Gimme the Dirt…On Mama Bears

To live on Hilltop Farm is to inhabit a sensory wonderland: Each sunrise and sunset is more beautiful than the last, every birdsong more spectacular than an orchestra to my ears. The touch of a cow’s wet nose, the taste of warm cheese curds fresh from the whey, the special “moo” of a mama calling to her calf (and its sweet call back to her) – there is nothing to balance these experiences against; their uniqueness exists only in my singular life here. And, of course, there’s the overarching odor of manure. When we are small, we learn about our five senses – smell, sight, hearing, touch, taste – and we are encouraged to pay attention to all the things that stimulate them. Our sensory experiences are what define and inform our encounters with the world. As adults, it’s our senses that have the power to draw us backward in time and connect us to our childhoods – the smell of grape jelly bubbling on the stove, the sound of waves lapping the shore, the feel of a kitten’s soft fur, the taste of Thanksgiving dinner, the sight of the first fall leaves – we rely on our senses to nudge our memories as much as we do to animate our present. In particular, the scent of autumn leaves, crunchy underfoot, is a favorite of my husband’s and mine. He has made a special request of me, given our mutual love of autumn and the sensory experience only fallen leaves can provide: someday, if he’s unable to get to the woods himself, he’s asked me to bring the leaves to him and fill his lap with them, so he can breathe them in, feel their crunch, and savor the nostalgia they bring. It’s a promise I hope I don’t need to keep because a woodland trek without him by my side is inconceivable.

There is a sixth sense I wasn’t taught about in grade school: intuition or instinct. On a farm, understanding that sixth sense is important and using it even more so. Because I didn’t grow up around cows, I’ve been cultivating its use when working with them. Even though our cows are friendly and comfortable around us, it’s important to know when one of them might be creeping up behind me. Intuition helps when they’re stealthy, and my ears might not pick up their footfalls or breaths. Brindi has caught me unaware several times and knocked me flat from behind. She’s the friendliest sort of cow, who doesn’t shy from our touch but instead seeks it out for heavy-duty scratches and face rubs. Only four of our cows have horns, which are mostly benign as long as we stay aware: Aiko, Yoshiko, Roxy, and Hozomi. We watch and listen for the latter because there’s nothing innocent about her horns or how she wields them. A mother cow with a calf is not someone to turn your back on either, and intuition is handy when deciding how close is close enough.

My intuition is the main character in a recent farm drama that gives me shivers whenever I think about it. In early summer, I was crouching in our strawberry patch with Charlotte, one of our farm apprentices, and we were deep in conversation while we weeded. I realized a large group of birds – a literal murder of crows – was cackling from the woods that divide the pasture from the hillside hay fields. That morning, as he’d left for his off-farm job, my husband made me promise to keep an eye on Brindi. She was overdue to calve, and it looked like a birth was imminent during morning chores. It was important to keep watch since we’ve experienced an influx of black vultures – evil birds that look to me as if they’ve flown straight out of the gates of hell. Black vultures are vastly different from their scavenger relatives, turkey vultures. Black vultures are predators, and some of their primary targets are calves as they are being born. Before a calf is fully delivered, black vultures swoop in and peck out its eyes, often drilling right down to the brain with their sharp, black beaks, killing the calf. Sometimes, they’ve even been known to do the same to the vulnerable mother. A nearby farmer friend lost two calves to black vultures in the spring. There have been sightings of them on our place. One demon perched audaciously on the peak of our barn roof, staring down at us as if trying to decide which of us looked tastiest (I shoved Bart in front of me). Given these circumstances, I took Bart’s request to heart. The noise the crows were making drew my attention, and I threw on my barn boots and trudged slowly across the deeply rutted cow pasture toward the woods.

Oh, the woods: how Bart and I love spending time together there. It’s one of the most peaceful, beautiful places we know. The canopy of trees overhead is alive with songbirds and chattering squirrels, the ground is a carpet of interesting flora, and the entwining of sunlight and shadow is a dance we are more comfortable with than any noisy night out. I actually look forward to one of our least-favorite tasks (fixing fence) because it takes us into the woods in the spring when jack-in-the-pulpits and trillium are in full bloom.

