Does a Bear Sit in our 'Hood?

There is a bear prowling in our Cottage Lake neighborhood.

A black bear.

A big black bear.

Well, actually, it's surely many black bears, but people tend to refer to it as The Bear. Much as Mount Rainier is simply called "The Mountain," and everybody knows you're talking about that one snowy peak among all the other many mountain peaks in the area.

These pictures aren't mine (all but the last one are from the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service's photo archive), but the only time I saw The Bear was when he galloped past me while I was on a walk, about a block and a half from my house. Even if I had had a camera ready, I daresay I'd probably have frozen in fright and forgotten how to use it if the bear had hung around to pose for a picture.

As it was, he ran past me so quickly I only had time to think "Big dog!" before (a) he was gone and (b) I realized, "That's no dog."

Anyway, local police departments and wildlife offices are doing their Rite of Spring, which is to send out information about how to deal with bears, avoid bears, prevent attracting bears, and what to do if you actually encounter a bear.

So I thought I'd post a humor piece I wrote on the topic a few years ago, and sent to a magazine and got a favorable reaction though not an acceptance. At least I hope it's humorous. I had fun writing it anyway. I hope you grin and bear it ;)

Beware the Bear

“Anyone who sees a bear in the city should call 911.” –The Seattle Times, p. B1, May 18, 2009.

"Here are tips should you come in close contact with a bear: Stop, remain calm, and assess the situation...If a bear walks toward you, identify yourself as a human by standing up, waving your hands above your head, and talking to the bear in a low voice. (Don’t use the word "bear" because a human-food-conditioned bear might associate “bear” with food . . . people feeding bears often say 'here bear.'" --Washington Department of Fish & Wildlife, "Do's and Don'ts in Bear Country"

As if there weren’t already enough to worry about. The economy. War. 401(K)s becoming 200.5(K)s. Sick pigs. Bunions. Jagged edges on cans opened with rotary can openers. Now this: urban bears.

So. I may not be wise or deep. I may not be profound or insightful. But I am diligent. I am observant. I can keep my eyes open for bears. That I can do. I’m a good citizen. And I know that, no matter how cold my blood runs at the thought of meeting a bear in a dark alley, I must continue to go about my daily business. We all must. If we don’t, the bears win.

(Note to self: Does city contain dark alleys? Have I ever been in one? Are dark alleys dark all day or are they lit at high noon?)

Anyway, so far so good. No bear sightings yet. Then again, I haven’t yet left the house. Time will tell. I must gird my loins and step out boldly on daily rounds.

First stop: Starbucks. A quick glance reveals that there are no bears. No scat, no tracks. I check the coffee-condiments counter—the jar of honey is there, intact. A good sign. I breathe a sigh of relief and head for the counter. For a second, I consider joking with the barista about her being a “bear-ista” but decide that will just make me sound like a jerk—dozens of people may have already made the same joke, or—worse yet—she doesn’t know about the wayward mammal and will give me a patient, puzzled half-smile. So I simply order my usual, an iced double venti, 6 pumps vanilla, caramel sauce top and bottom, no ice, extra-whip mocha, with room. Decaf.

Drink in hand, I settle into a comfy chair. Just as I take my first sip, I raise my eyes to find a child staring at me. “Mommy!” it cries. “Somebody’s sitting in my chair!”

The child is summoned to a nearby table by its parents. It perches on its seat and slurps its drink. I turn my gaze back to my beverage, but because my senses are on high alert, I am still tuned in to this family—and so it is that I hear the father say, “My coffee is too cold.”

The mother responds, “My coffee is too hot.”

And the little one pipes up, “My cocoa is just right!”

My God. Carefully, without any sudden moves, I look up and study the trio. Lots of brown hair. Father particularly shaggy. Suspicious. But they lack inch-long, daggerlike claws, and the female does not appear to weigh the 150 pounds typical of a black-bear sow.

Still, I will not get between her and her young. My drink is in a to-go cup, so, ergo, I go.

I set out on my usual round of morning errands: a quick stop at the market (shelves fully stocked with food, salad bar not ravaged), the post office (long wait at counter as staff is apparently hibernating, but nothing else), and finally the bank (where I consider making a “bear market” joke to the teller, but again, show restraint).

I touch down briefly at home to put my groceries away and change into running clothes. As I lace up my shoes, I dimly remember that running sets off a predator’s instinct to pursue. Is this true of bears? I scroll a list of do’s and don’ts for bear encounters in my mind. I recall the sensible first piece of advice: “Do everything you can to avoid an encounter with any bear.”

Excellent. I’m doing well, then. My life thus far has been dedicated to avoiding bear encounters. I do not even read Reader’s Digest for fear of encountering a bear encounter in its pages. But now, with the bear at the door, so to speak, I must vigilantly maintain a Code Red level of awareness.

