Somethin's Bruin...

Sara, one of the two adult cinnamon colored bears at the center in 1997. (Photo courtesy of ABR)

I can't help but chuckle while pouring through old photographs Dana Dodd sends me. As most of you know, we are trying to document the early history of ABR and as usual, it always brings back wonderful memories to see the old images we captured when barely anyone even knew the center existed. We were learning as fast as we were growing and given the size and popularity of the center today, it's no wonder they are viewed as one of the premier bear facilities in the world. Some of these old photos also make me realize how impressionable a bear can be, and if anything, it stresses the importance of the hands-off policy the facility incorporates. Dakota and Sara gave me one such lesson into a bear's often-complex mind.

First off Dakota and Sara were red (cinnamon colored), even though they were "black" bears. Many don't realize black bears come in all sorts of different colors. It's probably because on the east coast, almost all black bears are black, save for a few that bare small white chest blazes. Move further west however, and their hair color changes, often dramatically. It must go with the more "free-thinking" attitude out there. Anyway, color variations among black bears are spectacular ranging from black to cinnamon to brown to blonde. There's even a white color-phase (not albino) on Kermode Island in British Columbia and a blue color-phase (called Glacier bears) in Southeast Alaska.

Dakota, began to shed his thick cinnamon winter-coat in favor of

a lighter, more tolerable summer-coat. (Photo courtesy of ABR)

As stated earlier, Dakota and Sara were cinnamon bears. They may be the only "non-black" black bears the center ever receives. That is of course, until the Rocky Mountain Bear Rescue opens (hint, hint). As you could imagine, Dakota and Sara were not from Tennessee, nor were they even from the Eastern U.S. They were casualties from an often-illegal bear trade, hence, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service confiscated them and prosecuted the perpetrators. In the process of finding a permanent home for the bears they asked a favor of us, to give them temporary housing until all the paperwork was settled.

Needless to say, Dakota and Sara were habituated, raised as cubs not to be bears but to be pets. Though they were still young, they both could be classified as adults having been raised in captivity for a number of years. They were both remarkably beautiful yet painfully pitiful. They revealed their pitiable nature a few days later after releasing them on their own into the bear center's large enclosure.

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I had walked down to the enclosure a few minutes earlier and had heard the bears in distress. It wasn't a painful distress mind you, but rather the vocalization that signifies mental distress. Both bears were huffing and whoofing, making it quite clear that an intruder had invaded their space.

They were nervously pacing back and forth.

Knowing it wasn't my presence that disturbed them, I peered through the blinds to see what was causing them anguish.

It must have been a frightful creature, for Dakota, the larger male, would rise on his hind legs and then briskly come down and swat the ground. This, of course, was an effort to keep the invader at bay.  A natural display of aggression, in hopes of pre-empting an altercation by scaring away the competitor before a physical confrontation begins.

I still could not see the threat. Given the agitated nature of the two adult bears, for even Sara continued to pace, I too began to worry.

Had another bear entered the enclosure? After all, we were designed to keep bears in, not out. Did Sara come into heat and draw in a larger male from the area? Was there going to be an all-out bear war within the enclosure? ...a sometimes fatal encountered between two rival males over a lone female. And if so, what was I going to do about it? Heck...what could I do about it??

I peered ever-more intently.

Then I saw him.

The intruder.

He was well developed.

A noble suitor.

Probably three or four times the age of Dakota.

He was stealthy, for he blended in perfectly with the surroundings.

If he couldn't put up much offense, he was guaranteed to offer a formidable defense.

His shell would demand it.

(Hear the record being ripped off the turntable!)

His shell???

Yep...you heard me right.

His shell...all 7-8 inches of it.

The intruder was...

...a turtle.

An eastern box turtle to be exact.

With the combined ferocity of a pillow and the blinding speed of...of well, a turtle!

Yet, Dakota and Sara were terrified. After an extended display of huffs and bluff charges, Dakota finally worked up enough courage to approach the beast.

Albeit when he finally did work up the courage, he snuck up on his belly, tapped the turtle on his shell, and went tearing back into the brush, hind end going faster than front end....obviously fearing Donatello from the teenage mutant ninja turtles was about to release his fury.

It was painfully sad.

And I felt guilty laughing at the spectacle.

Here were two beautiful strong healthy bear specimens...that didn't know they were bears. How could they? They were raised by humans.

They were extremely intelligent so they probably assumed they were as helpless as a naked human child in the woods. And at that point they were. When bears are around humans for too long they may begin to think they're human. And given their faculties, primarily their strength and agility, they unfortunately become dangerous, not just to humans but to themselves.

This is why when wild bears become habituated, they no longer act like a bears, hence they live much shorter and much more stressful lives than their wild counterparts.

