Safety tips for hiking and camping in bear country

by Laurel Miller on

Last Wednesday’s fatal bear attack on a 57-year-old man in Yellowstone National Park has made national headlines, and stirred up a lot of mixed opinions, despite the fact it’s the park’s first bear-related fatality since 1986. Fortunately, because the animal in question was a female grizzly defending her cubs, park rangers have decided not to take action.

Park ranger Kerry Gunther, who has studied Yellowstone’s bears for over 30 years, was quoted in a recent CNN article as saying there’s a difference between defensive and predatory attacks by bears. “If a bear shows signs of hunting and eating humans,” he says, “rangers will attempt to track down and euthanize the animal.” But rangers won’t usually kill a bear for defensive behavior.

Park visitors are understandably skittish; hiker Erin Prophet had a bear encounter while hiking in Yellowstone just two days after the attack. She opted to jump into a nearby lake, where she was towed to safety by two kayakers, rather than risk staying on the trail. Gunther later determined, based on video footage of the bear, that it was a juvenile black bear, and not much of a threat.

“Bears are really very tolerant of people,” he says. “I have had a few times where I was bluff charged but the bear always pulled up short. You don’t really know if you are a ‘runner’ or a ‘stander’ until that happens. People shouldn’t fear bears. They should respect them.”

So what should you do if you’re hiking or camping in bear country and you find yourself in close proximity to one? And how do you avoid an encounter in the first place? After the jump, tips on how to be “bear aware.”

[Photo credit: Flicker user akphotograph.com]

Watch this short video for tips on how to keep bears out of your campsite at night


  • Educate yourself
  • It’s crucial to know if you’ll be in bear country on your trip, and what species live in the region. Grizzlies are much more aggressive and powerful than black bears, and your response to an encounter depends upon the species.
  • With black bears, you want to aggressively fight back if attacked; not so with grizzlies, as you’ll see below. Be able to identify the local species of bear in the event of a sighting. Most ski/mountain towns offer “Bear Aware” classes to teach locals and tourists how to co-exist peacefully with their ursine neighbors.
  • Pack away all food and store it out of reach of bears
  • Bears have been known to go to extreme measures when they get the munchies, and if they’re smelling the remains of your dinner or those candy bars stashed in your tent, you’ve got a problem. They also get into garbage, which is why you’ll always find bear-proof dumpsters and trash receptacles in areas populated by bears. Homeowners and holiday renters also need to be vigilant about keeping windows and doors closed when no one is around and at night, especially if there’s food out.
  • If you’re car camping, keep food in a cooler in your trunk after you’ve cleaned up. If you’re in the backcountry, hang all edibles in a “bear bag” from the branch of a tree or rig a line, as high up as possible. This is just as much for the bear’s safety as yours; human food is detrimental to their health, and once they learn they can get a free lunch by cruising a campground or neighborhood, it’s hard to get rid of them. For everyone’s safety, keep things clean and locked up tight.
  • Don’t be stupid.
  • “We can have hundreds of visitors alongside the road filming and viewing bears,” Gunther says. “When the bears want to cross the roads you’d think to a big, 200 pounds-plus bear people would show a little bit more respect (and) get back to their cars or let the bear cross the road. Sometimes people are letting the bear walk just feet from them.”
  • No matter how tame they may seem, wild animals are just that: wild. You’re in their territory, and by startling them, you risk a defensive (aka “aggressive”) response.
  • Hike prepared.
  • Gunther says respecting bears means traveling in large hiking groups, avoiding or leaving known bear areas, and always carrying bear spray (pepper spray), in case of an attack. Some people like to hike with a “bear bell” on their walking sticks or pack. Also, keep an eye out for bear scat on the trail. For someone supposedly nervous about the attack two days previous, Prophet showed a remarkable lack of good judgement. She was hiking alone, and wasn’t carrying bear spray.
  • Make noise
  • I remember a hike with my family in Glacier National Park when I was about seven. A ranger stopped us mid-hike and told us a mother grizzly defending her cubs had treed two men nearby. The area was being evacuated, and my family and the other hikers on the trail were led back down the mountain. We were given empty soda cans filled with pebbles to shake, and told to talk loudly. Bears are more afraid of you, so if you know you’re in the vicinity of one but can’t see it, the best tactic is to make your presence known, and get the hell out of dodge.
  • Know what to do if you’re charged
  • If a grizzly does show signs of aggression, says Gunther, “that nanosecond before it hits you,” drop to the ground and play dead. By putting your hands behind your neck so your elbows protect the sides of your face, you’re more likely to survive an attack (bears usually go for the head and face). Being passive will usually put a stop to the aggressive behavior and send the bear on its way.
  • Other tactics: don’t run (that stimulates the animals predatory response). Stand your ground, and try to make yourself look at large as possible; raise your arms up into a triangle shape, and talk to the animal, so it recognizes you as a human. Don’t attempt to climb a tree; both black bears and grizzlies are adept at climbing, as well as swimming, and can run a lot faster than you can.
  • Don’t be paranoid.
  • Your odds of even seeing a bear are slim. It’s always good to be prepared, but don’t let bear paranoia change your travel plans or stop you from taking a hike or visiting spectacular national parks like Yellowstone. As Gunther points out, in the park’s 140-year history, only six people are known to have been killed in bear attacks.

