The Prospector and the Bear

Following the extinction of the grizzly bear in California in 1924, the native black bear (Ursus americanus californiensis) has reigned supreme as the only species to inhabit the state.

East of the Great Plains most all black bears are black, while out west they commonly range in color from black to brown, cinnamon, blond, blue-gray, and white. Their sense of smell outshines a blood hound’s times seven, and contrary to popular belief they have excellent eyesight. Their average lifespan in the wild is 15-25 years.

Over the years, I’ve observed many a bear in the backcountry of California while prospecting and mining for gold. Most of them were wary; they minded their own business, and maintained a safe distance. I’ve only had two close black bear encounters that had the potential to go bad. The most hair-raising encounter happened in a wilderness area of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, near the 5,000-foot level.

With the coming of fall 2007, animals were busy preparing for the pending onslaught of winter. Lone, ravenous bears roamed the land in quest of calories needed to pack on fat to sustain them through their long winter’s sleep.

I had been camping and prospecting in the rugged backcountry of Plumas County, California since early spring. One peaceful afternoon about an hour’s hike from camp, I was standing knee-deep in the frigid waters of a creek, test panning for gold.

As I turned to scrape a handful of gravel to fill my pan from the creekbank, I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. An enormous black bear, sporting a flashy, reddish-blond coat, was ambling down the forested hill walling his side of the stream’s V-shaped channel. He was less than 200 feet away, totally oblivious to my presence, and seemingly not having a care in the world.

His muscles bulged and his belly fat swayed, jiggled, and rippled with his every step. It figured that he must be coming to lap his fill of water from the stream. I knew that if he didn’t change course soon, we would be getting to know each other, face to face, pretty pronto, negotiating over water rights.

I considered dashing for camp, lickity split. But I knew that running might trigger his prey response; he could be ripping me into bite sized pieces and feasting on my parts in mere seconds. So, running was out! Standing my ground and scaring him off, or at least trying to, was my best hope.

I rapidly banged my rusty gold pan against a boulder jutting out of the creek bed like I was Lars Ulrich—drumming for Metallica. The ear-splitting medley pulsed throughout the canyon, and the colossal hairball froze in his tracks. Great! Now I figured I had him buffaloed. I expected him to streak back over the hill, panic stricken.

However, to my profound regret, he simply snorted, rose on his hind legs, turned his massive head side to side, and put his ears and sniffer to work in an attempt to identify the source of the alarming clatter.

Soon, way too soon for the likes of me, he was back on all fours, sniffing and snorting while cautiously advancing toward me, his once carefree manner supplanted by curiosity and a surly, bruinesque attitude.

He stopped every few yards to rise and test the air, uncertain what he was up against, cautious but seemingly intent on slurping down his measure of water—no matter the risk. I steeled myself and pulled my 357 Mag from the holster that hung across my chest. I was determined not to use it unless to save my life.

Standing up tall, I attempted to appear too big and too scary to mess with. To seal the deal, I raised and waved my arms above my head and screamed like a man on fire. Good luck with that, said the weak side of my brain. Run for it before it’s too late! The stubborn, bullish side said, Show no fear; stand your ground, dummy; scare the crap out of the fuzzy goon and run ’em off. It’s the best hope ya got. Give it a shot!

By then the bear was so close I could hear his raspy breathing and clearly see into his cold, beady eyes. In the deepest, loudest, most confident, fake voice I could muster, I commanded Mr. Bruin to transport his bulging buns back over the hill and leave me be.

With my time left on planet earth in high jeopardy, you’d expect the only sounds louder than his breathing and snorting would have been the chattering of my teeth and spasmodic knocking of my knees. And yet, inexplicably, a profound calm swept over me; I relaxed and I knew I was going to be okay, whatever came my way. Go figure!

My wild gesticulations and deafening rant gave him pause. He froze in his tracks, snorted, sniffed and stared at me for what felt like a rude, cruel eternity. Not wishing to shoot my fellow forest dweller, despite his obnoxious, threatening behavior, I banged my pan again nonstop in a final effort to eighty-six the hairy rascal.

I suppose he didn’t appreciate my pan banging tunes much, because he swung around and moseyed, not ran, back up the hill. He stopped several times, turned and stared menacingly, as if to say, Want a piece of me? Just bring it on; I dare you—twerp!

Moments later, after one last, long, threatening glare, he casually turned and swaggered his bulbous ass up and over the hilltop, out of my life and into the future–his dignity intact and honorably preserved–mine too.

I’d been prospecting that creek for two days without finding enough color to egg me on, so the next day I went back to nugget shooting with my metal detector.

*I had one other encounter with an insolent black bear back in ’92 or ’93 while traveling through Canada, but it didn’t amount to much.

He Made His Living With a Gold Pan