Even in the dimness of predawn, the bear looked massive. He stood fifty yards downriver, scanning the rushing water for an unsuspecting sockeye salmon–nearly one-half ton of brown bear laying in wait for a five-pound fish.

Silently our team of bilologists watched from behind a screen of willows. In cautious tones we quickly decided this was not a good candidate for immobilizing with our drug-laden darts, and began a quiet retreat. Suddenly, he spotted us and with a loud WOOF–a bear's danger signal–he started towards us at a determined gait. All three of us began yelling, the usual method of letting a bear know that we were humans, rather than a rival bear. However, this was not one of the proverbial "nine out of ten" times this ploy worked; indeed, it only served to increase his speed.

Realizing I was no match for a pursuing bear–running might only trigger a chase response, and the nearest climbable tree was too far away–I stopped, turned, and stood my ground. Unpleasant thoughts flashed through my mind. But as if ignoring us–for my boss, Will Troyer, had reacted in the same manner–the bear charged between us at a distance of no more than twenty feet and crashed into the willows. Moments later, the third member of our team appeared, ghostlike–both figuratively and literally–from within the same willow patch.

Later, over steaming hot chocolate, we named this large bear: We had given the name "Cheap Thrill" to a sow with two cubs who had half-charged us the previous evening; in logical progression, the male was dubbed "The Real Thing."

The time was late September 1977, and the place, Brooks River of Katmai National Monument in southwestern Alaska. Brown bears annually congregate along this one-mile-long river from August through October, when thousands of sockeye salmon gather to spawn and to die. A heavy concentration of fish serves as a natural attraction for bears within the surrounding hundreds of square miles, a situation common to nearly every salmon river in the Alaska Peninsula.

But not all rivers are located within a national monument, with its tourist lodge and campground, thereby increasing the possibility of human/bear conficts. A population of wild animals has fewer conflicts with people than those accustomed to humans. Bears in more populated parks often lose their fear of people, and close contact invites trouble. Although recent incidents have been minimal–ripped tents brought on by improperly stored food, surprising face-to-face meetings, disputes over who will eat fly-caught trophy rainbow trout–National Park Service officials are concerned about possible problems.

Good base-line population is tantamount to understanding any wildlife situation and is necessary when formulating policy. To this end, the National Park Sevice (with which I am working), in cooperation with the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, began such an on-goind research program in 1976. It was our reason for being on the wrong end of Real Thing's charge.

The huge brown bears inhabit coastal regions along the Gulf of Alaska, from the Alaskan Peninusla to western British Columbia. Adult males, or boars, may reach weights of 1400 pounds; individuals one-half that size are more common but none-the-less impressive. Females are somewhat smaller, typically reaching weights of 400 to 500 pounds. Taxonomists once recognized nine different species of brown bear, but now the general concensus groups them into one species, Ursus arctos, along with the grizzlies of interior Alaska, western Canada, and limited Rocky Mountain states. The grizzlies are generally smaller than the coastal browns, an end result of living in a less-productive habitat.

One inherent problem of studying any wild-animal population is gathering sufficient data to establish the home range and seasonal movements. To rely on visual sightings can be haphazard at best. This problem has been greatly lessened by the development and use of radio collars. Visual contact may be impaired by vegetation, weather or darkness, but a transmitted radio signal will unerringly pinpoint the animal's location. With experience in interpreting signals, the researcher can even make an educated guess as to what the animal is doing–resting, feeding, running–at that moment. Our bear collars, complete with a three year battery, weigh slightly over one pound. The portable tracking receiver can be used in the field for a range of three to five miles, depending on the terrain, or in an airplane for up to thirty miles.

To place a radio collar on all bears is not feasible and not necessary. Data from selected individuals of each population component (boars, solitary sows, sows with cubs, sub-adults) provide a fairly accurate idea of the seasonal changes in food preferences, range, den-site selection, etc., for all the bears. Such data, coupled with simultaneous studies of population dynamics (such as natality, mortality, age structure, and emigration) can help the Park Service to understand better the behavior of the brown bears of Katmai National Monument, and to detect long-range trends, as well as to manage bears and park visitors for a minimum of conflicts.

