"One Shot" by Tony Benavidez

To Tony, his beautiful wife Cathy, and the amazing Benavidez family...

Thank you for welcoming us into your lives and sharing this amazing childhood memory. This story shows us that hunting transcends so much more than the mere taking of an animal for food. It provides lessons in life that are not soon forgotten and will forever be cherished. Tony, your Dad raised a good one, he would be proud.

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Shortly after arriving in New Mexico my family and I befriended a couple from our church, Ave and Antonio. They were a much-needed blessing in our lives, taking us under their wing in the new and foreign place we called home.

Ave and Antonio absolutely love life and on the outside are quiet and unassuming...well, Antonio is. Whether it is a new day or a simple refreshing glass of water, Antonio, in his meek and soft voice, is always giving thanks for each and every blessing he receives. As an accomplished music teacher, one would never guess his difficult and wandering childhood working in the fields and orchards of the West, harvesting crops from Oregon to Texas.

Ave, on the other hand, is a carefree and spectacular woman who had a more structured upbringing spending most of her young life in a small rural mountain town, deep in the heart of New Mexico. This made her strong. She is also not shy to express her emotions when she feels the need. When the English quickly turns to Spanish, you know Ave’s spirit is awakened. It’s inspiring to see her in action for her work ethic is breathtaking.

Both Ave and Antonio are the epitome of hard work and discipline, sadly two waning traits in today’s society. When they invited us to visit Ave’s parents’ home on the eastern slope of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, we couldn’t wait to see the place and meet the people that created our near and dear friends.

The cool, crisp, Labor Day visit lived up to all our expectations. It was a fitting choice of holidays as well for Ave’s parent’s, Tony and Cathy, were the statelier version of their hardworking daughter. The years of hard work were chiseled into Tony‘s kind but rugged features and were clearly expressed in his hearty and welcoming hand shake.

That weekend we stayed in their humble, yet beautifully crafted home, constructed and adorned with wood and rocks from the historic mountain town in which they lived. Cathy worked wonders decorating the place and treated us all to some amazing New Mexican meals. The highlight of the trip, however, was not a gracious helping of green chili enchiladas, nor was it a hand-crafted piece of furniture handed down through the generations. Rather, it was a boyhood memory Tony shared of his father taking him on his first ever deer hunt.

Tony had captured the memory on paper to create a permanence for his story that could not be forgotten or mis-told. It was meant to endure time. As Tony read the story by the flickering light of the campfire, his rich Hispanic accent immediately carried us to a different time and a much different place. A place where family, and traditions, and discipline was constructed of hard work and bound together by love. Tony’s voice occasionally quivered when speaking of his father and we knew he spoke from the heart. It was a story that will hopefully be told for generations to come.

I hope you appreciate Tony’s memory as much as I did.

(Completely unedited. A story told by a hard-working "Man of the Mountains" of his first-ever deer hunt on the Santa Fe National Forest in Northern New Mexico. Thank you Tony.)

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"ONE SHOT"
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In Loving Memory of Miguel Pablo Benavidez

By Tony Benavidez

"I have never been a good deer hunter. In my entire life I have harvested a total of three deer. One doe and two bucks. The doe I harvested a long time ago, when they were still legal to hunt. One buck, I shot along with a friend of mine when we were hunting together. The other buck I shot when my wife, (who loves the outdoors) was hunting with me, spotted three bucks close to a spot we had stopped to rest, after hiking to the area we were to hunt that day. And even though, I was the one who shot the deer, I still feel it was our harvest of the buck, not mine.

But when fall rolls around, and the leaves on the trees turn color, and the cold chill of another impending winter with the nip of cold air at your nose hangs in the air, the love for the sport of deer hunting, that my father instilled in me, stirs something deep inside me, and I cannot keep myself from going back to the fields and mountains my father and I frequented when he was still alive.

My father’s skills for hunting deer were honed at a time when he was still a young man working hard to keep his family fed during the great depression. It was essential that he be a good hunter in order to put wild game meat on the table to add to the diet of his growing family.

I was not born until 1953, and was not allowed to accompany my father in the field to hunt deer until I was ten years old, therefore it was not until 1963 that I began to accompany my father into the field to hunt deer. I was eleven years old, and it would be the second year I would be allowed to go out in the field, that I had the most exciting experience of my very young hunting life. That was the first time I witnessed my father (or anyone else for that matter) harvest a deer.