In the forest, our senses heighten. The scent of leaves in our noses – both the green ones overhead and the fallen ones at our feet – is heady and earthy and feels like it’s tied to our very bones. The air is washed clean by the breath of the trees. The light is remarkable in the woods and, much like the Hudson River School painters documented, it only exists the way it does here. As I’ve said, the sounds are symphonic: the conversations of woodland creatures and rustling branches accompany us as we trek under the leafy awning. Now, it was summer, and despite the rough going across the heavily trod ground, I was looking forward to the cool shade of the wooded part of the pasture. The crows were loud, and I could hear the rustles of dead leaves on the ground as something moved in the dark shade ahead of me. A few snorts alerted me to the presence of (perhaps) deer, and I continued on toward the rustling sound. It was shady, and my eyes don’t adjust to changes of light too well. Still, I’m familiar enough with this part of the pasture that I moved forward without concern. I noticed the crows had suddenly gone quiet, and loud, deep snuffling sounds made me think Brindi was just a few feet ahead of me, on the other side of a big honeysuckle bush. I stopped for a moment to let my eyes adjust and to simply take in the peace of the woods while relishing the coolness of the shade. I felt a surge of happiness at the thought of witnessing another birth or seeing the first wobbling steps of a newborn calf. Thinking back to this moment now, I know something didn’t feel quite right to me but my overwhelming curiosity about what was around the corner far outweighed any hesitancy or intuitive warning signs. A scratching sound in the tree next to me made my mind’s eye imagine a cluster of young squirrels. A glance to my right confirmed two small critters scurrying up the side of the tree. Loud snorts and three aggressive-sounding pounces in the leaves behind the shrub on my left, combined with my eyes adjusting to a suddenly clear view of the animals in the tree, stopped me in my tracks. They weren’t squirrels. Two little bear cubs smaller than our Jack Russell terrier were scrambling up the tree trunk. They were close enough that with one step forward I could have touched them. Instantly, I realized I was in danger – terrible danger, while another part of my brain also made note of the extreme adorableness of the cubs, whose sweet ears and fuzzy little bodies made them look like something a child would snuggle at bedtime. The snorts and leaf rustles weren’t deer or Brindi with a new calf; they were a mother black bear instructing her cubs to climb the tree and preparing herself to defend them…against me.

The snorts and leaf rustles weren’t deer or Brindi with a new calf; they were a mother black bear instructing her cubs to climb the tree and preparing herself to defend them…against me.

I know the rules of bear encounters. I’ve thought about them enough that I tried to follow the instructions coursing through my head: back away, make lots of noise, wave your arms, clap your hands. I started backing away and tried to make as much noise as I could, even though my voice didn’t want to work the way it usually does. The ground was nearly unnavigable walking forward, but backward? It was impossible. Making as much racket as I could, I turned and stumbled my way out of the woods and into the sunlight. I could feel the mama bear’s eyes boring into my back, but I didn’t turn around to see; the hair on the back of my neck bristled, not out of paranoia, but because my sixth sense had finally kicked into gear, and wow was I paying attention to it. I’ve never felt afraid like that, not even as a tiny girl hiding under my parents’ bed during a rare Adirondack tornado warning (word of advice: 4-year-olds should never be allowed to watch The Wizard of Oz). I didn’t run because I couldn’t move too quickly on that uneven ground. I also knew running would only incite the female bear to pounce. I did not want to behave like prey. Since my voice had miraculously started working again, I called to Charlotte, far across the pasture, to make noise, too (okay, I screamed). I knew if I fell, that bear would be on me in an instant. I made it to the other side of the pasture where a confused Charlotte was likely doubting her decision to work on this farm with a lunatic – it was her first day with us! I arrived safe and sound back in the strawberry patch with a great story to tell. And believe me, this is not the first – or last – time it will be told.

Since my bear encounter, I don’t need to step into the woods fearfully, but I do need to use discernment about my surroundings and listen to what my senses – especially my sixth one – are telling me. I’ll definitely make a little more noise than I’ve done in the past. One thing is certain: I owe a debt of gratitude to that mother bear, who, for whatever reason, didn’t follow through on her threats to me. Seasoned woodsmen, my husband included, have told me I’m lucky to be here, telling this story (again). One sturdy country fellow even said this scenario is the only thing that makes him feel fear in the woods. I know that feeling now, and it’s not something I ever wish to encounter again. The forest is still one of my favorite places to be, from a sensory perspective, especially with my husband. Now, his presence with me there takes on special meaning. He makes me feel safe. Autumn is here, and soon we will take a trek into the woods to look for hickory nuts (we will try to salvage what the squirrels have left for us) and to take in the wonder of the stained-glass ceiling of technicolor leaves above our heads. And as for soft, furry creatures, I’ll stick to the adorable kittens in the barn instead.

Photos courtesy of Rebecca Collins Brooks 

Rebecca Collins Brooks is a farmer, writer and farmstead cheesemaker at Hilltop Farm in Accord, NY.  She is the creator and founder of The Meeting of the Milkmaids, a gathering of women working in the cheese and dairy industry. In addition to a small herd of dairy cows, she and her husband Barton raise Wagyu beef, selling meat to customers directly off the farm. Her best friends are two terriers, Winston and Molly; and Sylvie, a truly brilliant barn cat. You can visit the farm by appointment to see where truly good food is grown.

Connect with Rebecca via Instagram @catskillwagyu, on Facebook CatskillWagyu

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