Needless to say, Dakota and Sara survived the brutal attack that day. The two were placed in a sanctuary, which was best for them, but unfortunately they never could live a life wild and free. Given the amount of free ranging turtles there are in the wild, I like to think they were both OK with that decision.

Turnaround

It's All in Simple Turn

There are two worlds out there, the one before you and the one at your back.

As easily as the preceding statement could turn into a pontification on your present being the product of your past, it is not. Every once in awhile I'm known to cut right to the chase.

When I say there's a world behind you I mean just that.

TURN YOUR BUTT AROUND.

Oftentimes we experience places for the first, and sadly, only time we'll ever be, especially if we are on the distant trail or taking the lonely backroad home. When I do, it always amazes me when I stop and simply turn around for the view and experience often changes completely. It's almost as if I am wearing another person's shoes or seeing the world through a stranger's eyes.

At exactly 180 degrees, instead of the western traveller you are now eastern bound.

Instead of the steep and steady ascent before you, you become witness to the valley below.

Should your head be down, your eyes behold the beauty of the heavens.

There's much to behold and half of it will always at your back.

That is of course....unless you stop and simply turnaround.

The Neonatals (Part 2) - The First Release

Time was of the essence.

That is a saying I have heard all too often but never truly understood the meaning, that is of course, until we were bestowed the neonatal cubs. As "fun" and as miraculous as it was to be caring for bear cubs that literally fit in the palm of your hand, their survival was directly related to how quickly we could find and place them with foster moms in the wild. So yes, if we wanted to give these bears their greatest chance of survival...time was truly of the essence.

Each passing day increased the chances

that a wild female would not be found.

We had been caring for the neonatals for almost two weeks and each passing day made it less likely that we'd be able to find a suitable foster mom. It was now mid-February and the wild bear mothers we were looking for had only another month or two before they would emerge from their den to greet the coming spring. If the bears were to emerge and become ambulatory all hopes to foster an orphan cub would be dashed because they would simply walk away from any cub that wasn't theirs. We desperately needed to find a healthy nursing mom still in her den.

When the call came that afternoon to "get a cub ready for the next morning," we could not have been happier.

Release Day

The dawn broke crisp the following morning and although it was overcast the news anchor gave us his word we would not be rained upon. In the back of my mind I couldn't help but wonder if he played a little trick on us knowing we were going high up in the mountains where the threat of rain is often replaced by the reality of snow. It mattered not, it was release day and no form of precipitation could dampen our spirits.

I went back into the makeshift nursery (a.k.a. the back bedroom) to gather Lina. She was the largest of the three neonatals so she was chosen the first to go.

Biologist Break - Unfortunately, in the mammal world, raising "kids" is a taxing endeavor not only on a female's mind but on her body as well. As great as it would have been to place all three neonatal's with the same foster mom she more than likely would not have been able to produce enough milk for three new additions (had we given all three). This added stress would undoubtedly have put all the cubs at risk, even her own natural cubs.

Lina, anxious to have a new mom.

So for now we were going to foster one cub at a time and lucky for Lina, her ticket was the first to be punched.

Although it was time for her feeding, the plan was to withhold the bottle that morning in hopes that her growing hunger would cause her to latch on to her new mom quickly and vigorously. Fortunately she still seemed content as I loaded her into my jeep and prepared her for the three-hour drive. Her new home was nestled deep in the mountains of the Cumberland Plateau, a wild and rugged area with a fledgling but growing bear population.

A few hours later I met the researchers at the park headquarters and was briefed on the planned activities. Having just received the call the day before I was pretty clueless as to what the day may hold, however, being a budding wildlife biologist I was all ears and I soaked it all in.

The Game Plan

Leslie, the biologist at Big South Fork, had located the bear the day before. In an effort to learn more about the newly established bear population, researchers had placed radio collars on numerous females and were anxious to record information on denning sites. The efforts finally paid off when Leslie had honed in on a den located in a hard-to-reach drainage strewn with a few blow-downs (toppled trees) with exposed root masses. Painting the mental picture in my head, it was easy to see why the pregnant female had chosen that location amongst the downed trees a few months prior. From the sound of it, such a site would provide the much needed warmth and protection the bear needed during the cold and barren winter months.

Keeping control of the cub

was no simple feat.

We drove to the trailhead which I soon found out was a sick joke since walking on an actual trail was not on the agenda. One does not realize how difficult cross-county trekking, or should I say cross county tripping, can be until they're forced to try it.  Now add the fact that your hands are cradling a sometime squirmy bear cub.