It was early November and my oldest brother Ben, who was in the army, had come home on leave in time for the deer hunting season. My brother’s visits were always a grand occasion when he came home to visit from the army, and this year there was cause for extra special celebration. My third to the oldest sibling, my sister Clara was also at home with her new husband J. D. (Joseph Donald) Jordan.

Over the next couple of days, I listened and watched as my older brothers Ben, Horacio, Bobby and our new brother in law J. D., along with some neighborhood friends, planned and prepared for a deer hunting/camping trip to a place named Cielito (little heaven).

I, foolishly believing my father would allow me to go along with them on the hunting/ camping trip, grew ever more excited with every detail I heard, as they made their plans. My father on the other hand, who had taken notice of the copious amount of alcoholic beverages that had been purchased for the occasion, and wise to the foolhardy shenanigan’s that would go on at the camp site, when a group of young men full of adrenalin and liquor got together, quietly let me know, on the eve the hunting party was to depart, that I would not be allowed to go along with them. I was, of-course, greatly disappointed. As is the way with children that age, I could not hide my dismay, and with a heavy sigh and slumped shoulders walked away.

The next morning we looked on as the great hunting party with much commotion and fanfare, loaded down with camping gear, departed in a long caravan of trucks. My father seeing the disappointment on my face, lovingly tried to cheer me up, by telling me that he and I would on the next day go join them, and hunt the same mountain where the group was going to hunt.

That night as I lay restless in my bed, I wondered how my father and I would hunt the next day, since we did not have a rifle to hunt with. All the hunting guns in our house had been taken by my brothers and brother in law! I was really questioning my father’s reason/purpose for taking me in the field with him the next day. As I lay wondering in my bed, little did I know my father had already foreseen the dilemma and had gone the day before to the nearby village and had borrowed a hunting rifle from my uncle Vevo Lovato before he had joined the hunting party.

When my father woke me up early the next morning, (and we prepared for what I thought would be our walk in the woods) I noticed a hunting rifle leaning against the wall next to the wood stove. As I looked at the gun, I recognized it as a Remington 30-30 bolt action with a clip to hold extra bullet shells to be quickly loaded into the gun as needed. All the hunting guns my father owned were 30-30 lever action Winchesters. And to top it all off there was no clip for heaven’s sake! Not a good sign! 

Noticing the look of disapproval on my face, my father asked me what was bothering me? I pointed at the gun and asked him where the clip was? He replied that the clip had been lost and there was no clip. Trying hard to not sound frustrated with me he softly reassured me that it only took one well-placed shot to kill a deer. I reluctantly questioned him, what if you miss? My father lovingly looked back at me, eyes filled with years of experience and said nothing in reply. With that, I resigned myself to going with him truly believing that our hunt would be nothing more than a nice walk in the woods to visit my brothers hunting camp. I felt it was a way that my father was using to try and appease my hurt feelings.

We drove silently along the winding road climbing higher into the mountains through the very early darkness to our hunting spot, and arrived at the foot of the mountain my brothers and the hunting party were camping at, well before the sun even began to rise. My father still trying to sooth my hurt feelings, invited me for the first time, to partake of the pre-hunt ceremonial cup of hot coffee, with a shot of bourbon in it, that my father would drink to ward off the cold morning chill. After finishing our cup, we stepped out of the truck to begin our hunt and the long climb up the mountain.

As we left our vehicle, and stepped out into the silent, chilly, dim semi-darkness of the early morning, my mind was not on hunting. I still believed that this was just a way for my father to try and make me, and him feel better for not allowing me to go with my brothers. As we began our walk/hunt my mind wandered. I could not stop thinking, here we are at the foot of the mountain my brothers are hunting, hunting deer with a borrowed gun, that we were not familiar with, and to top it off, it would allow you just one shot, before going to what I thought were great lengths to reload in order to get a second shot. Absentmindedly walking behind my father, thinking to myself surely it will take more than one shot to bring down a deer.

Lost in my thoughts, I rambled along paying no attention to where I was going, where I was stepping, or how much noise I was making. After a short while, my father noticing my lack of attention and the excessive noise I was making as I walked, turned towards me and sternly asked me why I was not paying attention to the hunt. I replied that we were nowhere near the top of the mountain we were to hunt, so there was no need to be attentive or quiet at this time. My father, (who anyone that knew him did not suffer fools lightly) sternly replied, that from the moment we had stepped out of our vehicle the area all around us was the deer’s home, and that it was very possible that we could at any moment encounter a deer.

