I Suddenly Saw the Mama Grizzly Bear. Then She Rose up on Her Hind Legs

These days the deliberation about the future of our country is heated and there is a certain anthropocentrism and lack of humility in which we humans interact and think about our world.
I learned once again from nature how to keep my preoccupation with family, work, and politics in perspective.
It was the kind of fall day that you never want to end. Clear blue skies and a gentle breeze made the yellow cottonwood leaves dance as they fell to the forest floor.
My partner Natalie and I launched our canoe for a six-mile paddle on the Blackfoot River. I was excited about the trip because it would distract me from the stressors in my life.
The water was like glass and in the depths of the river’s blue, sandy pools we could see large schools of rocky mountain whitefish swimming effortlessly under the shadow of our canoe.
Canoeing is a beautiful and reflective pastime. It allows one to forget human concerns and focus on nature: Sunlight shining on water dripping off a paddle; the river gurgling and singing as it courses downstream; and the smell of the damp earth and willows that grow along the banks and provide food and homes for wildlife.
There is something mesmerizing, soothing, and ancient about the way one’s body moves when canoeing, not against, but with the energy of the river and the paddle. It is therapy without words, a couch, or the need for anyone to affirm your feelings.
Time takes on a new meaning, guided not by deadlines or accomplishments, but rather by the possibility of an afternoon thunder shower, a cold beer from the cooler, or how hungry you are for the sharp cheddar cheese sandwich in your thwart bag.
Canoeing is an ancient art, and it is easy to understand why it is still popular thousands of years after the creation of the first dugout canoe.
It was noon when we stopped on a rocky bank about 25 feet downstream from a deep pool where we planned to take our last skinny dip of the season. Natalie dove in first, as is often the case, and then I plunged in so as not to be called a chicken.
We splashed around, but the water was chilly and we quickly returned to our towels to dry off and look at river rocks.
Natalie is a geologist by training and our favorite canoe trip pastime is collecting unusual river rocks. Montana’s river rocks are second to none in their beauty and diversity.
There have been many times when I have been fly-fishing that I have quit fishing to admire the rainbow hues of wet river rocks and the way they gleam and sparkle in the sunlight. The variety of sizes, shapes, colors, and textures is astounding and infinite.
On this particular riverbank, there were heart-shaped rocks, bird-shaped rocks and rocks that resembled human faces. Ovals, ellipses, triangular and egg-shaped rocks. Rocks of reddish sandstone with flecks of yellow. Emerald green rocks, gray rocks, black rocks, and canary yellow rocks. Rocks with striations, pits, pock marks, and crenulations.
We were so engrossed in deciding which ones to take home, we scarcely noticed the tremendous cacophony of croaking ravens on the opposite bank.
Moments later, we heard a braying sound that resembled a very loud mule and then the noise of a large animal making its way through the brush. We did not pay much attention because we were in cattle country and thought it was a cow.
Suddenly, three very large shapes appeared through the cottonwood forest along the opposite riverbank. I glanced up and realized it was a huge mama grizzly…with two cubs.
I felt disbelief and fear that reached deep into the pit of my stomach. Time stood still.
The mama grizzly was immense, and her two cubs were also big—both larger than full-grown Bernese Mountain dogs. The characteristic grizzly hump on the mama’s back was visible as was her dish-like face and light brown fur.
The bears were less than one hundred feet away across the river, far closer than the one hundred yards that experts say is a safe distance for grizzly bear viewing.
I placed a hand on Natalie’s arm and said, “Grizzly.” She looked up and her mouth opened wide. I grabbed the bear spray sans pants and started speaking to the grizzly as we walked down river to distance ourselves.
“Hey bear,” I said. “We are not here to bother you or your cubs.”
The mama grizzly rose up on her hind legs and turned her head from side to side. Keep walking, I said to Natalie, as we strode downstream through thigh-high grasses and bushes.
At that moment, I thought the mama grizzly would charge across the river. A grizzly can hit speeds of 35 miles an hour and I realized she could close one hundred feet in a matter of seconds.
I must be honest and say that although I know how to use bear spray, I do not think I could have deployed it in time.
I felt a bit of comic doom because I was naked from the waist down with nothing but a look of surprise on my face, a can of bear spray in one hand, and a river rock in the other.
I mused what the news headline might read if we were attacked: “Bare Canoer Barely Escapes Bear Mauling.”
But the mama grizzly did not charge. She dropped back on all fours, began splashing around in the river, and drinking. One of her cubs began to wander off and she herded him back to the river.
And suddenly they were gone, disappearing into the cottonwood trees like phantoms.
We got back into our canoe and floated downriver in awe, lost in our thoughts.
I am struck by how humbled and insignificant I felt after our grizzly encounter.
Not in a bad way, but more the realization that the concerns I carry around daily about family, work and politics may be important to me, but perhaps not within the larger context of our fragile, blue-green planet.
We may feel that human endeavors are the most important happenings on Earth, but are they really?
The wildness of that grizzly encounter, the sense of fear I felt, my limitations as a human, and the perspective it brought me has changed the way I think about our world forever.
Seth Shteir has explored the West’s public lands for more than 35 years. He lives in Helmville, Montana.
All views expressed are the author’s own.
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