I close my eyes and concentrate on visualizing the cautionary measures I have committed to memory: Don’t throw things at the bear. Avoid eye contact during initial phase of encounter. Don’t climb a tree to escape. Don’t use the word “bear” when talking to an approaching bear (bears that have eaten human food can link this word with “treat” because people who feed bears often say “here, bear!” Two words that, I suppose, are among their last.)

Ah...there it is. Don’t run from the bear unless you know you can quickly reach a place of safety. Right. Much of my jogging will involve dashing through a park. Many trees, no bear-proof chambers. A walk, then. With pepper spray in hand instead of water bottle.

Nothing appears to be amiss as I stride down the sidewalk. True, I do spy several rather flat carcasses along the way: a squirrel here, an opossum there, even a raccoon. But no overturned logs, no torn-apart hollow trees, no “rejected bits of carrion or large prey, such as pieces of skin, often with head or feet attached,” as my Audubon field guide indicates would be the case if indeed a black bear were at large.

(Note to self: Find out what preys upon squirrels, opossums, and raccoons in city.)


It isn’t until I’m a block from the park that it happens.

I finally see it. Large as life and twice as ugly—Ursus americanus itself.

The beast lumbers toward me, swinging its ungainly head, jaws dripping, baleful eyes glaring malevolently.

I swore that I would be ready for this—forewarned is forearmed, and all that. Instead, I feel ice-cold panic flooding through me. I force myself to take a deep breath and call up the list again. As the instructions unspool once more, an eerie calm replaces the terror: I can handle this.

Quickly, I identify myself as a human. I stand tall and wave my arms around. I talk to the bear in a low voice. “Hey, b—Ursus. I am a human. Repeat: I am a human.”

But the damn thing keeps coming. It doesn’t even break stride.

I move on to more desperate measures. I clap my hands. I stamp my feet. I yell at the bear and stare it straight in the eyes.

It works. The dread creature stops. It growls. It says, “Hey, knock it off, what are you, an idiot?”

Only then do I notice that this bear is leashed and attached to a handler. I drop my arms to my sides and let the word “human” die on my lips. The handler is staring me straight in the eyes and is employing dominant body language. As there is no sure-fired place of safety nearby, I do not run away but merely walk briskly, my strides taking me into the leafy cool of the park.

(Note to self: Could handler be walking a dancing bear? Surely dancing bears are outlawed in U.S. Must check.)

Today, however, the park isn’t the balm to my soul that it usually is. Woods and bears, after all, are intrinsically linked. I ignore the erratically scampering children and their high-pitched squeals of delight (their parents really ought to warn them against such prey-like behavior) and focus on the trees, with particular attention to shadowy areas.

Fortunately, no trunks are scarred with tooth marks and claw slashes, the classic signs of a bear marking its territory.

It isn’t until I reach an open clearing that it happens. For real. This is not a chow-chow encounter.

It’s a bear encounter.

And this time, it’s not just one bear. It’s two bears. Unleashed. No handlers in sight. What’s more, these are no black bears. These are grizzly bears—two 1,496-pound examples of bruin pulchritude in their prime.

I know they are grizzlies. They have dished faces, not the straight muzzle of the black bear.

There’s no time to wave my arms, no time to utter words of warning in a low voice. I think of the children, of how the bears will hug them and then devour them. I do as the newspaper has bid me to do. I whip out my cell and call 911.

My screaming into the phone attracts many onlookers. The operator, meanwhile, seems confused by my repeated shouts of “Ursus arctos!” I lower my voice so the bears cannot hear me and utter, “Bears! Grizzly bears! Loose in the park!”

At first, the blood pounding in my ears makes it hard for me to hear clearly, but slowly it dawns on me that I keep hearing one phrase again and again.

“You are in the zoo,” says the operator. “You are in the zoo. The zoo. In the Northern Trail exhibit. They have grizzly bears there. Two of them.”

“The zoo?” I whisper. I look up. The people around me take a few steps back. They look suspicious. I wave my arms over my head to assure them that I am human.

I glance back at the bears. OK, now I see the fence. But they’ve done a clever job of hiding it from view. If I hadn’t made this mistake, somebody else would’ve, if they were watching out for the common good as I am.

It seems like an apt time to head home. I take a wandering dirt trail through the woods so as to avoid the gaze of the curious. I keep my eyes peeled for tracks that, according to my field guide, “look as if made by a flat-footed man in moccasins” but with the big and  little toes reversed and claw marks visible. Fortunately, I do not see any tracks that meet this description.