Almost as if on cue, a doe stepped out of the brush into my and my father’s view. Instantly we froze, and slowly squatted down to see if any bucks accompanied the doe, or were nearby, since it was a buck only hunt. Time slowed down as both my father and I scouted the area around the doe though-rallying for any bucks. After what seemed like a long time the doe finally slowly and silently moved on disappearing like a silent ghost into the morning shadows.

As the early morning light began to get a bit brighter, allowing us to see deeper into the woods, and with my attitude for the hunt readjusted and my senses more attuned to the hunt, we continued our hunt/walk up the mountain to my brother’s camp.

As we approached the mid mountain point of our climb, we once more spotted a small group of deer. Once again, we stood there frozen, and slowly squatted down, all the time keeping our eyes on the small group of deer scouting for a buck as a light breeze made quiet ruffling sound with the last remaining leaves on the oak brush. Time slowed down once more, as we both tried hard to find antlers on one of the animals in the group. Suddenly a slight movement at the rear and slightly apart from the rest of the group of deer caught both my and my father’s attention. As our eyes slowly adjusted to the shadowy light, it quickly became clear to both of us that it was a buck. My father turned to me, our eyes met, making a silent confirmation of what we were seeing. As my father turned back to the buck, and raised the rifle to his shoulder, my heart was racing and pounding in my head. Silently I kept repeating, shoot dad shoot!

Since this was only the second deer hunt of my life and being inexperienced, I did not realize how brushy it was where the deer was standing. Time stood still, as I waited for the blasting sound of the gun. It never came, as I watched the buck stealthily and silently moved back into the shadows of the forest. As my father lowered the gun from his shoulder, I impatiently asked him why he had not taken the shot. My father’s soft reply was that he did not have a good clear shot. I did not understand until years later, that my father knew he would have just one shot, and he would not risk taking a shot that might not hit its mark. My heart sank and my disappointment grew.

My father sensing my disappointment, once more in an attempt to lift my spirit’s, looked at me, smiled, and said that it was still very early, and that we still had a ways to go before reaching our destination.

Once again, we quietly continued our hunt in the chilly, still silence of the early morning. We slowly continued our walk up the steep mountain trying to control our breathing so as not to make too much noise. Nearing the end of our climb, we came to an area where the oak brush and forest ended, and the edge of a meadow began, that stretched all the way to the top of the mountain. Small ridges, like fingers stretched down from the top of the mountain. As we looked towards the summit of the mountain, the closest ridge to us that crookedly came down the mountain was to the East, about seventy-five to a hundred yards away. It ended in a fairly high bluff with a smattering of scraggly bristle cone pine trees scattered at its top. A thin deer trail came down the bluff in our direction.

As we approached the edge of the meadow, with the sun just about to come over the top of the mountain, my father stopped behind a small tree and we crouched down to scout the area for deer. As we crouched there for a short time scouting the area, with the muffled sound of our heavy labored breathing, and thick clouds of vapor trailing off after every breath, we spotted another doe, slowly emerging from the shadows of the scraggily bristlecone trees at the top of the bluff. My father gently tapped my shoulder and pointed in the direction of the doe to be certain I had seen her. We watched silently, as the doe with her head held slightly forward, all the time sensing with her nose and searching with her eyes and ears for any sign of danger, slowly and cautiously made her way down the thin trail towards us. Our breathing slowed down as we continued to watch her in our frozen crouch as she slowly walked past us, just yards away, never knowing we were there.

After watching the doe disappear into the brush at the end of the meadow below us, our eyes returned to the top of the bluff, and the narrow deer trail where the doe had emerged. Anxiously we searched the area where the doe had stepped out of the scraggly bristle cone pines, when, suddenly our eyes caught movement amongst the shadows of the scraggly trees. Our eyes strained, but we were not able to make out more than motion amongst the shadows and trees, moving in the direction of the thin trail. Then just before stepping out of the shadows and onto the trail, the movement stopped, a deer waited there without moving, as if watching where the doe, just a short time earlier, had gone down the trail.

We squinted our eyes into the early morning light, trying hard to see whether it was another doe, or praying silently it was a buck. Long shadows, cast by the rays of the early morning sun rising over the top of the mountain and the rays of the sun themselves shining directly in our eyes, made it hard to see clearly.