In the early-morning haze, a team from the Alaska Department of Fish and Game hurried along the well-worn bear trail paralleling the Brooks River. The men had spotted a dark form fishing along a bend in the river upstream, and they wanted to reach a favored "ambush" spot along the river before the bear did. Suddenly a movement on the trail stopped the trio. Biologist Jim Faro dropped to his knee, dart gun at the ready. A large front shoulder appeared from behind a brushy willow. In an instant, Jim mentally calculated the size of the owner, and knew the dart contained enough drugs to do the job; he fired. With a loud THUMP, the dart connected, and the willows exploded with a fleeing bear.

A half-mile away, our team was scanning the beaches of Naknek Lake for suitable bears, when we received word by radio of the darted bear. Quickly we located the other team to search for bear #982.

The dart gun is basically a modified shotgun that propels an aluminum syringe containing Sernylan. The drug inhibits the nervous system by interrupting voluntary nerve impulses, effectively immobilizing the animal but leaving it conscious. Upon impact, a second charge hypodermically injects the Sernylan, plus a tranquilizer throught a steel needle. The drugs need ten to fifteen minutes to work, which gives the bear time to travel up to a mile in any direction. Immediately pursuing the bear only causes it to flee further, and is thus counterproductive.

After waiting the necessary time, we began the search. From the darting site of thick willows and spruce, the trail gave way to cottonwoods (balsam poplar) and back into willows, as we followed the fresh track along the frosted ground litter. It was early October and, unlike the rainy, ocean-influenced days, the nights were typically clear and frosty–a sure sign of the encroaching winter. The track intermingled with other fresh bear tracks, and we had no other choice but to follow all of them. WHOOF...HOMPFF...an obviously undrugged bear bellowed its warning from ahead...wrong trail.

Another trail. Thick dwarf spruces limited vision to a handshake distance. From behind came a shout from Will that he had found the bear, and we converged on an 800-pound mound of fur, stretched out as if asleep, on a bed of frosted grass.

Although our main objective was to fit the radio collar, we could not pass up the chance to gather as much information as possible from such a magnificent animal. The data was quickly entered as each team member went about his specific task: Male. Estimated weight, 800 lbs. Girth, 71.5 inches. Total length, 85 inches. Estimated age, 16 years. Neck circumference, 38 inches. Rectal temperature, 94°F. Width of hind foot, 8.5 inches. Radio frequency, 164.531 MHz, 56 beats per minute. Skull width, 10 3/8 inches. And so it goes, each of us knowing that the sum of all our figures can never equal the majesty of this monarch of the Alaskan coast.

Forty-five minutes later, as the first rays of sun peeked over the nearby tree tops at the slowly reviving bear and the biologists repacking their gear, I was delegated the task of naming bear #982. Studying his rotundness, I remembered the name on a restaurant sign I had seen the previous week in Anchorage–"Fat Boy." It fit him perfectly.

The morning's effort had been in vain; after unsuccessfully stalking and tracking bears through the rain-drenched grasses and underbrush since daybreak, the only thing soggier than our clothing was our spirits. Tired and hungry and wet, we trudged along the river toward camp. Rounding a bend, the raucous cried of hundreds of immature Bonaparte's gulls assulted our weary senses. We all stopped short, for there admidst the noisy gulls, sitting upright in the shallows, was a sow and her three cubs of the year. The female was Margie, a thirteen-year-old female collared the previous fall.

Margie skillfully plucked a passing salmon and, using both paws to hold it somewhat like a small child holding an ice cream cone, began dining. She savored each bit, dutifully watching the triplets as they cavorted in the shallows. First on the card of card of events was midget wrestling. The chocolate cub, Huey, and the brown cub, Louie, ganged up on the blond cub, Dewey. They continued to splash and tumble, until Dewey decided he was getting the short end of the deal and ran bawling to mother. Spirits undampened, Huey and Louis began boxing. On hind legs they danced, each alternately charging and retreating, exchanging cuff for cuff, blow for blow. Meanwhile, mother had finished her first course and scooped up another helping. The cuffing continued until Louie decided that chasing a floating stick was more fun.

As the other cubs joined in, we quietly stole away, lest we disturb the tranquil home-life of Maggie and her triplets. No one had bothered to take a camera because of the rain and fog, but merely the mental image of the boxing bears is still enough to bring a smile to my face, just as it did for all of us that dreary morning.