Once I am safely indoors, I feel relief settle upon me like a veil. (That is, after I have carefully checked in the closets and under the beds and have ascertained that my goldfish are still in their tank.) I crack open the back door just enough to determine that the sack of cat chow I leave out nightly for the local feral cat is still there. (I have never seen this elusive creature before, but it eats an entire bag of kibble every night and has even consumed entire haunches of venison; it must be the size of a cougar!)

I fire up the computer. My brushes with panic have unnerved me. Knowledge is power, so I will Google for more information about urban ursids to set my mind at ease. And while I’m at it, bear traps.

Treasure Trove of Trilliums

Vivid bouquets of flowers bedazzled this sunny Mother's Day weekend, showing up like unexpected flamenco dancers on the back deck. The chilly, rain-soaked weekend before this one offered a herbaceous banquet of a different sort, filled with native plants and greenery that flourished in soggy settings.

We spent that Saturday dodging downpours, slathered with mud as we dug up ferns on the forested property of friends whose home and gardens will soon be bulldozed to make way for a housing development. They also pointed out a few other dig-worthy plants--rhubarb, raspberries, heavenly bamboo--that it seemed a pity to leave behind. We drove home in a minivan packed with our new fronds (it's not easy to make new friends in a new neighborhood; fronds are quite a bit easier to come by).

The Sunday of that soggy weekend I enjoyed an early Mother's Day gift to myself: a "Tea and Trilliums" talk and tour at Cottage Lake Gardens, which is tucked right behind the library barely five minutes from my home.

Cottage Lake Gardens is perched on the shore of, not surprisingly, Cottage Lake, and is home to all of the world's 48 species of trillium, a lovely genus of wildflower native to North America and parts of Asia. Trilliums are named for their habit of sprouting threesomes: They have three leaves, three sepals (those green bits that surround the base of a flower), and three petals.

Tea, coffee, pastries, and fruit served up on antique Limoges china...I could've stopped right there. That was enough of a break from the daily grind.

Then, fortified with food as well as information about trilliums, we headed out into the rain to wend our way through the forested garden. There the trilliums reposed in groups along a meandering path, sharing the landscape with a wide variety of shade-loving plants.

What I found most fascinating about the trillium is just what a late bloomer it is. Not in terms of the season, mind you--it's one of the earliest bloomers when it comes to springtime (one of its nicknames is "wake-robin," because it's such an early riser it even wakes up the robin who's supposed to be the harbinger of spring). No, its peculiar late-blooming property is that about seven years pass before a trillium seed finally grows up enough to produce a flower.

The bulk of the plant takes the form of an underground, swollen stem called a rhizome. (If you've ever brought home a chunk of ginger from the grocery store, you've purchased a rhizome.)

Shoots from the rhizome poke up from the soil, with each shoot producing three leaves and a flower.

The flowers bloom for a few weeks, set seed, and are done for the season by the time other flowers are just thinking of getting out of bed.

This long adolescence and brief bloom, combined with the leaves' inclination to die back in dormancy during a hot, dry summer, puts an interesting spin on the whole notion of what, exactly, a plant is.

To the aboveground-dwelling human, a plant is leaves, flowers, fruit--the things we can see.

But I'd think a trillium would feel otherwise, if it had feelings. Its real self is a mole-like being that puts up a periscope of a flower and goes on a sunshine-buying spree with its leaves before returning to its underground digs and retiring with a brandy and a nice collection of books for the rest of the year.

First-year shoots (left) and older shoots (right)

It put me in mind of a 17-year cicada, which spends 17 years underground as a nymph, sipping from roots. Finally it bursts from the ground, climbs up a trunk, molts into its adult form, then spends about a month carousing, reproducing, dodging predators, and making a row before dying.

A cicada's short above-ground life seems puzzling to humans, but a trillium would understand it. It's the 17 years of subterranean life that's the real thing, not the brief party in the light of day.

Cicadas don't consort with trilliums, but other insects do. Pollinators of trilliums include beetles and ants. (An East Coast species, the red trillium, attracts these animals with a pungent odor that earns it charming nicknames such as “stinking Benjamin.") The most commonly encountered trillium in the Pacific Northwest, Trillium ovatum, puts on quite a show after it's been pollinated: Its lovely white petals turn increasingly deep shades of pink, transforming into a rich, velvety purple before the flower dies.

Beetle on wild trillium in a Redmond park

The plant offers ants not only protein bars in the form of pollen grains as reimbursement for pollination services, but also oily fast food attached to its seeds. These treats are called elaiosomes and are nutritious, calorific growths on the seeds.

Ants eagerly tote the seeds away from the trillium to share with larvae. The kids gobble up the elaiosomes while their indulgent elders toss the seeds on their own nutrient-rich junk piles outside the nest.

The trillium seeds, in a nice "Br'er Rabbit and the Briar Patch" twist, then happily take root in these middens. Pretty clever for a rhizome!