Slowly as if putting a puzzle together both our eyes began to piece together the form of a deer. Our eyes met, confirming once more to each other what we were seeing. We patiently watched the deer form at the top of the bluff for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, very slowly, the deer, turned its head slightly, just enough to catch a glint of sunshine on its antlers. My heart jumped and my mouth went dry.

Once again it seemed as if time began to slow down and everything seemed to move in slow motion. I turned to look at my father who already had the gun at his shoulder and was bracing himself against the small tree to steady himself for the one shot. As I crouched there looking at the buck, anticipating the blast to come from the 30-30 rifle, I was nevertheless startled at the sound of the shot. I watched in wide eyed wonder as the buck, in what seemed like slow motion, jumped down the trail a couple of times and then fell in a crumpled pile. I immediately jumped up from our hiding place, gave a loud whooping yell, and started running towards the deer.

My father not even attempting to reload, instinctively jumped up and ran after me. With a few anxiety-filled running strides, my father caught up to me and grabbed me from the scruff of the neck bringing me to a stop. He began to harshly admonish me for doing such a foolish thing, then catching himself, he bent down, and hugging me with all the love, tenderness and patience, that only a loving father (or any loving parent for that matter) can muster, at times when their child is endangered by their own foolish acts. In a calm and steady voice explained to me that one must be cautious when approaching a wild animal that has been shot. He went on to explain that the animal might just be wounded and when approached without caution, could get up attack, hurt, and possibly kill you. As he spoke my father inserted another shell into the gun.

After taking a few moments to gather our composure, we walked together to where the buck lay on the ground. As we got closer to the animal, my father told me to always approach the animal from the rear. He gingerly and cautiously poked with the barrel of the gun at the animal’s rear to make certain that it was dead. The animal made no motion indicating it was dead. Together we moved the animal around and inspected it to see where the bullet had entered and exited, it quickly became evident that the shot had been well placed. The bullet from the ONE SHOT entered just behind the shoulder and went perfectly through the lungs and heart. Making it a quick and merciful kill of a very nice buck, with a three by three antler rack. It would be the first of many deer I would witness my father harvest in the coming years.

I always knew my father was a spiritual person, but when he knelt down beside the dead animal and asked me to join him in prayer to give thanks to our good LORD for a successful hunt, and not just for a successful hunt but for the animal itself, I learned a lesson I have never forgotten. As he quietly spoke, in conversation with GOD, telling him of how grateful he was for allowing him to take the life of a creature He had created. Only after finishing his prayer/conversation with the ALL MIGHTY, did my father recite the one formal prayer taught by JESUS himself, the OUR FATHER. I joined him in reciting the prayer word for word. My father taught me many lessons, but of all the lessons he taught me, this lesson has always been first and foremost for me and I will never forget it.

Having finished inspecting the deer, and giving thanks, my father began my first lesson of the work involved after a successful hunt. How to properly field dress a deer in order to preserve the meat. First, he taught me how to position the deer with the head down slope to drain as much blood as possible from the body and where the deer’s smelly sensors were located on the deer’s legs, and how to remove them. After that he taught me how to do a proper field dressing. Taking his time, he separated the heart and liver from the rest of the deer entrails, delicately removing the gall bladder from the liver, and then placing each one in separate plastic bags he pulled from one of his jacket pockets. Delicacies to be cooked and eaten first.

When we/he finished field dressing the animal, and my lessons, my father pulled a thin but strong rope from another of his jacket pockets, (my father never had a back pack) and proceed to tie it to the deer’s antlers. Then he looked around for a good sturdy piece of scrub oak, about four feet long, and tied the other end of the rope to the center of the oak stick. He then had me hold on to one end of the oak stick as he took the other end and we began the hard job of dragging approximately 150 lb. of weight to my brother’s and friend’s camp. Lucky for us, it was slightly downhill making it easier to drag.

Looking back, I cannot picture a prouder hunter, walking into a hunting camp dragging a buck behind him than I was that morning, as my father and I dragged our deer into my brother’s and their friend’s camp that morning.

In subsequent hunts, my father and I went on together in the years following, he taught me various methods of hunting and packing a deer out of the mountains. Although my father tried hard, to instill in me the patience and skills for hunting deer, I can honestly say that I did not acquire the full extent of those lessons.

