I Was Followed By a Bear While Hiking. Here’s the Mistake I Made
I’d been warned to “avoid animal encounters,” but I couldn’t explain that to the snuffling black bear following me along the narrow plank road between Guise Bay and the Cape Scott Lighthouse—15 metres behind me, step-for-fearsome-step.
Encounters like this don’t happen out of nowhere. Mine began a few months earlier, when my then boyfriend (now husband), Evan, suggested a multi-day hike on the Cape Scott Trail, on the northwestern tip of Vancouver Island.
Our earliest dates had been outdoors—hiking the Howe Sound Crest Trail, camping in Garibaldi Park and kayaking among the islands of the Salish Sea. By the time we’d been together a couple of years, Cape Scott felt like the natural next step in both our wilderness pursuits and our relationship.
After a side trip to San Josef Bay, the in-and-out hike to the lighthouse would total just over 50 kilometres spread across three days. It was the kind of trip Evan, a seasoned Venturer Scout leader, had heaps of experience planning. To prepare, we collected maps, brochures and library books—pre-internet relics with handwritten notes in the margins and black-and-white sketches of the trail. The BC Parks guide warned of black bears, wolves and cougars, offering tips for what to do if one appeared.
As we dehydrated food and packed and repacked my new backpack, those warnings lingered. Like most hikers in the early 1990s, Evan relied on the traditional advice: hike in groups, make noise, wear bear bells. But as a twosome rather than a troop of rowdy Scouts, we decided to follow newer recommendations and bought a can of bear spray.
After travelling into the territory of the Kwakwaka’wakw and Quatsino Peoples, and entering that cathedral of Sitka spruce and red cedar at the Cape Scott trailhead, I was mesmerized. The air hung heavy with the smell of moss and earth, rich and fecund, intensifying each time my boot sank into the dark muddy soil.
Our first day was long, but eventually the forested path opened onto marshland—a silver-green prairie where tall grasses covered the remains of Danish settler cabins and rusting farm relics. Later still, we emerged onto a wild sweep of beach. We were nearly there.
But while I combed for sand dollars, Evan discovered the hot spots he’d treated earlier in the day with moleskin had flared into blisters. By the next morning, it was clear his feet needed a day to heal. The final three kilometres to the lighthouse were supposed to be an easy out-and-back, and I couldn’t imagine coming this far and not finishing. So, after some discussion, we agreed: he’d rest on the beach while I left my backpack and hiked to the lighthouse and back solo.
He waved me off as I set out—lighter without the heavy pack but also, as I’d later regret, without my whistle or our only can of bear spray. Back then, the advice on carrying spray wasn’t as clear as it is now. Instead of clipped to a belt, the canister was buried at the bottom of Evan’s pack. Having only ever encountered wildlife at a distance, I didn’t think to dig it out.
I only remembered it when, shortly after the trail transitioned to the weathered WWII-era plank road, I sensed someone behind me. Turning, I found myself staring at a black bear.
Thinking quickly, I tried to recall everything I’d read. Standing tall, I told the bear to shoo in my loudest, firmest voice. It had absolutely no effect. The bear simply waited for me to stop talking and keep walking. When I slowed, it slowed. When I sped up, it sped up.
With my heart pounding, I stepped off the trail into thick muck and pushed as deep as I could into the impenetrable underbrush, holding my breath behind an old power pole, hoping to disappear. Instead of passing me by, the bear stood on its hind legs, sniffed the air and located me easily. Dropping back to all fours, it casually returned to our stalemate.
Mindful of the clock—Evan and I had agreed that if I wasn’t back in three hours, he’d come looking for me—I considered bushwhacking deeper into the woods and trying to loop back towards Evan. But since I can get lost in even a parking lot, it seemed too risky. The bear looked calm, almost peaceful. So after telling him we were stuck with each other, I rejoined him on the path. As I looked back warily, the bear fell into step behind me.
So, I did the only thing I could think of: I sang. For the longest half hour of my life, I filled the silent forest with verse after verse of The Bear Went Over the Mountain. Every time I tried to switch to something less on-the-nose, I blanked on the words. It was all I had. At least, I thought grimly, if I stayed on the trail, someone would find my remains if the bear took offense to my singing voice.
Eventually, the moss-draped trail gave way to a rough gravel track and the underbrush opened up. Moments later, the lighthouse buildings came into view. At that point, the bear—apparently having reached its own destination—slipped off into the trees.
