Rescuing Her Cub

Two hunters and a number of dogs made camp one evening near the headwaters of the St. Vrain River. They were after grizzly. There were grizzlies in these rugged mountains. But with numerous high, rocky ridges, deep, rugged cañons, and miles of forest, most grizzlies avoided being seen, and escaped the hunters even when dogs were used.

Off to the north, up a steep mountain, a mother grizzly had her cubs. The bayings of the dogs, or the scent of the far-off hunters, reached her the next morning after the hunters’ camp was made. A grizzly mother takes no chances with the cubs. Generally her keen senses warn her of the approach of a hunter while he is still far off. The instant she scents danger, she hurries the cubs far away, out of the danger zone. But one of the cubs of this grizzly was crippled by the fall of a tree-limb and could not travel.

The mother grizzly appeared in the hunters’ camp just as they were finishing breakfast. Instantly everything was in an uproar, and twenty dogs were after her. Away she fled to the south — away from her cubs. But she did not succeed, did not, after an all-day struggle, lead dogs and hunters away.

The following morning mot her grizzly reappeared near their camp. Again hunters and dogs pursued. Miles to the south she ran. This time she led them far from her den and cubs. She zigzagged, circled, waded three miles up a mountain stream, concealed her trail, and escaped. The bewildered dogs were left at the foot of the mountain.

She should be safe now. But a grizzly ever assumes itself followed and ever is watchful for ambush. The breeze was behind her. Coming to a low ridge, she peeped over. The way appeared safe.

But, the instant she reached the skyline, the hunters opened fire. The grizzly was out of sight in a few seconds. Miles she ran toward the southwest, away from her den. Late in the afternoon the pursuing hunters paused on a high spur. In the distance they saw the bear pacing back and forth on a pass.

She was more than twenty miles from her den. But the cubs were not yet safe. These hunters and dogs must be led farther off.

It was possible for her to cross to the other side of the Continental Divide, and, over a rough and roundabout way which dogs could not follow, come back to the den. This would mean perhaps fifty miles of travel. The grizzly stopped pacing. While the hunters were watching, she crossed the Divide.

A little while after mother grizzly had left her cubs, an enormous landslide slipped from the mountainside and carried the bear den and surroundings down into the bottom of a cañon. From my camp I heard the slide and saw the dust it threw off. I did not then know that the mother was away from the den, seeking to lead the dogs off. I feared that the entire grizzly family had been carried down by the slide, and started out to make a search.

The second morning following the landslide, the grizzly returned. She probably had traversed the western slope of the high Divide, to a point opposite her den, then climbed over the summit. I was on the mountainside near where her den had been. Through the glass I watched her shuffling rapidly down the long, treeless slope. While still a quarter of a mile from the place where her den had been, she appeared to realize a change. Perhaps she saw some of it, and scented the fresh surfaces and crushed trees. She stopped, stood on her hind legs, drew her paws up to her breast, leaned forward, and, with nose pointing here and there, looked over the changes in the place.

A stupendous pile of chaotic wreckage lay in the cañon. Uprooted trees, boulders, broken rocks — many of enormous size — were flung in wildest confusion. In this debris and along the slide’s destructive way, I had searched and searched for the cubs and the bear.

The grizzly showed surprise and interest in the landslide, but no fear, no alarm. She approached the torn edge cautiously, looked at it for a moment, then plunged down into the cañon and began searching for the den. Then she raced here and there, her nose down like a dog, searching for the cubs.

I hurried on down to where the slide had plunged wildly over the cañon rim. Later, the grizzly came hurrying along. In the channel and on both sides she galloped, searching with eyes and nose.

She caught my scent, put her nose in one of my tracks, and rose on her hind legs, with neck bristling. She scented man-danger for the cubs. Ordinarily, man-scent causes a grizzly to rush from the locality. But her attitude was defiance, not retreat. Intent on the search, and steaming with warmth, she passed near without detecting me. Down into the cañon she went, searching among the landslide débris.

At the bottom, almost on the edge of the stream, she unearthed a lifeless cub. She fondled it, licked its body clean, laid it down and looked at it with a puzzled expression. She lifted it upon the bank. Gently, ever so gently, she pawed and pushed it about as if trying to awaken it. She pushed it against a boulder and backed away, watching it. Then she turned and climbed back up the landslide’s torn track, as if there to search further for the other cub.

Fearing that mother grizzly might come upon me in one of her wild dashes, I started for camp. About a mile down the mountain, I stopped to look around.

While I stood upon a log in the woods, a dirty little cub came from among the trees and walked slowly toward me. Neither sight nor scent warned him of my presence. After smelling and sniffing by the side of the log, he began digging. He found nothing, raised his head, and whined. He was a lost, hungry cub — the one for which the mother was now searching. He took a few steps, then stopped as if uncertain which way to go.

I grabbed the cub. He fought me, clawing, biting and struggling. He was weak, — he had not nursed for two or three days, — and weighed only a few pounds. I pushed him into the pocket of my coat, where he snuggled down.

There I stood with the grizzly cub in my pocket. Any instant the mother might appear, having trailed me down the mountain, or, more likely, having trailed the cub to this place.

But, before the mother found the cub, it might perish from hunger. The right thing appeared to be to carry him up the mountain and place him close to the dead cub, where his mother would be likely to find him. This would be taking desperate chances, with the mother so close. But I took the chances and started up through the woods with the cub.

Carrying a long-lost grizzly cub toward its desperate mother is walking into the zones of adventure and suicide.

If she came upon me with the cub in my possession, no explanation would save me. I did not carry a gun, and I was baiting a grizzly bear — the female of the species.