Nonetheless, every year, when the leaves on the trees begin to turn color, and the chill of another impending cold winter hangs in the air, and nips at your nose, I feel an incredible urge to go out into the fields and mountains I used to hunt with my father.

Today the memories of those long ago times, sitting at my father’s side on the edge of a high mountain ledge, in the early morning light, of a crisp, cold, fall morning, looking out over canyons and low lands scouting for deer, with the thick vapor of our breaths trailing off after a drink of hot bourbon coffee, and the sun rising over the horizon at our backs, are imbedded in my memory as if it were yesterday.

I have often wondered why my father was so patient, kind and loving to me during that hunting trip. Was it that I was his youngest of three sons and he realized he would not have another chance? Or perhaps age has a way of mellowing a person? Whatever it was, I don’t know, and I don’t think I ever will. What I do know is, it has been a long time since my father and I hunted together and he departed this world, so when this time of year comes around I MISS YOU DAD. :’( Te amo"

Cathy and Tony Benavidez (author)

Antonio and Ave at her father's house in Montezuma, NM.

A New Path...

Do not for one second think I have stopped writing and teaching about wildlife. Rather, I am stepping up my game and focusing all my efforts on a new venture to teach the public about the wonderful world of wildlife. The program is called "Wildlife for You" and it is exactly what it says it is...it's a way to bring fascinating information and wonderful media to YOU about WILDLIFE.

Most of the wildlife information is provided to you is through webinars, or online classes. This allows followers to engage with wildlife professional (yes, there are many other speakers much more knowledgeable than me) and ask them questions and interact with the folks that have first-hand knowledge of the animals they have worked with. If you would like to be a part of this incredible program...

LIKE the "Wildlife for YOU" Facebook Page

 

Here is just a sample of the classes we have already offered.

 

 

We hope to see you in class!

 

And don't worry, if an inspiration strikes me to blog about my thoughts of the forest (Nemophilosophy), I will be sure to share them on here as well.

 





So Far from Perfect

Every once in a while I scroll through my Facebook feed and I look back on old posts and I can’t help but smile seeing some of my past adventures and accomplishments. I truly am blessed. But it is not the whole story. In fact, it’s a fairly distorted one. I am so far from perfect it’s quite numbing sometimes. Don’t believe me? Just ask my wife.

Rarely do I ever post about my failures and frustrations which are simply too numerous to recall. Troubles are always lurking just below the surface... financial, professional, moral, health, teenage boys... you name it, I suffered, and will continue to suffer, through it until the day I die. And you know what? I welcome it. 

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I am wanting to struggle but I realize I am human and it is a constant part of our life. It is what makes us stronger. In actuality, a truly strong person is not someone who stands tall in times of plenty but someone who pulls it together and holds firm in times of famine and weakness, so these trials and tribulations serve a great purpose.

Anyway, I heard a story over the weekend that really hit home and put this whole “life” situation in perspective. Someone recounted how they were going through a severe bout of depression and during their struggle they drove to the top of Sandia Crest. As they gazed upon a seemingly bleak and brown landscape below, they noticed a thin thread of brilliant greenery and color in the valley below. This, of course, was the Rio Grande River in all it’s glory. And then it dawned on him that that beautiful and brilliant “oasis” was the lowest point in the valley. Oh the irony.

Sometimes it takes those low points in life for us to see the beauty that is not only before us but within us. Remember, holidays are quite often very difficult times for many people and they are often seen as low points in someone’s life. Here’s to hoping each and everyone of you find the beauty and your strength within.

Homeward Bound

The call of “home” is strong in many individuals. Just like you and I have that place

that is near and dear to us, a place we call “home”.... so too do bears.



I recently had the pleasure of retelling a story of one of my favorite bears. It was a small cub I had nicknamed Houdini who had escaped from the bear center (ABR) back in the day when the center was mostly a mere “fence in the woods.” To make matters worse, the cub had a surgically repaired hind leg that needed copious amounts of rest. Her shaved lower half plainly told the story of her recent misfortune. (Houdini's Story)

Upon her escape, one would think that after the bear had acquired her freedom, she would hunker down in the immediate area since her leg was probably still very sore and there were ample amounts of food for the taking. Add to the fact that since she had eluded my grasp, I was trying to lure her back with some extremely tempting treats. It mattered not that the tasty morsels were at the back of a few small traps designed to reclaim the lost bear. Needless to say, I was going to give her every scrumptious reason to stay in the area.

