Union-Tribune Outdoors 




It was a glorious early fall day, and I was lost in the moment, surrounded by towering granite monoliths, scented pines and a gently flowing High Sierra creek.

Eager brook trout were flashing their brilliant fall colors as they rose in the gin-clear water to grab my fly as it landed on the surface and drifted slowly away.

I was lost in deep contemplation. The only sound was the whisper of the Sierra wind as it gently fluttered the leaves of the surrounding aspen trees.

A thought popped into my mind.

It’s the wind that allows us to smell the fragrance of the pines, and it’s the soaring eagle that lets us see the wind.

A little time fishing can allow the mind to drift into such lofty thoughts.

But another sound pulled me back to reality.

It was different, something urgent, but not quite understandable.

I realized it was my wife, muttering something.

Turning toward the sound, I could see her pointing and realized she was whispering, “Ernie, bear, bear.”

Turning to look the other way, I spotted a large black bear at water’s edge looking directly at me. They look bigger when only about 50 feet away.

WHY WAS MY WIFE WHISPERING?

Was she afraid she might scare the bear, which at this point sounded like a pretty good idea?

My large, furry black friend was obviously looking for fish … my fish.

Sierra bears are noted for their fondness of fresh trout.

At one point, Yogi stood up on hind legs with nose in the air, obviously sniffing for a Jellystone pic-a-nic. Was Boo-Boo close behind?

I had seen this many times before when bears wander the banks of lakes Mary or George in Mammoth Lakes looking for an easy meal.

Cooperative anglers back away and the bears will strip fish from stringers and enjoy their wandering feast.


On one occasion, mama bear with two cubs diverted from feeding the kids a fish lunch to explore what might be in a large cooler on a nearby picnic table.

Inside was a full tub of butter that she opened and with one swipe of her large tongue she swallowed in one gulp.

But now I was in a bit of a pickle.

I was wearing hip waders and water was already lapping at the very top. I didn’t have the option of retreating into deeper water.

The bear paced back and forth along the bank, sniffing.

Was this behemoth about to plunge into the chilly Sierra waters to confirm I did not have any fish? I had no desire to try to outswim my bruin friend.

Several years ago, I wrote a story about a fisherman who was chased by a bear while trying to reel in a large Sierra trout.

It was a monster, 9-pound trout that the bear had spotted from a distance. He began moving toward the fisherman as he tried to quickly reel in the trophy fish. Soon it became a foot race as bear and angler ran along the shoreline.

Fortunately, the exhausted angler netted his catch and made it to his truck before the bear arrived.

I had nowhere to run, and I didn’t even have any fish!

About the most intelligent plan I could hatch was to lift my arms and wave while yelling, “see, no fish, no fish.”

Intellectually, I know black bears are not man eaters. But fear and proximity overtook intellect, and I just knew I would soon become the equivalent of Jonah and the man-eating whale, while my wife whispered her disapproval.

There we were a fishless man and hungry bear in a High Sierra standoff.

Yogi paced and sniffed, pawed at the water and paced more.

I inched a bit farther away into deeper water, until I could feel a cold trickle lapping into my waders.

I was out of options, but either Mr. Bear finally realized I had no fish, or he wasn’t up for a frigid swim.

After a few more sniffs, he ambled away, melting into the forest.

I suggested to my whispering bride that it might be good to move and try fishing someplace else.

I’m not sure if it was the same animal, but later that day I learned a bear had ripped through an unattended tent and raided a cooler at a nearby campground.

So, here’s a pro tip to help you survive a bear encounter.

Don’t whisper!

Yell, scream, grunt, make noise, wave your hands and throw rocks, lots of rocks.

Oh, and don’t throw them at the bear, but at the clueless fisherman lost in lofty thoughts.

Cowan is a freelance columnist. Email ernie@packtrain.com 

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