When we had finally reached the drainage where the den lie I was slightly disappointed in my minds eye since it completely missed the boat on what I was to encounter. It had painted a much rosier picture than what lay before us. I had pictured a few scattered trees, what lay before me was a scattered forest. The tangled web I imagined could better be described as a tangled mountain. It was absolutely beautiful. The perfect place to steal away for a long winters nap.

We began maneuvering our way through a giant-sized version of pick-up-sticks. Slowly but surely we made our way higher and higher and at last Leslie motioned to us that we were near. How she found the den that second day without the use of the tracking device I have no idea. Had it not been for the radio collar the day before it would've been like finding a needle in a haystack. Yet there the den lay about 20 feet in front of us, a small blackened hole beneath the root ball of a monarch of a tree.

A new collar and a check-up was in store for the sedated mom.

Frank and the other researchers went fast to work.

They meticulously loaded the drug into the jabstick that would deliver the much-needed insurance that mom would not arouse from her slumber while we intruded into her world. They assured me it is not much fun being wedged inside a bear den when mama bear begins to wake. It sounded as if they spoke from experience so I took them for their word.

Waiting quietly a good distance away they soon returned and assured me it was now safe to approach. Mom had been sedated. They now had a window of about thirty minutes in which to get their work done. This included taking measurements from within the den, replacing mom's collar, and recording vital statistics from mom and all three of her newborn cubs.

It was amazing.

Healthy newborns accompanied mom.

There I stood, deep in the forest, crouched at the entrance of a wild bear's den, about to be handed three tiny black bear cubs that were the spitting image of the one that was nestled fast asleep in the crook of my arm.

It was a flurry of activity and all I can say for sure was it went by way too fast.

I was in a trance-like state.

I was doing something from my wildest dreams. Dreams that began when I was a young child and dreams that carried me through life up to this exact point in time.

Even the cubs are weighed.

Before I knew it the words snapped my trance.

"Are you ready to place the cubs back in?"

This was the moment I had been hoping for.

With the help of the others we lined up all FOUR cubs and prepared them for their return to the darkened hole where mom awaited, deep in her slumber. But first we needed to prep the cubs.

The "preparation" was a little known trick to help ease the adoption of a newly placed orphan with a wild family. Out from within the confines of Frank's backpack came a fresh unopened jar of Vicks Vapo-Rub, the strong-smelling, chest-slathering menthol rub that most baby-boomers remember quite vividly. Ahhh...I can almost smell it now.

Lina getting the Vapo-Rub lathering before joining her new family.

Each cub received a healthy coating on its head and back, this included Lina AND each wild cub.

At first I didn't expect this. I figured Lina would be the only one covered to help mask her foreign scent, but why the other cubs?

The last cub getting prepped.

So I asked the question.

"It's so when mom wakes up all the cubs will smell exactly alike. And given that it smells so strong, she'll lick the cubs clean and by licking them clean, she'll put her scent back on to them. This includes her natural cubs AND the orphan."

Ingenious.

So after a thorough swabbing of each cub with the Vicks, it was time to bid the squirmy black furballs their final farewell. And into the darkness they went, nested snugly in the safety of mom's lush warm fur.

And into Mom's arms Lina went...where she should have been all along.

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Aside - I've often been asked if it’s hard to release a cub that I have cared for, on the contrary...it was always quite pleasurable. I would so much rather see a bear running free than confined in a cage, regardless of its size or intent. Understanding the extreme condition some of the cubs were in when they came to the bear center and knowing we gave them a second chance on life was all I ever needed to squelch any would-be attachment. Ahh...who am I kidding?

The Neontals (Part 1) - Lessons Learned

* Disclaimer - the hand feeding of black bears destined to be returned to the wild is NOT a recommended or standard procedure. The "neonatals" in the following stories were waiting to be fostered out and cared for by a wild female bears once they were located. The human interaction (bottle feeding) was necessary until suitable fosters moms were found.

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It was day 13 when the call we were hoping for came in.

"We found a suitable mother. Have the cub ready first thing in morning."

The news was met with mixed emotions.

Actual den tree of a black bear.

The past few weeks were a whirlwind of activity. On January 23rd, 1999, we received an unexpected call from the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission regarding an unfortunate logging accident that occurred on the rural eastern coastal plains near Newbern, NC. The day before, while cutting timber not far from the coast, a logger was caught by surprise when the tree he felled revealed a freshly awoken "momma" bear and her three very recently-born cubs. The event was undoubtedly a complete shock to the bear's system.

She took off running.

Although female bears are noted for their strong motherly instinct, their self-preservation instinct is programmed to override all other instincts as a last resort. As a result, when her world, her comfy-cozy winter den, came tumbling down, her one and only thought was to get away. And get away she did.

And there they were.

Three scantily haired black bear cubs. Eyes closed. Completely unaware of what was going on around them.