During the spring of the previous year, Margie had banished her two cubs, who were then two-and-one-half years old, and begun a solitary lifestyle once again. She had been observed once in the company of a large boar, but was unaccompanied when we darted her to attach a radio colar in the fall.

Courtship usually occurs in June or July, and may last several weeks. After breeding, the female leads a solitary life undtil denning for the winter. Sometime during January, she gives birth to her naked one-pound cubs. From one to four cubs may be born, but the usual number is two. They suckle the sow's rich milk, growing continually, until she, with cubs in tow, emerges in early May. For the next two years, the youngsters scramble after, learn from, and are protected by their mother. The life of a cub is not easy–the rushing rivers and cantankerous adults take their toll. During the third spring, as mother becomes less possessive and the presence of her male suitors frightful, the adolescents drift away on their own.

Despite their apprenticeship, these subadults still need to learn the finer points of survival, as anyone who has observed their clumsy fishing techniques can verify. Often three or more, not necessarily litter-mates, will loosely band together, perhaps in imitation of the last family ties.

Bears do not undergo true hibernation, but rather a deep sleep in which breathing and heartbeat are depressed. Individuals have been know to leave their den in winter during warm spells (20° to 30°F) and forage for food. However, this more an exception than the rule. Dens usually are dug in compacted soil on hillsides, typically facing south, at an elevation likely to have adequate snow depth to seal the entrance. Some dens may be occupied annually, but many of them collapse during the spring thaw and cannot be used again.

Although technically classified as carnivores, bears are omnivorous, existing on a variety of foods. Seasons and happenstance dictate their diet. In spring they eat roots and tubers, last year's unpicked berries, newborn caribou and moose calves, and carrion from winter kills. As summer dawns, fresh greens (grasses, sedges, and forbs) are added. Finally in July, they begin feasting on the first of returning salmon. The highly nutritious salmon diet adds the enormous weight needed for the winter ahead. As the salmon runs diminish, the emphasis switches to the ripening berry crop, as blueberries, high-bush cranberries, and bearberries are abundant. With cooler weather, the bears disperse to the mountainous foothills, existing on a maintenance diet of roots and berries, and an occasional ground squirrel.

The late August sun beat uncomfortably on the western flank of Mt. Katolinat. It was a questionable relief from the previous weeks of rain and fog. Upward I climbed–or, more accurately, stumbled–for the shoulder-high grass hid the many hazards of cross-country hiking. Plump, juicy blueberries beckoned to be tasted, slowing down my progress considerably. The broad vista of water below and tundra beyond prolonged my too frequent stops. Suddenly, a movement in the alders ahead arrested a handful of blueberries heading for my mouth...bear?? Slowly the tufted ears of a lynx glided over a low bush...instant relief!

One hazard of hiking in bear country is the possiblility of surprising one at a distance the bear believes too close–that is, within its zone of intolerance–and thus provoking an attack. In addition, the odors of food, soaps, and garbage can attract a bear to one's camp. Making noise (bells, pebbles in a can, singing) and maintaining a clean campsite can prevent most encounters with a bear. Even then, occasional meetings are unavoidable–just one of the risks that must be taken when traveling the backcountry.

On such trips, I travel unarmed, much to the dismay of some friends. In addition to being illegal in a national park or monument, carrying a weapon can be more dangerous than not. Usually a charging bear will stop–and run off–when it recognizes a human. Almost without exception, however, a wounded bear will continue its charge. Therefore, a premature panic shot could turn a hair-raising bluff charge into a fatal incident for person or bear or both.

My destination that day was a ridge overlooking Margot Creek. There, every daylight hour on the hour, with the aid of a spotting scope, I would spend five minutes counting the number of bears feeding on the creek. The object was to establish–after several more years of observations–the daily steam-use patterns. Knowledge of peak use will enable us to schedule aerial surveys that, in turn, will yield more accurate data on population densities and composition.

The view from my observation point on the ridge was worth the climb. As the sun peeked out from behind a stray cloud, I made my final count for the evening. Two large, dark singles, most likely males, were fishing along the same bank a quarter-mile apart, seeming ignoring each other. This was the third occasion that I had spotted them near each other, moving in the same direction, apparently without conflict.

