The black bears are coming out of hibernation. Or so I’m told.
After sleeping through the winter, bears are lean and hungry. By now, I expected to see at least a few patrolling the neighborhood for unlocked garbage cans and hummingbird feeders. But I have yet to see the telltale signs of their presence: piles of scat on our gravel road, massive paw prints by the river, or their loping forms on my wildlife cam.
As a general rule, bears are solitary creatures. It’s how they evolved, how they survive. They occasionally meet up with another bear to breed, and sows spend a lot of time with their cubs. But for the most part, bears are some of the most solitary animals in the world.
Photo by Sean Moth
I feel more like a bear than a human these days. Reclusive. Isolated by choice. Leery of humans. If my fellow bears want to hole up a while longer, I totally get it.
Warm weather tells me it’s time to emerge from my cabin den, but I’ve been putting it off. Stiff and unsteady on my feet, I’m still groggy from the long hibernation of pandemic life, having never slept soundly during two years of constant vigilance. It’s unsettling to think about dropping my guard and leaving the safety of my lair, but I am lean and hungry for something beyond its walls.
Anyone who knew the old me, before I turned into a bear, would have described me as a highly social person before the pandemic. Someone who liked to meet for drinks on a sunny patio. Play volleyball with friends. Go for a group hike. They would have accurately described me as a hugger.
But hugging isn’t always a good thing. Years ago, when I met a friend of a friend for the first time at a party, I had forced a hug on the unsuspecting woman. After approaching her with a big smile and outstretched arms, she had taken a step back, and I had forced my hug on her anyway – convinced I knew what was best in the social situation. I’ll never forget the stricken look on her face. The disbelief.
These days, when a stranger extends a handshake in greeting, my immediate response is to take that same protective step back. And the thought of hanging out with more than one or two people at a time – even friends I’ve known for years – makes me anxious. If a friend of a friend tried to force a hug on me right now, I would lose my damn mind … and the person would probably lose a limb.
Last month, I was invited to see the screening of a documentary with a group of women at a local theater. The movie night was organized by a dear friend. It was a chance to come out of hiding and meet new people. There would be an engaging Q&A session.
But my fur bristled. I took a step back. Retreated to my den. The group event was too much stimulation, too soon – too many people, too much noise, too many smells, TOO MUCH EVERYTHING – for a bear trying to transition out of hibernation.
Once you turn into a bear, and adopt those new reclusive habits of survival, it’s really hard to go back to being a social human again.
But recently, I decided to try. I thanked the friend who had sent me the group invite and explained how I was feeling. She told me she understood one-hundred percent, and we scheduled a hike together instead – just the two of us.
And next week, I’m planning to venture away from my den and into town with one of my cubs. When he asked what I wanted for Mother’s Day, I suggested going to a movie so I could face my fears through exposure. The plan is to maybe order food, for sure drink a beer, and see the film “Everything Everywhere All at Once” – an apt choice considering it will be my first time in a theater in more than two years.
As I slowly emerge from my deep pandemic hibernation, I realize that I’m lean on meaningful human connection, and I’m hungry for it.
But re-entering society is tough for bears like me. All I can say is – I’ll try to stay out of the garbage cans and hummingbird feeders. I won’t leave my scat on the road. And I promise not to bear hug anyone, that is, unless we both step toward the embrace.