[Photo credits: Lake Louise, Flickr user Matt Champlain; pepper spray, Flickr user mankatt]

Snow, sweat, and salami: A day in the life of an avalanche dog

by Laurel Miller on

With avalanches, timing is everything. Your chances of surviving burial without asphyxiating (if you’re not instantaneously pulverized) are 90-percent during the first fifteen minutes. Things go downhill quickly after that, and at 30 minutes, your odds are 50:50. The most important thing to do if buried in a slide is create an air pocket.

Salami is also helpful to your survival (as you’ll see). Odds are, if you’re caught in an avalanche, a Search and Rescue (SAR) dog will be first at the scene. The little caskets of restorative brandy attached to their collar? Alas, just a myth.

I recently found myself playing crash (smash?) test dummy at Alpental ski area, in Western Washington’s Snoqualmie Pass. The region is the most active avalanche area in the state, and home to three separate ski resort BARK teams, including Stevens Pass, and Crystal Mountain. BARK (Backcountry Avalanche Rescue K9s) is a statewide, non-profit, volunteer-based mountain rescue organization of ski patrollers and Washington State Department of Transportation (WSDOT) avalanche workers, and their canine compadres.

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Ski patroller Kevin Huggett, 47, is president of the Alpental team. Last month, he invited me to participate in one of their weekly training days. It’s been a freakishly warm winter in Washington, but spring conditions can actually increase avalanche risk by creating instability within the snow pack.

A contemplative, deep-voiced man with a dark, bushy mustache (imagine an alpine Tom Selleck) Huggett helps oversee trainings, in which the seven dogs and their handlers practice drills that simulate avalanche and lost person rescue. He’s a busy guy, but it’s his workaholic, six-year-old black Lab, Bazuka, who’s achieved local celebrity status.

Bazuka’s a bad ass, assisting in the rescue of the buried and hapless. Last summer, she alone found a lost, disoriented, 75-year-old woman who had wandered away from her family. Bazuka loves rappelling from helicopters, and rides the chair lift to work. Her sensitive nose can detect the difference between live human scent buried beneath up to ten feet of snow, and that of an article of clothing; she was tracking at ten weeks of age. Bazuka is trained in cadaver retrieval, but she’s also a pet, living in nearby Hyak with Huggett, his wife, Judy, and their 11-year-old Lab, Porter, a BARK veteran.

When I meet Bazuka, she is wearing a red, nylon pocketed vest stuffed with first aid supplies, a transceiver (avalanche beacon), and other equipment. She greets me by licking my hands, then barks at Huggett to take her to work, already. Obediently, we take Chair 2 to the ski patrol hut atop Edelweiss Bowl. Inside, it smells of frying sausage and testosterone. Patrollers Kevin Marston, Kevin Ward, and Alpental avalanche forecaster Bram Thrift, are sitting in front of a heater. Their dogs, Greta (dignified yellow Lab), Hoss (Golden the size of a Mack truck), and Gibb (squirrely Australian shepherd), wait patiently in cubbies near the door.

At 11am, we set off into a white out (nothing screws with your self-esteem like skiing with patrollers in crappy weather) to the “open trench” site. Each dog will run the procedure, locating in turn their handler, a “known” person, and a stranger (aka me) in a shallow hole, then again, while we’re buried under six inches of snow.