A few days passed, then a week, then a few weeks, which soon turned into a month, then two. I had to face the facts... she was gone.

But where did she go?

A few days later I knew exactly where.

Kim Delozier, head biologist of Great Smoky Mountain National Park, called and asked me if I recognized a bear with a shaved back-end at Chimneys picnic area...the EXACT SAME PLACE he had trapped the cub a few months earlier.

Houdini had gone home.

Given the fact that she was a six-month old cub, had a severely broken back leg, AND had traveled 22 air miles (heaven knows how many actual miles she traveled), this was not only a remarkable feat but it showed just how strong the homing instinct is in black bears, regardless of the bear’s age. Also, anyone that has ever trapped and moved bears can rightfully attest that they usually "show back up." In other words, they like to be “home”.


Now to the lesson...

As past curator for the ABR, I was often asked about the release of cubs and why we don’t try keeping some cubs together, especially if they “made friends” while at the center. The answer was simple in my mind but I finally realized it might not be so simple to someone on the outside, who didn't have quite as much bear experience. The answer was simple... I cared too much for their survival.

You see, bears, other than time with "mom" are not social animals. While at the bear center, the bears are sometimes forced to socialize due to the cramped quarters, they have no other choice. Some don’t even do that and they remain solitary throughout their stay. Most, however, tolerate each other and soon hang out together. Here is where it gets tricky and people wonder why we don’t release cubs together.

We always try to release the bears near where they came from, in other words, we try to release them as close to their “home” as possible. This way, they don’t wander so much. When they wander, they put themselves more at risk, not just from encountering other bears but from exposing themselves to people and other dangers. Crossing roads, stumbling through neighborhoods, and encountering numerous other obstacles all increases the bear’s chance of NOT surviving. Therefore, if a bear is taken to a foreign area and released just so he or she could be with another bear, there is a really good chance the two will soon split up and the bear that is released far from home may begin their long-distance travels. As you could imagine...this is NOT good.

So if two bears became “friends” at the bear center and are separated upon release  because they come from two different areas, it’s not because we don’t care about them, rather, it’s because we care too much for them. We always want to give our bears the best possible chance of surviving. Anyway...they are just glad to finally be HOME.

The Smarter Society

Have We Really Advanced?

I began my day running into a high-end luxury spa in Taos, New Mexico. Trust me it was not my intended choice of destinations but sometimes urgency from the bowel region dictates your immediate course of action. My apologies but that was the most polite way I could say “bathroom break”. Anyway, my pitstop found me in a restroom like no other I had ever been. The decor oozed of luxury while the amenities exuded sophistication. In fact, I had a little trouble figuring out what was the actual sink versus what was artwork. I was relieved for the second time when an ornate stone orifice sprung forth with a steady stream of warm water when I magically waved my hand in front of it. Lucky guess on my part. As I exited the resort I briefly conversed with a hurried parking lot attendee who disdainfully reminded me that my diesel pickup up truck made it difficult for the vast array of luxury cars to get by. I dismissed his foul mood, hopped in my burdensome diesel, and bothered him no more.

My day continued.

My next destination, and what I truly came for, was the Taos Pueblo. I don’t mean the village where all the native Pueblo Indians live, I mean the actual building, the one that has been occupied by the same family’s for over 1000 years. The oldest continuously occupied residence in North America. As the Taos people recall, the one that has stood standing since time immemorial. My tour guide was beaming with pride and had a great big smile as she reminded us that everything around here has stood since time immemorial. Her happiness and excitement were contagious.

Beyond the condo-like Pueblo, there were a few other structures, mostly single residences. Off in the corner lie the remains of the old church, mostly outlines of a foundation, a place where 350 women and children were massacred in an invasion centuries ago, all marked by wooden crosses within the foundation’s perimeter. And then there was the new church, the newest building in the historic Pueblo area. It was built a few short years ago in 1850. No wonder it looked pristine.

Scattered about the grounds, usually adjacent to living quarters, were small adobe ovens. It is where most of the cooking is done on feast days, events that apparently occur quite often for the people here are always celebrating life. In fact, as I looked around I noticed that all of the structures were made of adobe, a simple combination of mud and straw. I was instructed that once or twice a year everyone recoats their house to build back up what the rains have washed away. This is what gives the structures the thick solid look. They also provide shade in the summer and warmth in the winter.

