Man on Becoming the Hunted
Prey-mind and why a little fear might be good for us
Snapping to attention when I hear a twig break, I watch the indifferent swagger of a brown bear as it gorges on spawning pink salmon. He’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
His paw print could encompass an 8.5” by 11” sheet of paper.
The owner of the off-grid cabin warned me, “These aren’t park bears.” Kodiak City’s 100 miles of roads allow a visitor to see a bear from the comfort of their vehicle. These bears are accustomed to being watched, reaching a level of docility that one could call “park-like.”
A bear living in the remote sections of the island behaves differently since it’s unlikely they’ve ever encountered a human.
A human isn’t something to fear, but a curiosity or annoyance. Guides describe bears, after detecting a follower, sitting and waiting for the tracker creeping behind them. Other times, they’ll circle behind the follower, stealing the role of hunter from the human.
The bears here are still in charge.
In the Northeast, we have black bears. Powerful, yes, but likely to slip away before you see them.
From a predator standpoint, there’s nothing to fear. There’s a hubris etched into the psyche of people habituated to the woods of the Northeastern US. Getting lost, trying to find a trailhead or parked vehicle; I’m familiar with these follies, and every time I think to myself, “This may suck, but at least I don’t need to worry about a grizzly bear or mountain lion sneaking up on me.”
Hunters shot the last Catamount in Vermont in 1881 and wiped out wolves soon after.
There isn't a trail network on most of Kodiak, so I used game trails when convenient to get through the dense thicket of brambles and alders. Each potentially hid a bear. To a brown bear, swatting me to the side is an afterthought. Bat me around like a ragdoll and throw me into the salmonberry bushes? A 1,500-pound boar would think nothing of making me fodder for fox and raven.
Still, it’s difficult to un-see a wild place; knowing such a place exists tends to have one of two effects on a person: they’re either comforted not to be living in such a place or maddened by not existing within it.
By eliminating all predators capable of hunting humans in the Northeast, we’ve successfully made it our domain, a form of ecological tyranny. In places like Kodiak, we observe a role reversal: humans as prey.
Vigilance, attention to detail, is not a choice. Call it prey-mind: a nervous attention that sharpens the senses for survival.
On Kodiak, bears became everything, all-consuming gluttons of my decision-making. Success didn’t mean getting a deer; it meant not being got by a bear.
There’s a contemporary romanticism for bears, big cats, and wolves. Yet, in most of the lower 48, we’re also used to ruling the roost of our woods. I can only imagine the reaction to a modern-day Catamount attack in Vermont. The day a mountain lion snatches a child as prey is the day a mountain lion bounty is created (sanctioned or not); rewilding efforts be damned.
Human control over nature started with fire, farming, and exploration, but since the 1950s industrialization turning point, whether or not a place remains wild or cultivated, is predominantly a matter of human choice, no longer restricted by cognitive, natural, or capital resources.
Knowing a predator could be anywhere, you’re no longer in command. The nervous, paranoid movements of a prey animal no longer seem so strange, so unrelatable. High-definition lines pop and borders stand out, like a snowshoe hare in its winter coat on a snowless landscape.
Fear hones peripheral vision, and with each delicate step, I remind myself of a deer.
It would be a lie to say I don’t miss that feeling when I walk in the woods of the Northeast. I can be a slob in these woods, missing countless details, ignoring cues; maybe the consequence is that I get lost or miss a shot.
Paul Rezendes described the biodiversity balance of Isle Royale between moose and wolf as two animals forming a single organism.1 In this totality, each requires the other for a healthy existence.
Does the absence of a predator, one that can bat us around like a cat does a mouse, distort our sense of the woods? On our greater sense of purpose?
Would it not do us good to have a sense of fear or helplessness when we walk in the forest? As a result of this sensory jolt, what new species would we see, smell, and hear if we felt the constant threat of a mountain lion clinging to our back? Would traffic, flight delays, and internet outages be as maddening? Would I still loathe the desk, chair, and screen if I began my day, not with a walk in the park-like woods of New England, but instead with a hike where paying attention wasn’t a choice?
Is there a dormant part of our brain that, once engaged, could serve as a counterforce to unchecked domination?
I can’t help but think that without a predator, we’re missing the other half of the single organism, not unlike that described by Rezendes’ wolf-moose dynamic. Instead of an overpopulation of moose, it’s a free-for-all of human thought, complete control, unchecked by the primal threat of being hunted.
Nature has become a plaything, without consequence, there only for our entertainment, designed by us, left wild only if we deem it so.
Observing a deer utilize its sixth sense is illustrative. Abruptly stopping to change directions, they don’t smell, hear, or see the hunter, but know something is askew because they sense it. The result of this adherence to instinct is survival.
Sitting on a rock ridge that overlooks the Champlain Valley, I lean back, arms folded behind my head. Dozing, I hear cars below and planes above—nothing to fear on this hazy August day.
Sharpen focus without the hustle hamster wheel
Rezendes, Paul. Tracking & the Art of Seeing. Collins Reference. 1999.
Thought provoking Jesse. I have a very healthy respect for bears, even moreso after reading this.
"Nature as a plaything." Disheartening, yet true. What would be different when the senses are more attuned. I think of walking around an airport and noticing that obliviousness and lack of attention - eyes glued through screens with just enough awareness to weave around people. A confidence that someone else is keeping watch from the badness. How I can see the same disconnect from recreational pursuerers who trust the guardrails we have constructed "outside."
"... be a slob." That sticks. I saw a huge pile of black bear scat yesterday and instead of being weary, I was excited. Intrigued, even. But then, I think of my first Grizzly encounter and it t r u l y scared me. How walking in Grizzly country has me on full alert. The smallest details guide my decisions. Arid lands hold my attention in the same way but for different reasons.
As always, thoughts to think about.