There are many recorded instances of fighting for preferred fishing spots along the well-known McNeil River, north of the monument, but I have seen nothing more than a few implied threats between bears fishing along the river. Instead, one–sometimes both–finds an excuse to disappear into the brush and reappear farther upstream or downstream. It is all done very diplomatically; the question of dominance probably was settled previously, and the loser does not need a reminder. Sows with cubs or yearlings head the social hierarchy, followed by large boars, solitary males, females, with subadults on the bottom. Certain population segments prefer different feeding times, which allows most bears–with the possible exception of subadults–free access to the better fishing spots along the river.

That August morning I caught a glimpse of sunlight reflected from the radio collar of an eight-year-old male named "Legs." He was a predictable bear--always fishing, neck-deep, at dawn in the same bend of the river--who just happened to have longer legs than usual. When the salmon finally played out on the creek, he traveled eight miles to Brooks River, remaining until only a few red salmon sluggishly fought the currents. He disappeared in mid-October. On November 6, his radio signal led our plane to a north-facing slope of nearby Mount Kelez and the dark opening of his den in the freshly fallen snow. Legs had called it a season and was dreaming whatever bears dream during their long winter's sleep.

With the collaring completed for the year, I could devote more time to tracking and locating individual bears. From high points around camp, I triangulated the signals, pinpointing the animal's location by determining where compass readings of its signals, taken from two locations, intersected. Often I would check each location on the ground to determine the accuracy and whether my interpretation of the received signal corresponded to the activity of the bear. Hidden from view by vegetation and ridges, I could follow their movements through the area. Occasionally the bears passed each other, unaware, like ships in fog.

For several days, Fat Boy's signal had originated from the same location. This was not uncommon, since large boars often feed during the night and return to a favored day-bed at dawn. On the third day I decided to make a ground check. With radio receiver in my pack and antenna in hand, I followed the invisible trail. It led along the salmon-littered beach of Naknek Lake, across muskeg and through dwarfed spruces, to a knoll that overlooked a field of golden brown grasses. There, laying on a well-worn day-bed, was Fat Boy's collar. The looseness left for additional fat had allowed him to slip it easily over his head.

Most bears appear not to mind wearing a radio collar, and those that do mind rip it off within hours or days. (It may be my imagination, but one young boar, Birthday Boy, proudly wore his as if it were the latest "in" fashion of the bear world, complete with contrasting ear tags). Fat Boy had kept his radio collar for almost a month, far past the usual time of rejection, and the single claw scratch on the battery pack showed he had not tried to remove it previously. His slipping off the collar meant more than just our loss of time and energy: Further data on the movements of the larger male population-segment would have to wait until next year. You win some and you lose some...

More welcome now than in August, the late-rising sun tried in vain to warm my freezing hands as I photographed a subadult, "Moma's Boy," on the ice-fringed beach. Today was the last day of the season at camp, as the cold November nights were causing ice to form on the water where the seaplane had to land. Moma's Boy must have sensed the finality of the season also, for he stood neck-deep in the near freezing water, intently eating the remnants of a long-dead salmon dredged up from the bottom. The cap of ice on his head, constantly growing in the 15°F air, added a flavor of humor to the stark beach scene. Moma's boy was the last bear to fight the inner urge to excavate a den for the winter; the others had disappeared almost one week ago.

Perhaps he sensed a need to store more fat for the long winter ahead. Due to his low status on the fishing holes of Brooks River, he may have been unable to compete during the past several months. Finally he could fish uninterrupted! Well, not exactly, for a few persistent immature Glaucous-winged gulls swam nearby, alert for any leftover morsels, and an immature golden eagle waited on the beach for similarily misplaced tidbits–all hungry youngsters, all feeding on their last helping of supper before leaving for the winter.

That evening, as the sun dipped into the Pacific Ocean, I waited on the beach with my gear for the airplane to return. The still water invited reflections–on the past few months with the bears, on approaching winter and how both the animals and I were preparing, on how wonderful it is to have places like this where you can still experience animals in the wild, on the sadness of leaving, on...the roar of the pre-World War II amphibious plane rudely interrupted my thoughts. Minutes later, as the antique Grumman Widgeon lumbered off the water toward King Salmon, I offered a silent goodbye to Moma's Boy, again neck-deep in the water, searching for the last salmon of the night and, possibly the season.