The Old Man and the Bears
The old man was bear-like, gruff, and rough-mannered.
He walked with a slow gait, his broad shoulders slumped
forward. When he spoke, the sound came from deep in his
throat, like thunder traveling over a long distance.
The old man hardly said two words in a row unless a person asked him about bears. Then his eyes lit up and he had a lot to say.
As kids we often climbed the trail to the old man’s orchard. It was one of the most beautiful for miles around.
More than one hundred trees stood above the village: peach, pear, apple, and apricot. They grew on a narrow strip of flat ground about halfway up the side of the mountain. The trees stood in neat rows with their graceful branches raised, like ballet dancers with arms lifted to the sky. The old man lived on the edge of his property in a tumbledown shack. He kept warm in winter by the heat of a wood stove, which he also used for cooking.
The orchard had been left to the old man by his father. Before that it had been left to his father, and so on back in time.
The old man never seemed to mind when we kids came to visit. We helped him with the work. There were always enough jobs to go around. When the work was done, we liked to gather around the old man. He sat stoop-shouldered in his straight-backed chair, and we urged him to tell what he knew about bears.
When the old man talked about bears, something remarkable happened. His words became pictures in our minds, as real as the breeze on our skin or the flies that pestered us.
The old man said his name was Octaviano. When I was eight, he was past ninety. He said he had been named Octaviano because he was the eighth child of his parents, who had raised thirteen children. (Oct- means “eight.”)
The old man had jobs for us during all seasons of the year. One of my favorites was helping to make fires on spring evenings to protect the fruit blossoms from frost. We piled heaps of sweet-smelling cedar sticks between the rows of trees. Octaviano followed with his pocketknife, and shaved fine strips of cedar for kindling. He let us light the fires with matches he handed out. The fires flickered in the early darkness like tiny stars fallen from heaven.
The old man cared for his trees as a mother bear watches her cubs. We were amazed to discover he allowed bears to come into his orchard in the fall to eat as much fruit as they could hold.
Black bears were considered a menace to fruit growers. Most fruit trees were fenced in or guarded by dogs that scared off the bears. Some growers kept vigils with shotguns, ready to send a blast over the heads of the bears to drive them away.
Not Octaviano.
The old man had no fences, no dogs, and no gun. The bears came down out of the mountains on autumn evenings and moved among his fruit trees, and he let them. He watched from the safety of his shack. He never bothered the bears while they fattened up on red apples or juicy peaches or pears with skins as smooth as silk.
I wanted to see the bears for myself. On a September evening I sneaked close to the orchard on my hands and knees. I lay for a long time, belly-down on the dirt at the edge of the orchard, watching and listening.
I heard the huffing sounds of bears stuffing their mouths with food, and made out the vague shapes of small bears, medium-sized bears, and big sows lumbering under the trees. Many of the bears sat on the ground on their broad bottoms and leaned their backs against the trunks. They reached with hairy arms to pluck fruit dangling from the lower branches. They were lazy and relaxed, like people at a barbecue.
My heart beat fast to see such a sight. I shivered, realizing I was observing wild black bears feasting not fifty feet away.
I yearned to know why the old man allowed the bears to eat the fruit he took such pains to grow.
It was a week before I worked up the courage to ask. I went alone, thinking it might be easier to approach the old man without my friends along. I hoped he would be willing to explain.
He was. This is the story he told me.
“I was raised in the mountains,” Octaviano told me. “My people killed their winter meat hunting elk, deer, and bear. My father was the best hunter in the village. He expected me to follow in his footsteps. He wished all of his sons to be like him, strong hunters who provided well for their families.” Octaviano paused for a moment before going on.
“I was not like the other boys. I was afraid of the noise of guns. I did not like killing animals. When I was twelve, my father gave me a rifle and proudly took me to a mudhole that the bears liked. The bears came to roll in the mud and cool off. My father whispered, ‘Shoot.’ I froze. At last I squeezed the trigger, but the bears were by then aware of our presence. My shot tore through a bear’s shoulder as it tried to escape. The bear ran away.
“For three days we tracked the wounded bear. We heard it groaning in pain. When we found it, my father put it out of its misery.” The old man’s brow furrowed as he remembered.
“I never touched a gun again. My father shunned me for my weakness, never understanding.”
“And now … ?” I whispered.
“I try to make up for what I did. I share what I have with the bears. Do you feel the same, that it is right to share with the bears?”
I nodded in silence. Of course, I thought. Of course it was right to share with the bears.
