘terrorized’ Lake Tahoe and was (partially) exonerated by DNA evidence? Her cubs are being released into the wild <3 (KCRA 3)
DeSantis wants to axe national park acreage for pickle ball courts and golf courses. (Tampa Bay Times). Sign this petition to help save these spaces.
Reading: Southern Wonder: Alabama’s Surprising Biodiversity by R. Scot Duncan