The cubs were left without a mom due to a logging accident.

(Note: Do not attempt to rescue baby animals.

Always contact wildlife professionals first.)

Each one weighed less than a pound and a half (~640 grams). And now, their sole comfort, their one and only source of protection and nourishment, was heading for the hills and not looking back.

In a valiant but fruitless effort, the logger tried everything in his power to reunite the mom with her cubs. Much to his credit, he left the neonatals in the downed tree den and vacated the area in hopes that she would return.

Alas... She did not.

Knowing the dire situation with newborns and their constant and high demand for nourishment, the cubs were retrieved and frantic calls began to be made. The following day the North Carolina wildlife authorities contacted the bear center and requested their services. It would still be a while before all the arrangements could be made and on January 29th, the neonatal's arrived. "Newbern," "Caro," and " Lina" had found their way to the Appalachian Bear Center (ABR).

The North Carolina neonatal cubs. (Photo courtesy of ABR)

As scared as those three tiny bears may have been, I promise you, there was a "Papa bear" who was even more scared than them.

Although I had cared for a few dozen cubs over the last two years, all of them had been weaned (off mom's milk) and the hands-off care techniques were fully in place. How in the world were we going to care for neonatal cubs that needed to be bottle-fed every 4 to 5 hours without imprinting on them? Better yet...where were we going to care for these cubs? If you recall, the bear center consisted of an outdoor enclosure (designed to hold larger cubs), a roughed-in storage shed, and a curator's residence/office (trailer).

There was only one real option. Oh well, we really didn't need that spare bedroom anyway.

And so it began...'round the clock feedings of tiny little black bear cubs that literally fit in the palm of your hand.

It was surreal.

Who in their right mind would ever believe they would actually get the opportunity to do this? I have no doubt many dream of it, but few ever have the opportunity for a dream like this to come true.

It was everything and nothing like I ever imagined.

I remember one morning pinching myself to make sure I wasn't still asleep. There I was, lying in bed, waiting to get up to feed three black bears that were fast asleep on the bed in the back room. In fact, I couldn't wait to feed them.

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There were a few things about this experience that were absolutely remarkable.

Without a doubt, remarkable trait number one that separates neonatal bears from other similarly-shaped animals such as puppies, are the claws. Or should I say, the razors.

Twenty tiny claws ready for action. (Photo courtesy of ABR)

Yes...there were twenty of them.

All moving independently.

Undoubtedly without malice...

...but undoubtedly my arms couldn't tell.

As you could imagine the local bookstore was fresh out of "What To Expect When Your Expecting - Ursus Style".

I could already read it in my mind's eye.

Chapter One - The DO's and DON'Ts of Feeding Neonatal Black Bear Cubs

Rule #1 - DON'T Place them on your bare arm while feeding them.

Rule #2 - DO realize how stupid you are if you place them on your bare arm while feeding them.

End of chapter one.

You see, it didn't take long for me to realize that once the cub latches onto the nipple of the bottle, all four appendages become mini razor rakes. If said cub is straddling your bare forearm, let's just say you'll be wearing long sleeve shirts in public for quite some time to avoid the many questions and strange gawks you are bound to attract.

WARNING! Bio Break (sorry, it's the biologist in me!) - In all actuality, the cub is instinctively programmed to begin this kneading motion as if he's treading water whenever he begins to feed. Remember, the cub is typically lying on the chest of its mother and this kneading action stimulates more milk to descend while he's feeding. In other words, it's meant to keep the mom's milk flowing.

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This leads to remarkable trait number two.

The Suck.

Omgosh...REALLY???

I had to remind myself to keep their lips pointed in a safe direction.

(Photo courtesy of ABR)

Does an animal really need the suction power to literally hang from a man's finger using only its lips???

Had I known about this trait prior to naming the cubs I have no doubt we would've been caring for "Hoover," "Bissel" and "Shark".

And needless to say, if you think razor-like scratches draw attention from onlookers...think about hickeys in some really awkward locations!

And for the record, "I'm caring for some really tiny bear cubs...I swear!" simply doesn't cut it as a legitimate excuse. Go figure.

WARNING! Bio Break #2 - Again, that suction is a biological adaptation. The cubs are born in mid-winter in a darkened den with eyes closed. They have very fine hair and little, if any, motor skills. In other words they are pretty darn helpless. Immediately upon birth that cub has one mission. Find a nipple and latch on. If your only means for warmth and food is your ability to hang on with your lips you can sure as heck bet they're going to have some powerful suckers.

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Last but not least remarkable trait #3.

As most of you know, caring for newborns is pretty simple...theoretically of course.