Breathless with relief and shaking with adrenaline, I hurried to the station to report my sighting. The lighthouse-keeper nodded knowingly. “Like people,” he said, “bears prefer the easy path.” He offered to walk me back to our campsite—with his bear spray firmly in hand.
Looking back, I can see the bear wasn’t behaving aggressively. In fact, Kathy Murray, Provincial Coordinator with WildSafeBC explains that bears that have frequent neutral encounters with people experience something called human habituation, where they lose their natural fear of people. Instead of avoiding me, it treated me like I was part of the landscape. And like the other 120,000 to 150,000 black bears that live in BC, my bear was just trying to travel its own road.
The real mistake was mine. I hadn’t carried the essentials—things I might have needed if the bear had acted defensively, or shown stalking behaviour, and I was forced off the trail: a first aid kit, extra clothes, shelter, a means of starting a fire and a way to navigate. Even if I had been carrying bear spray, I hadn’t learned how—or when—to use it. I’d made choices that put both me and the bear at risk.
That day didn’t turn me into someone who avoids wild places. If anything, it deepened my respect for them. Now, when I double-check where the bear spray is or slide my first aid kit into my pack, it isn’t out of fear—it’s out of gratitude. The bear taught me the wilderness is never ours to control.
At best, we get to share the trail.
Be Bear Aware
Advice from Kathy Murray, Provincial Coordinator, WildSafeBC
“The safest encounter is the one prevented.”
Kathy Murray has spent more than 20 years teaching people how to stay safe in bear country. Her top advice? Be prepared and assume you could encounter a bear anytime. That means making noise—especially near blind corners, noisy creeks or in thick brush—and watching for signs like scat, footprints or claw-marked trees.
“Carry bear spray and have it accessible on your hip, not buried in your pack.”
WildSafeBC offers a free, 30-minute online course called Bear Safety When Recreating along with a variety of other training courses and videos. “Bear spray is no substitute for common sense in wildlife habitat,” Murray says, “but it’s a great tool to have.”
When a bear does appear, most encounters aren’t dangerous.
“Typically, bears will carry on doing their thing or just run off.”
Still, Murray notes that bears will defend three things: food, space and cubs. In those cases, the safest move is to back away slowly while talking calmly:
“Hey bear, it’s me. I’m backing away to give you space.”
If the bear continues to approach, that’s when it’s time to use your spray.
Murray adds that mountain bikers and runners are at higher risk because of their speed and silence—frequently calling out something like, “hey-oh!!” is important (calling “hey bear” could cause others on the trail to think there’s a bear, and panic). And for dog owners, she’s clear:
“Dogs chasing wildlife can result in conflict or defensive encounters. Keep them leashed or under strict voice control.”
Any defensive encounter or contact with an aggressive bear should be reported to the BC Conservation Officer Service at 1-877-952-7277.
Find additional resources, videos, and free training at wildsafebc.com.
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Wow, great story – and good lessons for bear country adventures! Thank you – I’m much better informed than I was ten minutes ago, and a lot less anxious as a result! My bear encounters so far in life added up to only one, on a peaceful, sunny morning in the brushlands of the Canadian shield, where I was standing early fire watch while my cub pack of 18 or so young boys slept in their lean-tos during the annual July cub camp. Momma black bear and her two cubs passed by about 600 yards down the trail from our flat, lakeside campsite, where I was beside the campfire in the centre of our circle, drinking my first cup of coffee of the day. I froze, then clattered some pans and utensils, and began to sing Kumbaya – I suspect that the dishware might have been a huge mistake for bears in Ontario camping spots, but apparently my solo rendition of a cub scout classic was enough to make Momma decide that her babies would be better off elsewhere, and she ambled away with them in tow, much to my great relief. We had one more day in that location, so our first lesson of that day was “what to do when you see a bear with babies”, and activities that kept us all in one large, noisy, and boisterous group close to the lake and under strict watch by myself and the other five scouting leaders until the next morning. We also doubled up the night shift fire watch staffing that night just in case, but didn’t see or hear from Momma and the cubs again. Back in those days (the mid-70’s), we didn’t think about bear spray, just working scout whistles and pack bells, but these days we have a lot better tools to use to make sure we and the wildlife come out of encounters happy to tell the story, and all we need to do is use them wisely. Thanks for reinforcing the lesson, and for reminding me of that now that I don’t get out as often as I used to!