MaryLee Hayes: Bearing it Best in Alaska

In May this year I camped for four sunny days at the Rapids Camp yurt at the Eagle River Nature Center, a few miles from Anchorage. A yurt provides comfortable camping for me. The rounded structure is made of thick canvas over a wood frame and houses a set of bunk beds, a table, chairs, and a wood stove. This particular yurt faced a vast and marvelous view of snow-covered mountains and forested slopes. The rushing Eagle River flowed just over a ridge.

On the two-mile hike through the woods to the yurt, my friend Maria shared the backpacking load with me. When we reached our destination, we discovered that the door lock was not working, and the door would not stay closed. Barely had this fact registered when Steven, a Nature Center volunteer, walked up the path with news. Over the ridge by the river, a black bear had just killed a moose calf. Hikers were to stay away from the area.

With this bear news, the door problem took on a new dimension of concern.

Having worked as a registered nurse in Anchorage hospitals since 1991, I had tended many patients wounded by a bear. Once, I cared for a man from northern Alaska who aggravated a passing polar bear when he took a flash photo from inside his workplace building. The bear plunged through the window and threw its massive weight onto him, its jaws and claws tearing at his neck, head, and arms. The trauma a person goes through after such an ordeal is shocking for him or her, both physically and emotionally. Stories like this are never far from my mind in the Alaskan outdoors.

Luckily, Maria had brought a bungee cord for a borrowed backpack that didn’t fit too well. The bungee cord held the yurt door mostly closed, so I would try and make do. Although Memorial Day weekend was not an easy time for repairs, Steven promised a new doorknob as soon as possible. Meanwhile, it was watch out for the cruising black bear, protective of its moose meat dinner, and have a nice day.

With bear guard spray, bells, and whistles held close, Maria and I walked back on the path toward the Nature Center where her truck was parked. We came upon two women hiking and told them about the bear and baby moose kill.

Suddenly one of them pointed and stuttered, “There’s—there’s right now bear! Bear right there—now!”

Sure enough, a mother black and two cubs walked behind us on the trail.

We did all the right stuff: talked loudly and backed off slowly while facing them. No problem. They faded from our view in a matter of minutes.

Maria left the Nature Center, and I returned to the yurt alone, assessing the situation: a fresh moose kill by the bear near the yurt, a door that didn’t shut tight, and a need to walk alone past a mother bear and cubs.

As I pondered this, a group of young girls came by with their leader. There’s safety in numbers. Yes, I could walk with them. They were happy with their role as my protectors though we were all nervous. The mother and cubs eventually came into view, still just off the path. The hair on the mother’s back bristled, but she let us snap photos as we passed by in a tight group. Afterwards, the girls turned back and left me to the darkening woods.

As the midnight sun settled around the yurt, I armored myself with what was at hand: a broom and my walking stick. I set a hatchet by the bunk, tied the door shut with the bungee cord, and kept the bear guard spray, whistle, and bells handy. I slept fitfully through the long night, dreaming of bears.

Early the next morning Steven delivered more news when he checked on me: a bear had demolished a camper’s tent nearby. My doorknob could not be replaced yet—and oh, by the way—a moose recently charged him. Have a nice day.

It was beginning to feel like an episode of Wild Kingdom.

Still, at the yurt all seemed peaceful. I almost decided to have lunch on the deck but thought better of it. I connected the bungee cord so the door was partially shut, and ate soup in the warm yurt while I read. Then I heard someone at the door. Maybe Steven again?

I called, “Who’s there?”

Then I saw two big black feet under the door’s bottom crack.

Oh dear.

I sneaked to the door. There on the porch was one very huge black bear, about three feet from me, with only a bungee cord between us.

But this appeared to be a fed bear. Uninterested in me and my soup, he sniffed around for a while and then slowly lumbered off.

For the record, I got a picture of one big black butt and was left feeling very grateful for a sturdy bungee cord.

 

 

MaryLee Hayes was raised on a farm south of Grand Rapids, Michigan. She became a registered nurse at age twenty; shortly thereafter she began exploring other states, looking for adventure. Having moved to Alaska in 1981 "in order to see a moose," she later graduated from the University of Alaska Fairbanks, majoring in English with a Writing Emphasis. After the very cold winter of 1988-89, when the thermometer outside her cabin in Fairbanks registered less than -60 degrees for three days in a row, Hayes left the Interior. She moved to Valdez to work on the clean-up effort following the Exxon Valdez oil spill. Eventually she settled in her cabin home outside Eagle River, which is surrounded by mountains and good neighbors, and it is where she plans to stay. Being mostly retired from nursing now, she volunteers for the Alaska Women Speak journal and Equilux, both which offer writing opportunities.