Everyone has a bear story. And they’re always good stories. I’ll tell you mine towards the end of this article.
At one point it seemed to me that every person I met in Brooklyn would say: “I love Phoenicia! I went for a hike up in the woods.”
“What happened?” I would inquire.
“After five minutes we saw a bear, then turned around and came back.”
One thing Brooklynites enjoy is a brush with death, plus an excuse to return to their cabin and read The New Yorker.
Black bears are quite similar to humans. They are at the top of the food chain, can stand on two legs, and have roughly the same hearing and vision we do.
When I first moved to the area, I lived in Shandaken. My landlords were from New York City, and foolishly put out the garbage every night in plastic bags. A bear – or maybe several bears? – would arrive nightly and forage for a meal.
That’s when I learned that these forest creatures have the same food preferences as the average American. If our neighbor was eating spare ribs, the ursine thief would enthusiastically chew on the bones; but encountering our leftover millet and lentils she’d contemptuously thrust them aside. As Yogi Bear famously said: “Nuts and berries: yuck!”
I vividly remember one bear pulling a garbage bag backward across Route 42, glaring at me like a bank robber with a revolver backing out of a bank.
Bear stories, bear strategies
My wife, Violet Snow, kindly wrote out this story for me:
“I had to throw away half a jar of spoiled apple sauce. I couldn’t put it in the compost because it would attract bears. So I walked up the mountain behind my house, intending to empty it in a remote spot.
However, I was halfway there when I saw a bear walking toward me. I made a loud noise and waved my arms.
“The bear started to walk away, but then changed its mind and decided to walk towards me, perhaps scenting the apple sauce. I panicked for a moment and then uncapped the plastic jar and threw it towards the bear. This strategy worked. The bear stopped to lick up the apple sauce, and I turned and ran down the mountain. The next day I retrieved the empty jar.”
The noted poet Mike Topp has a house in Stanfordville. One night in April, his wife went away, and here’s what happened:
“I had a bad feeling and played a Trump podcast out the window (bears are said not to like overhearing talk shows). I soaked a bunch of rags in ammonia and put them on our back porch (bears supposedly hate the smell of ammonia). And I placed some unwelcome mats (boards with nails sticking out of them) in our yard.
“It didn’t matter. I sat on our couch twelve feet from our back porch with its sturdy protection of a sliding glass door to watch a Curb Your Enthusiasm rerun. At 8:32 I glanced out the glass door and saw a large black bear padding around. He saw me, walked over to the glass door, and stood up on his back legs to get a better look at me.
“Like most people relaxing at home, I was fully dressed, wearing shoes and a coat, with my wallet, car keys and a canister of bear spray by my side. I carefully and slowly walked sideways out of the room (never turn your back or run from a bear – it sets off an instinct to make them chase you) and set off our car alarm over and over. I went down to our locked garage and locked myself in the car with bear spray and all the lights on. I stayed in the car until 4 a.m. and then checked the cameras and went to bed.”
Listen to the bear sing
Years go by when I never see a bear, only their scat – which often reveals their recent dietary decisions. In August, it’s common to see wild cherry pits in their droppings. (I asked for bear stories on Facebook, and Deb Medenbach wrote about an intruder who “ate 30 pounds of sunflower seeds off my porch. He gave it back in poopy piles in the garden that the birds could forage. Suet, without dead animals.”)
Several years ago I was walking with my friend Norman, who was desperate to see a bear. “I rarely run into them,” I told Norman, but as we were walking across the bridge in Phoenicia, down below was a healthy adult bear, looking into the waters of Esopus Creek, apparently fishing. As we watched, the creature dived into the swift water and swam across, looking exactly like a floating bearskin rug.
Once I moved up here, and began observing the life of four-legged beasts, I was surprised how well the book Winnie the Pooh had prepared me for an understanding of bears. Just like Winnie, they are generally dreamy, plodding, and pleasure-loving.
The second chapter of Winnie the Pooh, entitled “In Which Pooh Goes Visiting, And Gets into a Tight Place,“ begins with the protagonist “humming proudly to himself.“ Here is the hum:
Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,
Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,
Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum…
If you listen closely to a bear, you will often notice her singing this exact song.
We watch them, they watch us
One Native-American teaching about bears is that they demonstrate how to live a sensible life – balancing rest, survival, and play.
I hate to pollute my essays with useful information, but I feel a responsibility to advise you how to deal with the sudden arrival of a member of the Ursas americanus.
First of all, as Violet implies, don’t walk around with a pocket full of french fries.
Secondly, stand and face the bear boldly. Do not run, and do not move closer.
Thirdly, make yourself as large as possible, by holding out your arms and expanding your poncho to an intimidating size (assuming you’re wearing a poncho).
Fourthly, make lots of noise – for example, sing “Armageddon It” by Def Leppard.
My favorite bear tale is that of my friend Matt, who planted a pear tree on his property in Mount Tremper. After a few years, the tree bore fruit, which attracted a bear – who uprooted the entire tree, and carried it up the mountain to savor privately.
Last week, my friend Phoebe and I took a long circular walk through Phoenicia Park, and then stopped to sit at a picnic table. Just then, a guy walked in with two dogs, one of which sped off toward the woods. “He’s chasing that bear,” the man muttered between gritted teeth.
Had an ursine sentry been standing at the edge of the woods throughout our walk? Bears are watching us more often than we know.
Join the family! 
