A white bear stepped out of the tree cover onto a streamside rock. Set against the dark rain forest, the bear’s fur appears shabbily radiant. Not pure white, exactly. More like a vanilla-colored carpet in need of a steam cleaning. The bear swung its head from side to side, peering into an eddy for salmon. Before it can lunge for[3] one, a black bear suddenly comes out of the forest and runs the white bear off its perch—though “runs” might be a bit strong. Everything the bears do seems to unfold in slow motion, as if they’re trying to conserve every last calorie for the coming winter. The white bear lumbers[4] into a thicket and disappears.
Robinson watches. He’s spent 15 years among the spirit bears. Still, he’s transfixed. “This particular white bear is very submissive,” he says. “Sometimes that gets to[5] me. I’m protective. I once saw an old white bear attacked by a younger black bear. I was about to jump in and pepper spray the black one. The instinct was strong in me. But then the white one reared up and threw him off.” Robinson smiles.
Robinson isn’t alone. That same protective instinct runs strong throughout the Great Bear Rainforest. It’s one of the factors that have kept the spirit bear alive. “Our people never hunted the white bear,” said a native clan matriarch. Bear meat was rarely a main food, though they went after black bear in greater numbers when European merchants established the British Columbian fur trade in the late 18th century. Even in those days, taking a white bear was taboo, a tradition that has continued through many generations. “We never even spoke of the spirit bear at the dinner table,” she said.
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