The black nose sticking
out of the feeding hole in the bear barrel twitches, inhaling the multitude of
new smells: cedars, wildflowers, road dust. Then a familiar smell - me. The
light brown eyes find mine. Berbere, the black bear yearling I've been looking
after since he arrived terribly small and underweight at Northern Lights
Wildlife Shelter late last fall, looks at me full of confusion.
He is locked into the
barrel with three other yearlings from his enclosure, and has been transported
over a thousand kilometers from the wildlife shelter back into his home region.
I breathe in the spicy bear smell that wafts out of the barrel and tell the
half grown cubs again that everything will be okay, that soon they will be
free. If only they could understand.
Or maybe they do know,
because they have been travelling extremely well. We are transporting a total
of ten bears in two barrels and three boxes, and there are no fights, not even
stressed moans. Do they remember how they were transported this same route to
the shelter last year as small orphaned cubs, so scared and distraught?
Plumes of dust rise behind
our vehicles as we rumble up the rough dirt roads to the remote release
location picked by Conservation Officer Services. Finally a side valley opens
to the left. We roll to a stop and angle the truck so the barrel points to the
open area. The road dust settles and the only sound is the stream rushing down
below. The bears are quiet, alert. This is it, the moment we've been working
toward all these months.
I am torn between
overwhelming joy that our bears are finally free to go, free to live the life
they are meant for, and overwhelming sadness that I will never see them again,
will never know how it will work out for them. The first bear peeks out of the
now open door of the barrel, sniffing, hesitating. A cautious jump and he's on
the ground, starts scratching in the soil. His sister follows, takes a few
steps. The third bear jumps out into freedom and immediately sprints for the
trees, sends the other two running. And Berbere? I wait. Nothing happens.
I look into the barrel and
see he's clinging to the metal grate in the front, still looking at freedom
through bars. Finally he lets go and slowly comes to the open door. He stops,
sniffs the ground. I hold my breath. He hops down, looks around and hears one
of the other yearlings huff in the trees. As if that is his signal to go,
Berbere starts trotting off into the opposite direction. He briefly glances my
way and seconds later breaks into a run. A jump into the undergrowth downhill,
and then he's gone from my life, disappeared into a future without fences and
food buckets.
I hope his will be a rich
and full life, and that he’ll make the most of the chances nature offers him.
Berbere and hundreds of other animals wouldn’t be alive if it weren't for
people calling in their sighting of an animal in distress, and the CO's
decision to send the orphans to Northern Lights Wildlife Shelter founded by
Peter and Angelika Langen 27 years ago. Wildlife rehab not only helps us to
better understand these animals, and to mitigate some of the negative impact we
as humans have on wildlife populations - it also highlights the incredible acts
of kindness people are capable of. Berbere is one more symbol of that. Farewell, my friend.
Aw, that's so wonderful. How good it must feel to know you've given those little bears such a chance for a good life...happy/sad. Well done, Nicole
ReplyDeleteNow I will forever wonder if they find enough berries in the fall, if they are safe from wildfires and larger bears ... it's bitter-sweet for sure. I am so very grateful for the connection between some of the bears and me. They are wonderful animals.
Delete