Rushing muffled footfalls on my left startled me. A heavy animal was approaching. Unable to see far because of thick tree-growth, I threw myself down on the pine-needles, to look beneath the low hanging limbs. Nothing could be seen. But the animal could be heard circling around me and coming closer.

The cub set up a bawling. He seemed determined to tell the passer-by that he was being carried off by a kidnapper. I slipped a raisin into his mouth. He became quiet. Thumpety-thud, a deer ran by me.

Knowing that this cub outburst might have reached his mot her, or that it might be repeated, I made ready to separate myself from him instantly. But, after I had waited a minute or two behind a tree, the forest seemed so peaceful that I went on.

Crossing the stream in the cañon a little below the dead cub, I saw that the water was filled with sediment. Was the mother digging in the landslide débris above? Behind a rock I waited and listened. I was ready to drop the cub and vanish, or to shoot up a tree if the cub whimpered, and mother Ursus horribilis appeared.

Eager to be rid of the cub, I hurried up the canon. Startlingly fresh mothergrizzly tracks were by the dead cub. The crumbling track-edges showed that one minute earlier there would have been a different story. I dropped the live cub by the dead one.

It was no place to linger. Mother might return suddenly. I headed for camp; but, as I hurriedly climbed out of the cañon, I looked back. The little cub was snuggling up to his dead brother.

As I reached the top of the cañon, it came to me like a flash that I was not yet out of danger. Grizzlies have a keen nose. My clothes were filled with the scent of the cub, and as mother grizzly rushed here and there, she might come close enough to catch this cubscent. If she caught it, she was likely to see if the cub was concealed in the clothes. I hurried from the place.

Down the slope I stopped to look back and listen. A gigantic grizzly coming stealthily behind along my trail was almost upon me. I was in an opening, and it did not seem safe to run, although the bear was approaching as if to pounce upon me.

By the tree nearest to me the bear stopped, and rose on tiptoe to look me over. It was the mother of the cubs. She was steaming with warmth. She put her forepaws against the tree, as if to steady herself. She moved her head slowly from side to side, as if she could not: see plainly; then she moved her nose up and down, as she looked me over. Suddenly she dropped on all fours and started toward me. I was less than twenty feet away. After the second step, she stopped. Again she stood on her hind feet.

There was no show of anger. She plainly was greatly puzzled over something. This close approach and apparent hesitation — neither attacking nor retreating — was extraordinary action for a grizzly.

She had caught the scent of the cub. This scent was her first clue of the lost cub, and she was certain to follow it up. I wondered if she would not come up and take hold of my clothes; and what her next move would be on finding my coat full of strong scent of the cub — and the cub not with me.

Perhaps she would allow me to escape, if I threw her my cub-scented clothes. But she might assault me instead. She wanted the cub.

I would have climbed a tree had any been within reach. But it did not seem wise to move toward one, or to move at all. So again I stood still when she started toward me, and resolved not to move unless she growled or charged. Fortunately she concluded to walk entirely around me. This she did deliberately, stopping a few times to stand still for a better look, and to sniff her nose. Not seeing the cub, sheagaincame to a standstill, and finally sat down dog-like, keeping her eyes upon me.

Apparently she intended to stay until I delivered the cub to her. Although there was no suggestion of anger or fierceness, some unexpected thing might arouse her in a second. If the cub should walk out of the hollow log near by, or come out of the clump of bushes between us, she might assault me in an instant. Grizzly mothers insist that men keep far from their cubs.

So I thought to edge slowly toward a tree. She watched me, but with no show of resentment. When almost to the tree, I concluded to try running away. After many steps I stopped by a boulder, to find out if she was following. She was, and was close to me.

Again I ran. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw her following, a little to one side and at about my speed. She was watching me curiously.

She was trying to find the cub. Its scent being upon me, but no cub in sight, evidently mystified her.

Plainly, the only thing for me to do was to lead her to the cañon near the cub — that is, if she would follow my leadership. If she caught the fresh scent of the cub, I should escape.

I made a dash for the cañon; full speed I ran, without looking back. For several seconds I could not hear her. Suddenly she leaped into an opening in front of me, as if to head me off from the cañon. She stood up, sniffed and sniffed, and acted as if blind. But there was no cub to be seen.

Footfalls on our left disturbed us both. She dashed off, but after a few jumps, came to a stop behind a clump of firs. I stood still. The footfalls, perhaps those of a passing deer, had ceased. A woodpecker was tapping far off, a Clark’s crow was noisily clamoring in the top of a pine, and close to me a squirrel was just bursting with curiosity.

In a most leisurely fashion the grizzly came walking back. She stopped, and I hoped that, in the silence, the cub would whine or the breeze would bring his mother a message from him. But nothing happened.

Another short run brought me close to the edge of the cañon, above the cubs. I had hoped to reach the rim in this advance, but the grizzly placed herself before me, a short stone’s t hrow from the cañon. She stopped abruptly, with both eyes upon me.

Then she scented the cub. She rose on tiptoe quickly, and turned her face toward the canon. She looked and sniffed. She growled. Her neck fur bristled.

In a flash she changed to furious, aggressive motherhood. I now was in danger. She was about to charge me for coming so close to her cub. Fortunately she had not yet seen the cub, and trying to see it delayed her charge. But, bristling and furious, she edged sideways toward me. The cub, near, but out of sight, was climbing out of the cañon toward us.

I had stopped by a tree, up which I could quickly swing if the grizzly charged. If the cub failed to appear, the mother might sit at the bottom of the tree and keep me up indefinitely.

With jaws working and teeth gnashing, she looked at me and gathered herself to spring. A brush near by snapped. She gave a terrific growl.

I swung free of the earth and up the tree. In her leap she turned and plunged toward the cañon.

Looking down from a high tree-limb I saw her lift and hug the little cub.