An oversized version of the bumper sticker that Steve Searles designed, in Mammoth Lakes, California. Photo / Akasha Rabut, The New York Times
Steve Searles, known as the 'bear whisperer' of Mammoth Lakes, California, quit his post after the coronavirus epidemic led to cuts in the town's budget.
You can't teach a misbehaving black bear a lesson through a Zoom conference call.
That takes boots on the pine needles or some firecrackers. But Steve Searles, one of the most well-known ursid wranglers, the bear whisperer of Mammoth Lakes, California, is out of the job, yet another of wildlife conservation's coronavirus victims.
In this mountain town in California's Eastern Sierra, Searles' gravelly timbre was usually all the bears needed to straighten up. The ponytailed former surfer and construction worker, who appeared in an Animal Planet television show that carried his nickname, worked as the wildlife specialist for the town of Mammoth Lakes for decades. He had no training in biology or animal behaviour but used nonlethal tactics to help some bears change their ways, inspiring or training other communities to try similar approaches.
"Hey, bad bear!" he'd often growl. "You get out of here."
As the coronavirus pandemic wears on, Mammoth Lakes, like municipalities nationwide, has faced budget shortfalls and started looking for cuts. Searles was recently asked to work six months, through the busy summer bear season, instead of year-round, cutting his salary in half. So he turned in his badge and uniform and resigned this month.
"With me or without me, we've set the example here in Mammoth of what is possible," he said. "Whether this gets worked out or not, all of us have the ability to coexist with bears and lock the damn dumpsters."
Around the world, the pandemic has thrown a wrench into the managed balance between wildlife and humanity. In parts of Africa, reduced budgets to pay park rangers may be driving an increase in poaching. In South Carolina, the National Wild Turkey Federation experienced a "near catastrophic loss of revenue" and laid off more than 50 employees.
At the same time, more people are heading outdoors, hopeful that the virus won't spread in the fresh air. Some are catching too many fish, while others are hiking in closed parks and leaving too much trash behind. In places like Mammoth Lakes, that raises concern about how the bears may respond.
Al Davis, the town's police chief, said budget cuts were across the board. But he said his officers would be able to handle black bear calls.
"We're equipped for it," he said. "They're trained by Steve."
Just over 8,000 people live in Mammoth Lakes, a destination for many of California's city dwellers, along with about a dozen bears, who nap on its golf greens and turn up near the ski lift, but usually know to keep their distance from people.
More than 1.5 million tourists visit the area yearly to ski, hike, mountain bike or simply take selfies amid the rugged peaks. And both Searles and Davis said the town has been packed with visitors in recent weeks despite the pandemic.
Many tourists and campers learn about proper food storage in bear country the hard way. Even a months-old candy bar wrapper left in the back seat can prompt a black bear to bust a car window. Searles, 62, said he has handed out thousands of bumper stickers that say, "Mammoth: Don't Feed Our Bears."
In other parts of California, the state's Department of Fish and Wildlife captures and euthanises black bears that have become habituated to humans and cause property damage, or issues permits for owners to do it themselves.
Searles, a longtime hunter, was originally hired by the town to kill bears that were causing havoc. Instead, he got to know them, and he has worked to show the town and nearby areas that the animal can be trained to avoid people and their belongings. He opposes euthanising bears that cause problems, preferring shouting and other aversive conditioning to tell bears when they aren't welcome. He hazes them only if they get out of line, which can mean setting off firecrackers, shouting or, occasionally, firing shotgun-propelled bean bags at them.
"I never met a bear that couldn't learn," he said. "I mean, I don't try to teach bears geometry or how to ride a unicycle."
John Hechtel, a retired wildlife biologist for Alaska's Department of Fish and Game, said he believes there were some benefits to Searles' methods.
"If the residents are happy and they think he's doing a good job and they feel like having him there addresses the issue, that's a good thing," said Hechtel, who spent more than 30 years studying bears.
He added that the bear whisperer probably had a greater effect on how people in Mammoth Lakes perceived and reacted to bears than on the animals themselves. "The question, to me, is how much damage people will tolerate," he said. "There are some places that won't tolerate any damage."
Hechtel said it wouldn't be practical for state wildlife agencies to emulate Searles' tactics on a broader scale. Bears that habitually break into homes and cars in search of food aren't likely to change, he said, no matter how much you yell. Hechtel "likes bears as much as anyone on the planet," he said, but some repeat offenders do need to be euthanised.
Earlier this month, a young black bear tore the screen off Christian Pondella's window in Mammoth Lakes and poked his head inside. The bear was no stranger. It had made it as far as Pondella's living room once.
"Shoo! Go away!" Pondella and his son shouted at the bear, as caught in an Instagram video.
Responding to the incident was one of Searles' last calls.
"We called him because we know he's who you call," Pondella said.
Searles told the family to make more noise next time and invest in some firecrackers, and try to make the bear know the house means trouble. Pondella said he might get a dog, too.
Pondella said the whole town was sad about the bear whisperer's departure. Among the hundreds of supportive replies to a short Facebook post Searles wrote, one commenter said Mammoth's bears "just lost their best friend."
Searles said he has shed a few tears and fielded a lot of phone calls in the past week. He said he wouldn't respond to bear calls without the badge and authority behind it. He is not sure what the future holds, but like the bears of Mammoth Lakes, he doesn't want to stray too far.
"I've been pretty down in the dumps, but I went on a bicycle ride up into the lakes basin and thought, 'Hey, you're living in paradise, bro,'" he said. "I think I'll be buried here in Mammoth."
Written by: Jason Nark
Photographs by: Akasha Rabut
© 2020 THE NEW YORK TIMES
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