Bears & Biogeography

Wild Ponies at sunset. "Ghost populations" of wild ponies occur outside of Grayson Highlands State Park in Southwest Virginia, traversing virtually impenetrable forests between mountain bogs and meadows.

It's hard to beat spending an evening in a high-elevation (4200’) beaver meadow. The Southwest Virginia highlands hold a massive, unpredictable range of biodiversity, and this is amplified in slices of somewhat pristine habitat. This particular remnant wilderness is no exception. I had to do some scouting before the end of the day, working as a naturalist/educator intern for the Blue Ridge Discovery Center across the mountain. But by the time I ensured all was well in Elk Garden (i.e. nobody was trapped in the bathroom) so we could bring the day camp students into the mountains in search of birds, I decided to do some exploring in one of the secret valleys in these mountains that I've grown love. As golden hour approached, I rolled down the crunchy gravel road, and parked just after the last little Christmas tree farm gave way to rhododendron and spruce forest. Chickens scrambled out of my way, and a coonhound bayed in the distance, but otherwise, this world was silent as I parked at the edge of the National Forest under a big serviceberry tree. 

Climbing out, I began walking. After about thirty minutes of carefully transitioning onto a well-weathered trail, I came across a remote meadow. Not a soul could be seen, not a car could be heard. Instead, wild ponies grazed in the waving fields of bunchgrasses, moving like ghosts between the forest trails and hedges of blackberries. Two stallions guarded the area, standing like a wall in front of me and the meadow to ensure I knew they meant business. Soon, two mares, each with a foal, moved cautiously out into the open. One was friendly, likely a vagrant from the habituated population of Grayson Highlands State Park across the mountain and approached me to see if I had any food. The others were wary, and at times, I wondered about my own safety even a considerable distance away. This unique variety of wild pony, a descendant strain of the Assateague Island wild horses that evolved to become independent of humans for at least several hundred years on the Atlantic coast, is capable of running through dense forests and disappearing even in open grasslands. Their kick can debilitate or kill coyotes, bears, and disrespectful humans, so I was sure to give them ample space. This population must stand its own against all odds in rugged terrain, and has adapted to become a very different animal than typical domesticated ponies or horses.

Wild Ponies and foals. This population was very defensive of their young, spurring me to stay respectably far away. These horses have assimilated into the environment to keep balds and meadows healthier, and should be left that way here. At least until another large, grazing ungulate (i.e. elk, bison) fills their niche once again.

At the senescent beaver pond, the residents had moved away to leave an abandoned wetland entirely vulnerable to ecological succession. I found a ribbonsnake basking amongst clusters of Mountain Quillwort (Isoetes valida), hidden with several ringneck snakes under a toasty muscovite slab. Dozens of red-spotted newts also reclusively piled into subterranean tunnels beneath this cover. As the beaver pond dries up, the newts begin to revert back into a warty, land-bound state to cross forested ground to another patch of lentic water. Cedar waxwings whinnied from dead snags along the creek, and the blooms of unusually fiery pink Mountain Laurel (Kalmia latifolia) bushes and Bog Yellowcress (Rorippa palustris) illuminated the meadows of bracken fern and stunted fir remnants. The rushing creek's pools also yielded the occasional brook trout, slipping up to the surface to snatch a wounded mayfly or two every few minutes. But the highlight of this evening was a target I've been attempting to track down all summer; the Black Bear.

An Eastern Ribbonsnake (Thamnophis sauritus), a semiaquatic predator of tadpoles, minnows, and soft-bodied insects.

Mountain Quillwort (Isoetes valida), close relatives of ferns. These partially-submerged plants help shape                         old beaver ponds into an early-successional meadow. 

Northern Ringneck Snake (Diadophis punctatus edwardsii)

Hardly any other Appalachian animal evokes the human sense of imagination like bears do. Timid, yet intimidating. Incredibly strong, yet gentle by choice. That evening, while walking an animal trail through a corridor beside ancient red spruces, I was ready to find one of these majestic mountain denizens. Bear tracking is an interesting endeavor. Since they leave networks of wide, sign-filled trails all throughout the forests, coupled with enormous roaming territories, an observer can walk for miles on a trail  As I  wandered into a clearing, I suddenly locked eyes with a small boar Black Bear in a clearing, sitting comically with his legs sprawled as he emptied a field ant nursery. These liquid eyes quickly widened in fear, and instantaneously he was galloping back up the hillside into the dense, viridian undergrowth. Surprisingly quiet in motion for a bear, I watched as his noctilucous fur merged into the shadows without a trace.

                                                                                            

Mountain Laurel (Kalmia latifolia)

                                                                                                           

Some of the oldest red spruce (Picea rubens) trees in VA.

Mountain Winterberry (Ilex montana)

I continued strolling down the bear-carved trail. But in less than a mile, I stopped when I noticed the softened sound of footsteps on the adjacent hillside. Peering around through the trees, I realized that I was less than fifty feet from a large bear sow, casually meandering down to bisect the trail I was following. She bumbled out into the open, sniffed the air, and otherwise ignored me. At this point, I saw no cubs and wanted to simply scare her away to instill a vital fear of humans (i.e. “a fed bear is a dead bear”). The best strategy to inspire a black bear, especially these skittish mountain bears, to leave you alone is to “look big and make noise.” I instinctively raised my arms over my head, and shouted at her. She didn't budge. I instantly regretted this. But not for the reason most violence-obsessed humans would expect. Suddenly, her demeanor changed. Looking directly into my eyes, hers were instantly shrouded with weary, dark circles of sagging skin. She uttered three low, pained bellows like a very large, confused, and injured puppy before scrambling up the hillside. Powerful, but gentle at the same time.