As I was talking to my still-smiling tour guide I noticed one of the residents slowly walking to a nearby stream to retrieve water. I was informed that the residents still drink the water straight from the stream, it is one of the few places where the water remains pure, cold, and plentiful. She reminded me that the village not only had no plumbing, they had no electricity. We were truly standing in a time forgotten.

And then I took a seat on a worn and weathered bench.

In the span of an hour I saw two divergent worlds. One, a world where time has stood still. Where the complexities of life and the advancements of the new world were available but politely declined. Where life was not only quiet but simple. A place where people were not only content, but truly happy.

Then there was the other world. Sadly, my world. A place where time never slows, rather it speeds. Where advances were not only adopted but soon brushed aside for newer advances. Rather than helping to make life simpler, they made life more complex. A place where people are rarely content, and never truly happy.

As I sat and watched the people before me, smiling as they went about their business, I couldn't help but wonder who was truly the more advanced society. To me, it was a no brainer, for the greatest advancement of all is being able to make time stand still. A place where time itself is immemorial.

Hello Bear!

 

It was late winter 1999 and the bear center had a couple of neonatal cubs that needed fostering to wild mother bears. We had already successfully fostered the cub’s sibling the week before so we were eager to get this cub united with a new mom. It wasn’t going to be long. A female had been located the day before within Great Smoky Mountain National Park and she appeared to be in prime condition having recently given birth to a few cubs of her own. She looked as if she would do just fine. The opportunity seemed perfect so the arrangements were made with the University of Tennessee bear researchers.

The next day, the hike to the den was nothing spectacular from a difficulty standpoint. In fact, it was rather simple and uneventful. It was only about a mile down a well-traveled trail and maybe thirty yards off the beaten path. What always made me smile seeing a den like this was how close by folks often walk to a sleeping bear. I have no doubt hundreds, if not thousands, passed within a stone’s throw of this mother and her cubs and none were the wiser.

The den itself was a typical bear den for the Smokies, made from the remnants of a monarch of a tree. This den, however, was not located up high within the bole of the tree, for the tree itself was long gone. What remained was a behemoth of a stump and a tangle of sturdy deep-reaching roots. I imagine in no time at all, upon finding the remnants on the tree, mom had excavated a nice comfy cavity in the loosely packed soil beneath. The freshly mounded dirt at the entrance of her den still smelled of raw earth and quite honestly, it smelled heavenly.

It would be a few minutes as the two lead researchers, Frank and Don, made careful preparations. Cub in hand, I waited patiently a short distance away for them to sedate the mother. Hibernating bears, though a little groggy at first are still a formidable animal. Common sense also tells us it’s never a good idea for a rousing mother bear to hear a bawling cub nearby by. I couldn’t help but imagine it would get the adrenaline rushing in both the mother bear and the crazy stupid human holding the cub (Me!).

Mother bears, though asleep, can wake relatively quickly.

Needless to say momma went down quietly and Frank and Don begin their work. Their first order of business was to extract the female’s natural cubs and hand them to us so we could collect measurements and apply our secret solution to the cubs, also known as Vicks VapoRub (the reasoning for that process is described in a different blog.) Interestingly enough, cub data wasn’t of utmost importance. When it came to the primary study, one of the key aspects of their research was to collect information to learn more about den selection. This included taking measurements both inside and outside the den. The end goal of this research was simply to find out what makes for a good bear den.

The cool thing with this particular den was that it actually had two different entrances, one in the front and a less conspicuous smaller entrance in the back. I guess given the proximity of the den to the hiking trail, if the bear wanted a way to make a hasty retreat should she need it, she could simply scoot out the back. Fortunately the hole in the rear of the den was just large enough for the second researcher, Don, to crawl into, but just barely. His job was to replace the radio collar that was on the female’s neck since its battery life was just about up. This was an ideal situation since with two people working together to collect the information and replace the collar, it was only going to take half the amount of time had only one person been able to crawl inside the den.

Enter the importance of communication!

 

A typical day doing bear den work.

 

As we stood outside, the view was quite comical with only Frank’s legs from the knee down protruding from the den entrance. Don was in a similar position on the opposite side of the tree. Their bodies looked like two human tent spikes staking in the tree stump. What was fascinating to think about however, was that between the two of them lie a 200+ pound black bear momma quietly sleeping away with the help of a little bit of drug. Regardless of the certainty of the drug concoction, it had to be a pretty intense time.

