How I miss my late neighbor during times like these.
It was generally around this time of year, when the peaches had been harvested from the surrounding orchards, that bears would come down from Glassy Mountain to, I suppose, “see what they could see.”
And what they often saw, and gorged upon, were the windfalls that littered the ground for hundreds of acres. These over-ripe peaches, bruised and fermenting, offered the added benefit (if you’re a bear) of a delightful afternoon ‘buzz’ that not uncommonly led to the sight of one of these lumbering giants sleeping it off between the furrows, or a sand trap at a local golf course, or in the shade of a spreading oak on my farm.
Picking up the phone that early September, I first heard, “Hey, Pam, I’m calling to report the ‘bare’ facts,” and became nervously aware of the potential of surly, hairy intruders on my property (not counting the yard sale we were scheduled to hold). “We just spotted a bear in our Persimmon tree and he’s heading off in your direction.”
This created a disconcerting tizzy at the farm: “Make sure the dogs are in!” “Should I close up the barn to protect the horses?” and “Why are we whispering?”
Fast forward 15 years and I’m a lot more complacent about bears.  As of last week, we’ve hosted three on our property, the first being a cub that was spotted, gamboling through the apple orchard, from the window of my radio studio (aptly named the ‘Unabomber Shack’), while I was on-air. Absolutely certain that where there’s a cub, there’s an aggressively protective Mama Bear, I remained in the shack for hours after the end of the broadcast, until I had to pee so badly that an imminent attack seemed only mildly important.
The second bear was plainly told to me by my then, four-year-old Dutch Warmblood gelding, whom I had just finished working. Our normal routine was to leave the arena and walk the perimeter of the small field to relax and unwind. Well, that was the hope. Usually, Valentino would leap in a series of explosions, spooking at a bird, a shadow, a rock…so this time, at the half way point in the field, when I felt my horse’s back go rigid beneath the saddle and his neck rise up like a periscope, I dropped my weight into my stirrups, ready for whatever it was this time that was about to set him off. He began to snort and scramble sideways, so I said, “You know, this is ridiculous, we’re just going straight back to the barn if you’re going to be such an idiot.” 
As we approached the gate, with Valentino looking wildly behind him with each step, I vaulted lightly from the saddle, stood on the ground beside him, saying, “What? WHAT?” Following his unblinking gaze, it was then that I saw a young male bear emerge from the tree line directly beside the arena, amble across the field, climb over the fence into the driveway and over the next fence that bordered the large field, saunter down the hill and plop down for a rest beneath a tree. Clearly over-eaten, the local orchards providing a ‘Golden Corral’ experience, he slept it off for a half hour before continuing on his way, heading back into the tree line and disappearing.
The latest ‘bare fact’ was witnessed by my friend, Angie, and her mother, Sue, heading up our driveway after completing the ALS ‘ice-bucket’ challenge, here at the farm. Nearly at the top, 2/10ths of a mile from the house, Paul and I saw her car slow to a stop, and both women step out.
“What are they doing?” said Paul.
“Maybe they’ve got a flat?” I suggested, “Or Angie’s clothes aren’t quite dry and she’s going to throw on another T-shirt.”
The phone in my pocket dinged with the incoming text: “HUGE Bear running across your field towards the barn!!!”
We missed the sight but the following day, Angie said, “I tried to take a photo, but he was moving too fast. He was really big. If he’d stood up, he’d have been taller than you.”
“That’s pretty scary,” I later reported to Paul. “Evidently, only that bear and Jeff Goldblum are taller than me.”
“Are they carnivores?” Paul wanted to know.
“Goldblum is,” I replied, “I saw him in a sushi bar, once.”
“Bears.” Paul said, patiently.
“I think Black Bears just do the roots and berries and peaches thing,” I said. “But I’ve read that they have occasionally attacked humans, so if you see one, you’re supposed to back calmly away, but if they keep coming at you, try to appear really big and scary- like you did last week with the Direct TV guy.”
“Better yet, I’ll just throw you at him,” Paul mused, mixing his first martini of the evening, “and that should give me time to get away, particularly if he chokes on a bone.”
“Nice,” I retorted, “remind me to leave a few dozen Krispy Kremes in your car.”
As of now, there’s been no further sighting of the huge bear, which is fine with me. I’m not a very good actress anyway, and it would be pretty mortifying if, in my attempt to appear big and scary, I only resulted in looking like one of those inflatable, wavy-arm-guy things you see at car dealerships, leading to my demise. And no one should blame the bear for that.
Because bears, just like the rest of us, can’t stand mimes.
– Pam Stone