The "mama" Eastern Black Bear, just before gathering her cubs to leave.

 At the sound of these “gathering calls,” three hidden cubs leapt from the ground and shimmied up into the sweet birches and sugar maples. They watched me intently before departing quickly in the comfortingly concave tracks of their earth-bound mother. Face-to-face, I encountered six bears that late afternoon. None were viciously trying to eat me; all were impeccably aware animals trying to survive and enjoy life in the highlands they call home. Seemingly a safety threat, bears have consistently been persecuted and even extirpated by even the most well-meaning and conservation-minded humans. However, a walk through bear territory trying to use the lens of the bear itself is very different. Try to be "aware like a bear" with me for a minute.

                             

One of the three cubs, watching me intently before rejoining the small family.

The best way to focus natural awareness is by consistently checking the environment with all five senses when possible. Look, listen, smell, feel, and taste. Perhaps one of the most iconic sensory attributes of bear territory are fruits. Hedges of blueberry bushes create a beautiful, mountain landscape in the summer, and the sweet, liquid songs of warblers, flycatchers, and indigo buntings echo from towering wild cherry trees. The flowers of swamp roses fill a spring evening with a soft, melancholy fragrance. The prickles of blackberries and greenbriers are easily felt on any romp through a thicket, and the tasty berries of wild raisins and woodland strawberries are always welcome treats in their respective seasons. Thinking like a bear quickly brings one's mind to a sensory map of wild food in the landscape.

Creating a map of living things like this has an important place in science. "Biogeography" is the study of how biotic factors (animals, plants, fungi, etc.) influence places as we know them. A simple example is how a field can become a forest over years. Soon, fire, grazing animals, or whatever else keeps a grassland devoid of woody growth disappears. Then, saplings appear and grow unrestricted. Soon moss, forest wildflowers, fungi, and woodland animals move in to the new habitat over the decades. Black bears can create an outstanding biogeographic map. But how do bears themselves tie into biogeography? 

On my way out of the forest, I noticed an old pile of bear scat. Amongst old nut husks, some fur, and other decomposer-addled waste slowly morphing into soil, I noticed something very beautiful and hopeful rising through this pile of omnivore-generated stench. New plants; wildflowers. Somewhere in the vast high country of Mount Rogers, this bear had been gorging on the fruits of various plant species. And here, on a random, forested hillside above a disappearing beaver pond, some of the leftover seeds were erupting into new life after a long, digestive journey. These seeds are not there by accident. Bears are vectors of fruit, of wildflowers, and of incredibly biodiverse plant life in other realms. Burs are carried in their fur, pollen on their noses, and of course, seeds in their scat. Bears not only build a habitat, but they generate food-producing habitats. Places where the animals and plants they live alongside can flourish together, bringing their own unique niches. In a sense, bears are constructing new landscapes wherever they roam.

Bear scat providing a nutrient-rich nursery for various plants endemic to the Southern Appalachian highlands.

Not only are bears exciting to anticipate and glimpse, but also a vital part of our ecosystems in the mountains. Essentially, bears are gardeners. In the wilderness, no one is truly controlling which plants grow where. But the plants still have to appear; something must bring them, and allow the dispersal of those that feed entire biomes. And our beloved Black Bear does just that.

As I left the beaver pond that evening, the wild ponies escorted me back down the trail. Fledgling crows impatiently gurgled from an ironwood tree, and scarlet tanagers, veeries, and chestnut-sided warblers ushered in the purple dusk. But as the sounds grew into an incoherent harbinger-ballad of nightfall, I felt comforted. Comforted that the most terrifying, enormous animals that lurk in these forests are here to help; to grow and cultivate a cheerful, overflowing environment not only for themselves, but for other species. A circular system of friends, neighbors, and abiotic factors that build great habitats and make the wilderness all the more enticing. 

Scarlet Tanager, female (Piranga olivacea)

    

Juvenile Eastern Garter Snake (Thamnophis sirtalis), high-elevation morph.

Fraser Fir (Abies fraseri)

A young Appalachian Cottontail (Sylvilagus obscurus) crossing the forested, gravel road.

Each of these mountain forests, meadows, and wetlands is impeccably unique. The plants, animals, and fungi are directly influenced by the climate, elevation, geology, and overall "lay of the land." No two habitats are the same, and every meager acre of land in the world has its own distinct ecosystem. Unfortunately, many are destroyed. Too many places have lost their bears, as well as other seed-dispersers, pollinators, and predators. The beautiful cycle of biogeography can be uprooted; the result is wasteland. Places that are seemingly useful are, in the end, devoid of life and purpose. Parking lots, new subdivisions, acres of mowed lawns where no children play; they're all consistent destroyers of these vital and fragile balances. 

Let me put it this way. If humans vilify bears, and they're the ones helping this planet thrive, what does that make humans? Maybe bears don't just safeguard our ecosystems for a more sustainable future in a physical sense, but are here to serve as teachers and examples for our species as well.