On paper, you put things in (food)... and you make sure things come out (what used to be food). Well, in the wild, momma bear sometimes has to assist the cub with the latter part. She does this by licking them which in-turn stimulates the cub to defecate.

Well...the line had to be drawn somewhere.

You have no idea how relieved I was when Dr. Ramsey suggested using a warn washcloth to mimic a bear's tongue. Thank goodness too because I don't think I would ever be able to explain that one if ever I was asked!

So picture if you will, almost two full weeks of trial and error, 'round-the-clock bear feeding. It was the most insanely nerve-wracking joyous painful heart-warming stressful wonderful dream I ever had.

Non-stop attention...a blessing and a curse. To be explained later.

(Photo courtesy of ABR)

...and then it was interrupted by the phone call I was so desperately hoping for.

(To be continued...)

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Author's Note: In case you haven't noticed, I absolutely love working in the wildlife field and try to lighten the mood and have fun at every turn. Although we sometimes deal in some serious situations, if you can't smile and laugh and enjoy what you do, step aside for I'm sure someone is waiting in the wings to take your place.

It's All in a Picture

Another throwback from my time managing the Appalachian Bear Center (present day ABR).



I sat in the board meeting just happy to be there.

There I was, sitting proudly in late-September, in a small meeting room in the outskirts of Knoxville amongst a group of dedicated individuals who had poured their heart and soul into this unknown facility called the Appalachian Bear Center. Calling it a facility at that point in time was probably a stretch considering what most people think of when they hear the term "facility". Yes, there was some structure in those serene, peaceful hills outside of Great Smoky Mountains National Park (GSMNP) but at that point, the bear center existed more on paper and in the imagination of a few than actually on the ground. At that time, a 1972 dilapidated single-wide trailer, an unfinished cement-block shed, and two glorious half-acre codified bear pens WAS the "facility".

Appalachian Bear Center 1997.

Thinking about it, the meager beginnings of the bear center were justified. A small grant allowed us to construct the bear pens and most of the other items on location were gratefully donated by the few that knew about us. Unfortunately it was only a very few. Only four bears had ever set foot within the center's enclosure, only two of which were returned to the wild. The other two were temporarily housed as a favor to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service while they prosecuted a court case (but that is another story). Maybe that would change soon.

The board meeting droned on.

There were pleasant casual conversations, mostly focusing on fundraising or awareness events since at the time there were no cubs in our care. It was during this "pleasantness" that I received one of the greatest shocks of my life. It occurred when one of the board members was providing the treasurer's report. It went something like this...

"...and our monthly balance as of September 15, 1997, is hereby recorded at $721.38."

My head swiveled as if trying to re-hear that number again in hopes that I missed a few digits.

I leaned over to Tom Faulkner (Board Member) and asked if I heard that number correctly. He gave a solemn nod.

I couldn't help but immediately follow with a selfish question. "Does my salary come out of that same account?" Another solemn nod.

Maybe it wasn't such a pleasant board meeting after all.

I went home that night resigned to the fact that I ought to get my resume up-to-date and ready.

Unless a miracle happened, the bear center's future appeared as if it was going to remain on paper and in imaginations.

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        The Malicious Miracle - Be Careful What you Wish For

Not even a week had passed since the now-reclassified "dreadful" board meeting had occurred when I received a call from Doug Scott, the TWRA regional bear biologist. He had a cub that was in need of help and was hoping we would take it. Of course we would. If anything, caring for the cub would at least serve as a pleasant distraction from our financial woes. At least the bear center could be useful until the bitter end. Though stretched to our limits we were committed and we were going to be there for them, not just for the state wildlife agency but for the National Park Service and especially for the bears.

As luck would have it, the "miracle" was upon us.

It came in the fall of 1997 in the form of a severe hard mast failure that had struck the Appalachian Mountains of East Tennessee. Hard mast is simply a fancy term for the natural acorn and nut crop that is produced by our forests. And bears, reliant on these acorns to fatten up before winter, were hard pressed to find food. Although the adult bears could get by, the unfortunate casualties of the food shortage was usually the weakest of the bunch...the cubs.

The first cub had arrived in early October. A few days later Doug brought me two more bears. Soon afterwards, the Great Smoky Mountain National Park had some bears that needed help. Another week had passed and TWRA had their hands on a few more cubs. Then a few more came in from the National Park. All told, within about an eight-week period, we had admitted almost a dozen orphaned and/or injured black bear cubs.

With this many cubs in our care times were too busy to think about our financial troubles.…

...or were they?

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Up to this point, the bear center remained relatively unknown. But who in their right mind couldn't get behind the work we were not only doing but now inundated with?

We needed to get the word out but unfortunately, we were stuck. You see, due to our rehabilitation technique we could not invite the media over to cover "our story". No one was allowed to go down to the enclosure to see the cubs, let alone take pictures of them.  