 

That was when it happened.

 

There were three of us standing there with cubs in hand and before we knew what happened, there were four of us.

 

Frank had appeared in the blink of an eye.

 

Not only was he looking a little bit white but he was wild-eyed with multiple leaves stuck in his hair. It honestly looked as if he saw a ghost!

 

“What happened down there?” We asked excitedly.

 

“Mom’s waking up!”

 

In a mad scramble to help Don who was still down there we heard giggles that assured us he was okay.

 

Remember that part about communication?

 

Since Frank and Don were on opposite ends of the den with a bear in between, they couldn’t see what each other was doing. As Frank was measuring the height of the middle interior of the den, he was pretty much lying right up against the bear. As Frank looked up to record the measurement, momma bear also lifted her head and stared directly into Frank’s eyes.

 

Hello Bear!!!

 

It was then that Frank, using his abdominal muscles only, made a hasty retreat in 0.23 seconds flat. A feat even Usain Bolt would be proud of! What Frank didn’t know, was that it was Don that lifted her head to remove the collar…hence the giggles. 

As we laughed about the situation, I could only imagine what was going through Frank’s mind the moment that sequence occurred…nose to nose with an unhappy momma bear in the confines of her den. All I can say is I am glad it wasn't me!

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To hear more "Bear Tales," and other wonderful bear adventures join Daryl Ratajczak as he recounts some of his favorite bear stories from his career as a wildlife biologist. The best thing...you can participate from the comfort of your own home! Register for his webinar titled, "Bear Tales" by sending an email to: wildlifeforyoutraining@gmail.com

 

A portion of the proceeds will be donated to the Appalachian Bear Rescue in Tennessee to care for orphaned and injured cubs from the Smokies and surrounding areas.

 

Registration and seat availability is first-come-first-served.

 

 

 

 

 

The Call of the Den

Her head turned upward, still gazing forward toward the crest of the mountain before her.

 

 

The most perfect of snowflakes settled on the tip of her moist, sensitive nose. Lasting but a moment, the ice crystal quickly liquified and was immediately inhaled. It carried with it a subtle reminder that caused her to pause, she turned to look downward toward the darkening hollow but the stark bitter wind that was now rushing up the steep unforgiving slope reminded her it was not worth her effort to turn back to scavenge what was remaining of the deer carcass that lay frozen in the valley below. Mostly bone and hide, she had feasted on its meager offerings the night before, licking clean the last remaining remnants of muscle and sinew. It was literally the icing on the cake, her last savory and somewhat nourishing meal before her body's clock wound down. Soon she would lay within the tight but comfortable confines of the mighty chestnut oak. 

While rooting for acorn weeks before, she had found the den site nestled high on the rocky ledge. The tree stood steadfast for centuries less than a hundred feet below the summit. The bastketball-sized opening revealed to her a hollow only slightly bigger than her curled up frame. That was all she needed. Pleased with its accommodations she decided it was there she would spend the winter. So she continued her search for food. The den would wait.

She did well in preparing her body. Her rich, jet-black coat was in pristine condition bundling in a thick, luxurious layer of fat she had accumulated over the last three months. Gorging herself on the mountain's rich bounty of mast, she nearly doubled in size securing the fate of her pending cubs. Once again, she proved she would make a strong and fit mother. Time would soon reveal how many cubs she would bear, no matter the number, she was ready.

And the den called.

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The above scene repeats itself countless times throughout most of North America as black bears prepare for a long winter's nap. What many folks don't realize, however, is that black bears don't really hibernate, at least not in the sense of a true hibernator. Unlike woodchucks and other true hibernators that go into a coma-like state, bears pretty much just go into a deep sleep. In fact, they are so good at sleeping some people call them "nature's super sleepers."

If you want to learn more about the amazing world of black bear hibernation, join black bear specialist Daryl Ratajczak on an intriguing and fun adventure into a bears den. "Nature's Super Sleepers" is an interactive Webinar you can enjoy from the comforts of your own home. Join in on Tuesday, September 26th at 8:00 pm and learn what goes on physically to a bear's body that to this day, still stumps the medical world. For more information or to register for the class ($15) send an email inquiry to wildlifeforyoutraining@gmail.com.


Photos by Bob Howdeshell at: http://www.bobhowdeshell.com/