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For the past few years, I have lived in a suburban development at the base of a mountain. On my regular walks, I have encountered a variety of wild animals, including deer, snakes and the occasional wild turkey. The ancestors of these animals inhabited this area long before humans encroached, so I am trying to be a good neighbor. I am also learning new lessons in communication between humans and animals.
I was somewhat alarmed last summer by reports of four rattlesnakes found at different places in the development. I was even more distressed to learn this spring that, as a neighbor was setting out with his dog for an early morning walk, a bear dropped from the branches of a tree in his front yard, landed on the lawn, and ambled off into the woods behind the house.
After the rattlesnake sightings, I found a helpful story online with advice from a wildlife expert. He said rattlesnakes that feel vibrations from human footsteps near them will rattle their tails in response because they feel threatened. This is a warning; to avoid a venomous bite, humans should back away from the sound of the rattle and give the snake a wide berth. Reassuringly, the expert said a rattlesnake will not chase a human. This seemed like good advice, and I resolved to listen for rattlesnakes while walking.
The bear sighting seemed much more problematic, because bears can chase humans. To my surprise, all the websites I consulted, including the revered National Park Service, suggested the best approach in a face-to-face encounter is to have a chat with the bear.
“Identify yourself by talking calmly so the bear knows you are a human and not a prey animal,” the Park Service explained. “Remain still; stand your ground but slowly wave your arms. Help the bear recognize you as a human. It may come closer or stand on its hind legs to get a better look or smell. A standing bear is usually curious, not threatening. Stay calm and remember that most bears do not want to attack you; they usually just want to be left alone.”
The NPS website also notes that attitude is the key to success here: “Speaking to the bear in a calm, confident tone will distinguish your voice from the noise of a potential prey animal.”
After reading this advice, I tried to picture myself having a calm, confident conversation with a bear (while also waving my arms). My friends will confirm that I am rarely at a loss for words, but this could be one moment when words would fail me. Furthermore, staying calm has never been my strong suit; if I am conscious, the chances are high that I am anxious. Nonetheless, I am considering memorizing a speech that begins, “Hello, Bear. I am a human, and I mean you no harm. Also, I would not be good to eat. Please do not make me your next meal.”
For all of its dangers, however, a one-way chat with a bear would be a chance to explore the fascinating world of human-animal communication—an area that has long intrigued me. As a child, I loved reading the National Geographic stories about British primatologist Dr. Jane Goodall and her work with chimpanzees in Africa. Years later, while studying science journalism, I wrote about the latest research in teaching language to primates.
A few years after that, when I had become a journalist, I went for a jog on a country road and stopped to admire a horse standing at a pasture fence. I chatted with it briefly, patted its forelock and then watched in astonishment as it stretched its neck to the grass by the fence, picked up a short, slender tree branch in its teeth, and presented the branch to me over the top of the fence—clearly intending it as a gift. I had no choice but to solemnly accept it; I thanked the horse profusely before continuing on my jog, branch in hand. I kept the branch in the trunk of my car, and whenever I saw it I thought of that generous horse and that astonishing encounter.
Much more recently, on one of my neighborhood walks in March, I came upon a small group of deer grazing on the front lawn of a two-story home. I often see deer on my sunset walks; more than once I have had the unsettling experience of sensing that someone was watching me and found, when I looked around, a deer staring directly at me. Each time I was spellbound by the magnificent grace of these creatures, while the deer appeared to be cautiously evaluating me, gauging whether I was friend or foe.
When I encountered the group of deer on the lawn, one of the fawns seemed clearly fascinated by me. I was in the street about 30 feet down the hill from the deer; as I stood mesmerized by its gaze, the fawn took four or five tentative steps across the lawn toward me. The other deer stopped grazing, raised their heads and silently looked at both of us. Before I had a chance to wonder what I would do if the fawn trotted closer to me, a car drove up the hill behind me and all the deer ran into the woods beyond the house. But still I felt as if, for that brief moment, the fawn and I had established a wordless bond.
At a time when human beings seem intent on squaring off into tribal fiefdoms and using words as powerful weapons to hurl at each other, it can be a relief to attempt communication with creatures who do not speak. And then perhaps we can use those lessons to communicate with our agitated fellow humans—by remaining calm, assuring them we are not prey animals, and helping them recognize that we are human, too.
Copyright © 2019 by Susan Hooper