After all, HEARING a story about an orphaned bear cub will only go so far...

SEEING a story about an orphan bear cub...

...well, that's a much more effective dose of reality. Now multiply that by a dozen!

Then it dawned on me...

"Heck, if we can't bring them to the cubs, we will bring the cubs to them!"

The first thing I did was place a call to Walter Cook, the Captive Wildlife Coordinator for TWRA. Not wanting to do anything in violation of our permit, I asked Mr. Cook if it was OK if I took pictures of the cubs during my daily feeding routine, ensuring that no additional interaction with the bears would take place. Mr. Cook agreed that this was perfectly fine. I then asked if those pictures could then be shared with the media, understanding that they were not allowed to obtain their own photographs should they ask. Once again Mr. Cook was in complete agreement adding that the newspapers ought to credit the bear center for the pictures we supplied.

We were now on the same page and little did I know, we were now in business.

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It all started with a simple picture.



With cubs in good care and a picture in hand, a call was placed to the Maryville, TN newspaper, The Daily Times. The interview was short, the story was simple and the picture was clear.

A casualty of the 1997 mast failure and quite possibly the savior of the bear center.

The next morning, the story of the bear center, highlighted by a picture of an orphaned cub graced the front page of the Daily Times.

The pebble at the top of the mountain had been kicked.

The Knoxville News Sentinal was the first to call.

The next day we were on the front page of the News Sentinal.

The following day, a photographer from Associated Press had called. He had read the story in the Knoxville newspaper and was wondering if I could possibly supply him with another version of the story and of course, another one of those "cub" pictures.

The cubs soon graced the A.P. Wire.

Within a two weeks I had been sent news clippings from Seattle, Washington, Jacksonville, Florida and Dallas, Texas.

Then came a call from Atlanta. It was CNN. They wanted to drive down and do an interview for television.

Needless to say it was one heck of a thrill to call my parents in Buffalo, NY, and tell them to watch TV that evening. I was awful but thankfully the bears stole the show.

The following day a gentleman from New Jersey called and told me he had just finished watching a broadcast on CNN about "some orphaned cubs in Tennessee" and was wondering if we might be able use $5,000 to help them out.

The donations began to pour in.

Not because of me. Not because of a board member. Not because of some brilliant plan.

Photo courtesy of ABR.

But because of a simple picture.

Sometimes a picture is worth 1,000 words.

Sometimes it may be worth $5,000.

But sometimes.... every once in a great great while, a picture can turn out to be priceless.

Umm...I Think I Lost Your Bear...

Early in my career I managed the Appalachian Bear Center (currently known as the Appalachian Bear Rescue), a black bear education, research, and rehab facility just outside of Great Smoky Mountain National Park. Every once in a while we would get a call from the National Park Service about a black bear cub that was either orphaned or injured and desperately needed help. At that point in time, I had the incredulous job of getting that cub back on its feet so it could be returned to the wild to roam free once again. My memory abounds with escapades and adventures from those early days and if only I could paint those wondrous and vivid pictures with words I'm sure you would appreciate the special times in which we lived.

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 "Houdini"

Photo courtesy of ABR.

Early one afternoon I answered the phone at the bear center and I was greeted by the familiar and friendly voice of Kim Delozier, head biologist at Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Though always a treat to converse with, the gravity and frankness in his tone immediately gave notice to the urgency of the situation.

Kim got right to the point. "We have a cub here that's in bad shape and needs immediate assistance...think you could help us out?"

"Of course, that's what we're here for," was my immediate response. Kim immediately filled me in on the details.

Earlier in the day there was quite the scene at Chimney's picnic area in GSMNP. A few bears had wandered into the picnic area undoubtedly hoping to scavenge some scraps from ill-advised picnickers. From reports of onlookers there was a female with cubs and what appeared to be a solitary male. Though daylight panhandling by bears is dealt with swiftly by park personnel, the aromas of meat- laden grills is often a lure that can not be easily overcome, so sightings of bears in the area of the picnic grounds are quite common. As long as the bears move on through and stay wary of humans, all is well. As it turned out, all was not well.

Though an exact account can not be confirmed, it appeared that one of the cubs ventured too far from "mom" and crossed paths with the solitary male. Not wanting to compete for any food sources that might be available in the area, the male tried to remove the threat and seized the lone cub by the hind leg, shaking him violently in his jaws, and releasing him, either by accident or by believing the cub had learned his lesson. Regardless of the intent, the young cub struggled through the grounds with a severely damaged and useless hind leg.

Though we all know Mother Nature can be cruel, the fact that humans may have played a small role in bringing these bears together initiated the Park Service to react.

