I could well believe it. When Hercules was younger there was a tree trunk in his den. It was about 4 feet long and about 4 feet in diameter. It was oak, and so heavy that even Andy couldn’t lift it and had to rock it from side to side to move it about the den. Hercules would pat it from paw to paw, sliding it easily across the floor, like a child with a toy. Once, when he was in a particularly mischievous mood, he picked up the log and used it as a battering ram to knock down a wall.
In Yellowstone |National Park, in the USA, a grizzly once killed a large black bear with a single swipe. The punch was so strong that it knocked the black bear against a tree 16 feet away.
At my feet Hercules stirred in his sleep and stretched out a front paw. My old Chambers’s Encyclopaedia solemnly says of the great cuddly heap at my feet, ‘No animal in the New World is more formidable.’ Native Americans believed that he was created to be more powerful and more clever than all other creatures: once he was created, runs the legend, even the god who made him, Manitou, had to flee to the top of a mountain to escape him. He would have had to flee fast, what is more, for over a distance of up to 150 metres a grizzly bear can run as fast as a good horse.
In spite of their fearful reputation – ‘more fierce and carnivorous than any other bear except the polar bear’, says the encyclopedia – and in spite of the numerous exaggerated stories of the Old West in which bands of grizzlies attack homesteads during hard winters, bears are in fact timid creatures.
One experienced bear hunter of a hundred years ago remarked in his memoirs, ‘I have pursued a great many bears and every one of them fled before me; not a single one showed any intention of defending itself.’ Only when they are surprised are they likely to attack, particularly when there are cubs or if they are disturbed when hibernating, and this they do by rearing on their hind legs, swinging their front paws and growling. Most experts agree that this posture is basically a display, meant only to intimidate the foe, and certainly a bear usually knocks its opponent down with a swipe and then moves away.
If they are attacked, of course, bears will attempt to defend themselves, and there are numerous stories – again from the Old West – of bear hunters being chased. In 1805, the great American explorer Meriwether Lewis was chased for 100 metres by a badly wounded bear and, two days later, this unfortunate animal was shot eight times with a rifle and still kept coming at them.
Today, in parts of Canada and the United States where there are still plenty of bears, they are viewed with awe and respect, and not a little fear. I spoke to someone recently who had asked an old-timer backwoodsman what he should do if he met a bear. The old fellow sucked on his pipe and said with deliberation that the first thing to do was to climb a tree, then it depended on whether the bear was a black bear or a grizzly. ‘How will I be able to tell?’ asked my friend. The old timer replied, ‘Wal, if it’s one of them there black beyers he’ll jist come up th’ tree after you; but, if it’s a grizzly, why, he’ll jist knock that ole tree down!’
People walking in the national parks where bears are to be found wear ‘bear bells’ round their necks to warn of their approach and avoid the possibility of surprising any bears. But accidents occur. Funnily enough, bears who live close to humans, and rely on scraps and garbage left behind by picnickers for the main part of their diet, become even more dangerous, and there are always stories of picnickers being eaten up by a bear, though it happens very rarely.
Andy and I were always conscious of the risk attached even to the great big softie snoring away in front of the fire. But we knew him very, very well now, and we believed it would take a brain injury or something equally serious to make him run amok.
Mind you, every time I heard horrendous bear stories, it did make me pause for thought, but not for long – like the story early in our relationship of a black bear called Smokey. That bear was normally chained up and muzzled and used to wrestle his owner. The wrestler’s girlfriend never had any contact with that bear and was never allowed to touch him. She was blonde, like me, and the same age …
Usually after an ‘accident’ like that the bear is shot, though in this case the Canadian Government took the bear into care – thankfully. Andy and I made sure that we left a document with our lawyers stating that, should anything happen to us, no matter what, Hercules was not to be blamed or harmed.
Herc growled in his sleep, probably dreaming about his terrible ordeal in the wild when he was lost in the Outer Hebrides. I will tell you all about this in its place. First of all, I must tell you how a man won the love and trust of a grizzly bear, something the whole world said was impossible, and, in order to do that I must introduce you to my husband, ‘Grizzly’ Andy Robin.
Little did I know as I was getting my horses ready to go to the Perth Agricultural Show on that hot August morning in 1972 that the day would prove to be one of the great turning points in my life. As I busied myself in the stables making sure that my horses were groomed and that the horsebox was prepared, I had no thoughts about the day other than that I hoped to do well in the events for which I was entered and that I might meet a few friends there.
As a farmer’s daughter I was well used to going to agricultural shows, which were always full of ruddy-faced farmers dressed in their best tweed suits with their endless talk of barley and wheat, topsoil and seed potatoes. For some people they aren’t the most exciting places in the world, but I always longed for them, as they gave me an opportunity to ride in competition.
I had never been to the Perth Show before, as I had preferred, until then, to compete in the more local shows that took place on the same day. A simple twist of fate made me decide to go to Perth that day, and how glad I was in the coming years that fate had made me do so.
I arrived at the show a short while before my first event was due to begin; and, having tacked up the horses and collected my numbers from the show secretary, I had plenty of time to wander around the stalls.
As I strolled from the newly mown ring back to my horsebox I was suddenly aware that I was being stared at. Turning round to get a better look, I found myself facing a large suntanned man with the most piercing blue eyes I had ever seen. He was not so much tall as big, and, to my consternation, he was smiling at me, although I knew I had never set eyes on him before. I began to blush and dropped my head quickly to avoid his stare, which seemed to be saying, ‘You don’t know me yet, but you will.’
I hurriedly made for my horsebox and began busying myself with the final preparations. As I struggled with saddles and bridles, I put the brief episode out of my mind and by the time I had changed into my breeches and navy jacket I had forgotten all about him.
However, as I was warming up in the collecting area outside the show ring I noticed that the suntanned gentleman was once again standing behind me and, trying to ignore him, I went about the business of limbering up each horse, taking them in turn over the red and white fence that stood in the middle of the practice area. I could not help glancing in his direction and, each time I did so, I was met by the same penetrating stare and wry smile, and, each time, I felt myself turning crimson with embarrassment.
Luck was not with me that day and, although I managed one clear round, I finished the event with a miserable fifth place. Feeling suitably humbled, I made my way back to the horsebox to wipe down the horses and put on their travelling bandages.
I