In 1968, a black bear wandered from the Honey Island Swamp into Slidell. Here's the story, embellished by News Banner feature writer Polly Morris, in her own creative style.
The Big Black Bear Scare
BY POLLY MORRIS
It was a day in late May of 1968 when a bear left Honey Island Swamp and paid Slidell a memorable visit. The bear had not planned it that way.. .
He woke up at sunrise as usual, and breakfasted on berries and branch water. His meal silenced the rumbling in his belly, but not the strange stirrings in his innards. Restless and bored, he decided to mosey over to the territory of a young she-bear that had caught his myopic eyes. He hoped some nice muzzling and muzzling would calm his thumping gizzard, but the she-bear impatiently cuffed him aside. Spring turned young man's fancies to love, but he would have to bear up another month or so until early summer. He only had Spring fever anyhow, so get lost, she snapped savagely.
Well.. he just might do that very thing. So he left Steamboat Bayou in a huff, and crossed Flea Point. Still grouchy and peevish, he plunged into Pearl River, grumbling to himself. He swam to the opposite bank and shook huge diamonds of water from his shaggy body. The dunking in cold water had cooled his hot blood, and the bright warm caused him to blink and to think. It had been a long time since his hide had been warmed by sunshine. Maybe his sweet disposition had been soured by too much of the dank swamp. Shucks! All he needed was a brighter outlook on life.
He started loping through the woods, whoofing and snorting. The faster he ran, the happier he became. The fresh ozone air was intoxicating and the heady fragrance of magnolia so invigorating that the bear began to believe that he could exceed the 30 mile per hour speed set for him by humans. Foolish creatures! Had they ever clocked a young bear delirious with the sheer joy of living?
He was going like sixty when he heard whooshing and roaring noises, and began putting on his brakes. He skidded almost out of the piney woods, then stared at a wide trail that looked as hard as a turtle shell. Huge monsters thundered along it and frightened him until he realized that they were like the funny things that, possomlike, carried living things inside them to campsites. They were noisy and smelly but bearable if one did not meet them headon. They had critter names like bobcat and rabbit and thunderbird. He would be a barefaced coward to let them curtail his adventures.
It was still early in the morning and the gadabout bear did not wait long for a break in the highway traffic. He scooted across unnoticed and felt quite proud of himself. All his kith and kin were curious, peering at people from under-cover. But he was a rare bear indeed, brave and daring. He plodded along in a wobbling gait until he came to the outskirts of Slidell, where he stopped and sniffed, his sensitive nose twitching with tantalizing odors. He could identify the aroma of cured ham, pork chops, syrup and jam.
Bubbling over with confidence and good will and a hearty appetite, he took leave of his forest trail and headed into town. By now he doubted that human beings were dangerous. Anyone who left such delicious tidbits laying around their campsites for animals could not be all bed. Perhaps it was an overture of friendship to four-footed friends. As long as he did not crash headon with humans and their metal rabbits and such, he anticipated no danger.
The vagabond bear congratulated himself on his common sense when he at last trotted down the street between houses. His reception was magnificent. Big and little human beings shouted and screamed with glee at his approach. They ran to their houses to see him pass, not wanting to frighten him away. But before they departed, the little humans generously tossed things aside for him to find. Sandwiches filled with peanut butter and jelly . . . cookies . . . candy bars. Half a bottle of pop.
He munched his way down the street, partaking of each goodie to show his appreciation of the tasty offerings. Only when he heard a weird wailing sound like that of a screech owl did he look up from crunching a crisp pork crackling. Well, well!
The people were coming out after all, to congregate around a flashing red light. Maybe they were getting ready for a picnic, and would not want him too close. He had better mind his manners and keep his distance, so he politely headed for a tall pine tree and clawed his way to a comfortable branch. Here he could watch what was going on, and he looked down from his lofty perch to study humans as never before.
The bear noticed that everyone was pointing up at his tree like they did in the woods when they spotted a pileated woodpecker. He looked around, but he could not see what had attracted their attention. The people shouted and screamed and fussed with one another, but no one opened a picnic basket or a bottle of pop.
The commotion went on and on and he began to get drowsy and bored. It had been an eventful day, but his belly was full and he needed quiet. Those live human beings were acting quite crazy now. He flinched a little when what was possibly a bee stung him, but it was no more annoying as when he raided a honey tree.
Ho hum! he could barely keep his nearsighted eyes open. He slouched down in the crotch of the tree for a snooze. And missed the most exciting part of his day.
When the first frantic telephone call came into the police department, it relieved the dull routine with a ripple of laughter. Pink elephants. . purple alligators. . . and now a huge black bear coming down a street of Slidell. Let NASA handle something as far-out as this . . . It was either a hallucination, a hoax, or a prankster dressed up in a Mardi Gras costume.
But as more calls followed the first, the dutiful but dubious police went to the scene of the turmoil, sirens screaming to let the people know that help was on its way. Suddenly the patrol car squealed to a halt, its way blocked by a real-live bear of a small bear species.
Except It looked as big as a grizzly. In due respect to the police, their usual efficiency was overcome by a most unusual situation. They were people-police and the proper procedure was to frisk the suspect, handcuff him, and read the Miranda. All of which was now hysterically comical. Their situation was complicated because people were emerging from houses now that the boys in blue were there to protect them from The Beast. The policemen opened the doors of the patrol car with understandable reluctance.
The bear temporarily solved their dilemma by clambering up a tree. The bloodthirsty ones in the mob shouted "shoot him!", but the officers hesitated. The bear was eighty feet up. If a bullet missed It could ricochet.
If it hit, it could only injure a dangerous animal. If it hit right, there would be an awful splatter of blood and guts and bear fat. Once again they were spared a dread decision by animal lovers who screamed that killing an innocent animal would be like cold-blooded murder. He had only disturbed the peace, and it would be in-human to kill him.
What about the Humane Society? This led to another ticklish situation. They were dedicated to kindness to animals, but they were trained only to care for domestic creatures. They could not say what to do with a wild bear. but they could be quite unhelpful and say what must not be done. Not a hair must be hurt on Bruin's big body.
Jokers in the crowd had a field. No one knew what to do in a hairy situation. Face the bare facts. Police were people-chasers, and the SPCA was only a dog catching outfit. Everyone was like the bear . . up a tree. Build a fire under the tree and put the heat on the fire department. Call Frank Buck. Call Wild Kingdom. The last stupid remark chanced to be the smartest yet. Marlin Perkins used tranquillizers on TV . . did the New Orleans Zoo use them too?
At long last a specialist arrived, measured out the proper amount of tranquillizer, and shot the bear. The people prepared to run from an enraged beast that would come down from the tree fighting mad. When the dart hit, the bear only twitched and settled down for a nap. Which created another problem. How to get the related bear down from the tree? Leaving him to sleep it off was like leaving a sniper on a tower, and would paralyze the city indefinitely.
At long last a traveling crane called a cherry picker was sent to the scene. Eighty feet up, men pulled and pushed and pried at the slumped and slumbering bear until they finally got him into the conveyance. Then he was lowered to a waiting truck and transported back to Honey Island Swamp.
The bear scare ended in big black headlines in a local newspaper. But the spectators never forgot the way-out wayfarer who proved one thing: In a world of hate and hunger and hydrogen bombs, Man is still sentimental enough to work long and hard to rescue one small bear.
When the vagabond awoke next morning, a flock of crows were tormenting one old owl high in a pine tree. What a dream! No doubt the loud cawing of the birds had caused a silly dream about humans squawking over something up high in a pine tree.
End of Polly Morris Article