Kim's first question to me was "How much money does the bear center have?" Due to the severity of the injury Kim had a hunch a rather expensive surgery would be required from the University of Tennessee veterinary school. This made my heart sink. The bear center was only a few years old and struggling beyond belief just to pay the utility bills. In other words, were still relatively unheard of and few knew of the work we were doing. Hence, we had no money. I relayed that information to Kim.

Without hesitation and being the kind-hearted and dedicated person he is, Kim immediately got to work and started making phone calls from his vast array of connections at the park. Within an hour Kim called back and informed me he had found a donor who would pay for the entire surgery. The only question remaining was, "Would we rehabilitate the cub once the leg was repaired?" 

I advised him, it was not only our duty, it would be an honor to do so.

Later that evening I anxiously awaited as the National Park Service truck bounced along the dirt road leading up to the bear center. In the bed of the truck sat a small metal cage containing the wild and still very fragile patient. When the truck finally came to rest in the driveway I immediately saw the extent of his injury for the surgeons had to shave the entire lower half of his body. A 12-inch suture line, stained yellow from iodine, showed me where they had repaired the leg by inserting a long metallic rod into the bone. The wound was indeed ghastly.

The unfinished maintenance building.

Kim and I unloaded the cage containing the near 20-pound cub and placed it in the maintenance building. He had two simple instructions to relay to me from the vets: 1.) administer the strong round of antibiotics as prescribed and 2.) keep the cub confined in the small cage for at least two weeks to allow the leg time to heal and set properly. Two simple yet required tasks. 

As soon as the bear was secured in the maintenance building I could see in Kim's eyes he had quite a long day, chasing, capturing and caring for this cub so I bid him farewell assuring him the cub was in good hands.

.................

There was about an hour left of daylight so I returned to peek-in on the cub to make sure he awoke from the sedation without any issues. He was still out. As I watched the cub resting comfortably in the cage it dawned on me that I had no way of feeding and watering him once he awoke. One must understand that at this point of the bear centers' existence we did not have much of anything, not even feeding bowls, so I decided to make an emergency run to the Townsend shopping center, which in essence was a well-stocked gas station. My goal...to find a few sturdy dog bowls (since I don't think they ever call them bear bowls) so I could feed and water our new patient. About 20 minutes later I had returned, bowls in hand.

As I entered the maintenance building I was relieved to find the cub still fast asleep at the back of his enclosure. He looked so tiny and peaceful resting there, curled up in a half-shaven furry ball. At-first, I was wondering how I could place the bowls inside his cage since it provided only one hinged-door at the front-end. Not a problem I thought, as his stupor would allow me to open the door quickly, place the bowls, and secure him back inside without him ever knowing the door had been opened.

K-l-l-i-n-n-k

That soft barely-audible clink of the metal latch was all that was needed to awaken the Tasmanian Devil.

In a flash, the soft purring fur ball became a whirlwind of bared teeth and razor-sharp claws hellbent on shredding whatever lay before him. (It was nowhere near like that...but I like to think that in order to maintain my manhood.)

In all actuality, the cub caught me by complete surprise when he woke and lunged at the open door causing me to fall backwards on my heels. His snout wedged between the door of the cage and before I could get it closed, he forced it open, crawled over my legs, and ran out the door of the maintenance building

Let me repeat… He ran out the door of the maintenance building.

OMG!!! I LEFT THE DOOR OF THE MAINTENANCE BUILDING OPEN!!!

Realizing my monumental mistake I scrambled to my feet and chased after him, Lord knowing what I would have done if I ever caught him. Despite his injury he was amazingly agile. I burst through the door and was fast on his heels about 15 feet behind. As he exited the maintenance building he ran left, down the hill, and amazingly enough made a beeline to the one and only large pine tree that was on the edge of the blackberry field.

In the excitement, out of the right corner of my eye I glimpsed my trusted and faithful dog Smoky, lying on a wood-chip pile watching the pursuit in what I could only imagine as utter amazement. At that very moment, I saw the cub stop at the base of the pine tree with the claws of his forepaws sinking-in in preparation for making a fast and nimble ascent. He paused, I paused, while Smoky sat motionless trying to comprehend what the heck was going on before her. This was my one and only shot.

My mind played out the capture in amazing clarity.

I would charge the cub, yelling and screaming at the top of my lungs, scaring him to the upper reaches of the pine tree. As he sat perched in the upper boughs I would tie my dog Smoky to the base of the tree deterring his descent until I could call for help (Kim) since I had no capture equipment (Yes...we were that scant on equipment and supplies.)

No sooner had my mind's eye painted the brilliant picture of my dog tied to the base of the tree with a bear perched above, that Smoky saw that EXACT same picture in her mind's eye. She's no fool.