As Marston shovels snow over me, I recall that the last time I went caving, I had a claustrophobia-induced freak-out in a tube. This time, at least, my face isn’t shoved into ten thousand-year-old bat shit, but it’s easy to imagine being entombed in snow is its own special hell. Yet, I feel strangely peaceful. Meditative. Probably because there isn’t 165 tons of snow on top of me, and I’m equipped with transceiver and radio.

I’m in the fetal position, clutching a handful of cured meat as a training reward, and trying not to huff too much oxygen from the small air space I’ve been provided. I have several minutes to contemplate the forces of nature, and wonder why out-of-bounders so enjoy courting death. I hear Marston command Greta to “Search!” Within seconds, she scrabbles above me, tunneling into the snow. Her head and shoulders burst into the trench. Our noses touch. As instructed, I cry, “Good girl! Good find!” and shove salami in her face.

With each drill, the dogs yip and leap in ecstasy, whining when their handlers disappear from view. I ask Huggett if they have separation anxiety. “They get excited, and don’t like to be left out of the fun- for them, it’s play.” he explains. “Their bond with us teaches them to find someone.” Moments later, he directs Thrift to keep Gibb- a newbie- engaged longer at the rescue site, to make the “find” the most thrilling part of the exercise.

SAR dogs are trained using positive reinforcement. “Dogs always cheat,” says Marston. “Their sense of smell is so acute, we need to try and confuse them. We increase the difficulty by dispersing scent on articles of clothing, so the dog has to determine if it’s live scent, and if it’s coming from under or on top of the snow. We always change locations, and use a snowcat to scatter debris, to erase any visual cues.”

The second site is a half-mile from the hut. Two caves have been excavated beneath six feet of snow; their construction enables “victims” to remain safe and comfortable for up to an hour. Our skis and poles, and some items of clothing lie scattered about the site, to further distract the dogs. Each animal has 10 minutes to leave the hut, locate, and rescue. The remaining team verbally enacts rescue procedure, relaying logistics and site assessment via radio.

At my turn, I slither into a six-foot-long cave, where I’ll remain for 30 minutes, as Bazuka and Hoss take turns rescuing me from hypothetical slow death. In reality, I’m pretty comfortable, if a bit cold, reclining on an insulated foam pad. A hot toddy would be nice. When I hear Bazuka barking wildly, I know she’s located me. Her reward of choice? A rubber Kong toy.

Given the time, expense (roughly two thousand dollars annually, including equipment, gas, and vet bills), and rigorous training involved to certify SAR dogs and handlers- for exhausting, dangerous volunteer work- it’s obviously a labor of love. The dogs get accolades, playtime, and Scooby Snacks. What drives guys like Huggett and his crew is a desire to also use their pets for a purpose, “to help people.” Besides, he adds, “How can you not enjoy playing with dogs all day?”

By 2pm, training’s over, and the dogs are off-duty until the 3pm closing “sweep.” Then, they’ll help the patrollers cover the 300-acre ski area, making sure everyone is safely off the upper mountain. Huggett is also working the lower mountain’s night-skiing shift. He and Bazuka will have put in 15 hours by the time they’re done, but they don’t mind. “If our dog teams make a difference for just one person,” Huggett says, “it’s all worth it. In Dog we Trust!”

If you’d like to make a donation to BARK, please email alpentalbark@yahoo.com.

What is SAR?
SAR is a domestic, non-profit, volunteer training/certification program that provides search and aid for people who are lost, in distress, or imminent danger. Rescuers can specialize in one or more of the following areas: K9, Horse, Snowmobile, Ground Search, Disaster, EMT, Ropes, Avalanche, etc. SAR criteria are dictated by state and county. Other countries also have versions of SAR.

BARK members are trained to SAR standards, but BARK is its own entity. Only qualified ski patrollers and WSDOT avalanche workers can be in BARK.

If you want to know more about all phases of canine search and rescue, contact the National Search Dog Alliance (NSDA).

Saving Your Hide in a Slide
If you’re attempting any (legal) backcountry pursuit (out-of-bounders = douchebags), you should take an avalanche awareness course, check conditions before heading out, and always carry a beacon and probe. Let people know where you’re going/when you’ll be back, and go with at least several partners. Sometimes, shit happens anyway, but since many people don’t follow even this relatively basic Darwinian protocol, remember that searchers are risking their lives- and their dogs’- to save yours. For information on avalanche awareness classes, contact the American Avalanche Association (AAA), the American Avalanche Institute (AAI), or the American Institute for Avalanche Research and Education (AIARE).