Winter Walks, Cottage Lake

"17 degrees," read the dashboard thermometer in the car, which meant the street surface a few feet down from that thermometer was actually several degrees colder.

A morning made for black ice, and indeed many road signs in the area warn "Watch for ice."

A mass of Arctic air lumbering into the Puget Sound region this past week brought the first killing frost along with the icy roads and encrusted windshields.

White crystals have outlined leaves and blades of grass in shady spots, fooling one into thinking it's snowed.

Before the cold snap hit, I took a walk to Bassett Pond to take in the lovely hay-and-smoke coloring of the leafless branches and the beauty of the white-trunked birches with their tracery of dark twigs. A few days later, the pond had frozen over and the last of the bright green mosses and ferns had faded into mushy clumps.

 Strands of Methuselah's Beard Lichen (tentative identification)

Bracken, already brown and crisp while many native ferns are still glossy green

Bassett Pond, late November

Bassett Pond, late November

A blaze of redtwig dogwoods  

Labradorus woofus in its natural habitat 

Fungus called Witch's Butter with moss

Bassett Pond, frozen

Close-up of frozen pond and its contents

Signs That You Don't Live in Seattle Anymore...

Quite literally, these are signs that indicate you don't live in the city anymore.

In Seattle you just see signs saying you
can't bring your dog, cat, or potbellied pig
onto the playground.

If you miss the bears, don't worry;
there may be a cougar around the corner.

You may not be able to fool a bear or a cougar,
but apparently beavers can be duped.
Which makes me wonder: Are gulls gullible?

Why in heck fire doesn't the city of Seattle
have signs like this? Golly, there'd be no crime at all. 

No. Really. There IS water over the roadway. Happens every time
there's a heavy rain. We have to detour a whole 3 minutes out of our
way to get to the grocery store when it happens. Life's rugged here.

I'm not a horsewoman, yet even I know
it would be foolish to ride your horse
on this rickety little bridge in the woods.
Apparently some riders did not.

Oh, and don't bring your horses here, either.

Or here.

And as for the main street in downtown Woodinville, that's out, too.

If your horse can't read, perhaps Fido can.

New House, New Town, New World

Everything is different, and yet I feel as if we have lived in our new home for always.

There is a new view out the kitchen window.

And a new view from the office, one that allows chickadees and hummingbirds to peer in at me as curiously as I look out at them.

Fewer planes fly over us, but more fire-breathing dragons, of a sort. This giant balloon sneaks up on us every evening; you don't know it's there until you suddenly hear the roar of the flames heating the air inside it.

There are new walks to take and trails to explore.

There are different things going on down the block. Like rodeos and gymkhanas.

Some of us have had new experiences such as learning that crawling under the deck may require extra time devoted to face washing.

The "lived here for always" feeling can't be due to the place being a big mess, as our old home often was (having had a  natural inclination toward entropy). Things are slowly coming out of boxes and finding niches for themselves in cabinets and on shelves. So it won't be a shambles forever. I hope.

And these are just the book boxes!

I've lived in cities for the past 30 years; first Hoboken, New Jersey, then New York City, and finally Seattle.

But I grew up in a suburban neighborhood, where I enjoyed a very happy childhood. I spent endless summer days in a big backyard drenched in blazing East Coast sunshine, drowsy with heat, listening to cicadas whir and mockingbirds sing, drawing pictures and reading and downing glass after glass of sweet iced tea.

So moving out to an unincorporated area of King County, to a home that's sort of suburban but dips its toes into the vast pool of countryside around us, doesn't feel as jarring as I thought it would after three decades of city life.

Our former house's living room, which faced west

Sure, I miss being close to my friends in Seattle.

I miss the garden I nurtured for 17 years, the birch tree and the shrubs and the living-room window view of the birds at the feeder and the Steller's jay that perched on the fence by the patio. And the light that poured in through the windows of our westward-facing house and dappled the wall with shimmering shadow-patterns of fluttering birch leaves.

And I miss the easy access to the things that make city life so enjoyable. It takes a lot of planning and good shoes to walk to a coffee shop around here, whereas I could step out of my previous house and grab a latte, buy cowboy boots, sample some gourmet chocolate, and even go get a tattoo, if I pleased, without walking more than a block's circumference away from home.

Venturing out a few more blocks, I could dine on pizza, Greek food, Mexican cuisine, or pub grub, then wander over to a world-class zoo or poke around in book shops and vintage stores. And that's without even putting any thought into what else I could do that day.

But this habitat feels good, too. Sitting in the backyard, on a small deck a bit like the one my father built on the house I grew up in, I felt a lot like my 12-year-old self, reading a book while chickadees chirruped overhead. I feel very fortunate that I have moved from a place I love to a place I love.

And sunlight still finds a way to flood our northern-facing home, even if for just a portion of the day.