Her eyes bugged. Her hair stood on end. And in an instant, she made a beeline North, in the complete OPPOSITE direction of the escapade before her. Dam...she was one smart dog.

Slightly deterred, I had to resort to Plan B. Unfortunately there was no Plan B. I was still stuck in getting Plan A implemented. I figured I would work on Plan B once I scared the cub up the tree. Heck...I would tie myself to the base of the tree until I figured out what to do next.

Without hesitation I lunged in the direction of the still-poised bear, willing him up the tree.

He looked up.

He dug in...

...and a second later...

...he fell backward as his newly repaired leg gave out as he tried with all his might to hoist his weight upwards. He simply couldn't do it.

My heart sank.

The elusive Houdini. Photo courtesy of ABR.

He scrambled to get back on his feet. Though he couldn't climb, he could run, and run he did.

Down the blackberry field, over the brush-pile and into the darkening valley below.

He was gone.

From his sleeping state in the back of his cage to the last glimpse of his departing shaven-figure into the woods below, less than 30 seconds had elapsed. In that frantic half-minute I had aged twenty years and woefully felt none-the-wiser.

Tears began to seep from the corner of my eyes.

I had just lost the bear.

It took every ounce of strength and will power I had make my way back to the trailer to call Kim and tell him what had transpired. In the meantime, I was already mentally working on my resume for indeed I would need them soon. Anyway, I'm sure I could find a job washing dishes in a local restaurant somewhere.

The ensuing call began something like this...

Hey Kim...{{{pause}}}

Ummm...I lost your bear....{{{my voice undoubtedly quivering}}}

Over the course of the next few minutes I described the scenario above and anxiously anticipated and awaited the deserved retribution.

Instead, I heard a chuckle.

Though I'm sure Kim was disappointed, his years of experience working with wild animals apparently softened his heart and he knew all too well, that rarely does everything go "as planned" when dealing with wild bears.

"Let's just call this a spontaneous release...how 'bout that?" Kim said with a reassuring voice. "I'll be over in the morning to help you set some traps."

My heart once again began to beat.

Over the course of the next three weeks I worked tirelessly baiting and setting Hav-a-hart traps in the valley below. My sole mission....to catch the cub with the shaved back-end.

Two opossums, one raccoon, and one destroyed-trap later (apparently a very large bear thought the best way to the bait was through the wire-mesh)...I abandoned the trapping efforts and resigned myself to a hard lesson learned and accepted the fact that the cub was indeed gone forever.

....................................

A month later the phone rang at the bear center and it was the calm comforting voice of Kim Delozier.

"I don't suppose you'd recognize a cub with a shaved back-end that's tooling around Chimneys Picnic Area...would you?"

"No freaking way!" was in my mind but I knew how completely unprofessional that sounded so instead I blurted out...

"No freaking way!"

Ugh...I need to think before I speak.

Once again Kim chuckled and told me they were working on trapping him.

Approximately two months after his unexpected and daring escape, the cub, now aptly named "Houdini," returned to the bear center...two-pounds heavier, leg completely healed, and backside, still shaved but wonderfully stubbly.

I promise you one thing, if there was one thing I learned, I will ALWAYS close the door behind me (whenever I have a cub with a surgically repaired leg in my care!).

LIFE Trucks

Got smacked by Mack's little brother a few weeks ago.

Just as I go spoutin' off about how I'm gonna enjoy life, see the sights, kick back n' relax and "take more time to write"... I apparently stepped foot into the street without lookin' both ways and got myself blindsided by one of those fast-movin' ever-cursed "life" trucks.

Oh don't worry...I'm okay. Thankfully it was a pain-in-the-butt Prius type and not one of those 18-wheelin' peel-ya-off-the-pavement types. This was more of one of those unforeseen aggravation events than a life-changing God-seeking event...

...and it all started with a tiny hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant in Monte Vista, Colorado.

What was initially believed was Moo-Goo-Gai-Indigestion for my wife turned out to be a pretty severe blockage of her bile duct by some pesky little gall stones. Seven days in the hospital, one ambulance ride, two rescheduled endoscopic procedures, and one laparoscopic surgery later, she's gall bladder AND pain free. Now we just have to sit back and wait for the bills to roll in. Dam Prius.

If that wasn't enough, my back and forth daily commutes to the sick ward landed me with some type of bug that knocked me out another week after that. And did I mention a large project at the office that was elevated to "top priority" so the whole time I was visiting the hospital I was also toting the laptop so I could work?

I must have been a bear.

So it's probably good I laid off the writing. After all, who wants to hear about accident scenes involving pesky little cars. Dam Prius's!