A wrong-way bear in southern Illinois? Or a blurry-eyed golfer’s daydream?
I was taking a break on a long par-5 hole at a wooded golf course in southern Illinois when I felt a heavy, hairy but gentle tap on my shoulder.
Big, hairy hands.
Thick nails.
Deep, growly but friendly voice that sounded a lot like Jim Hanifan, old coach of the football St. Louis Cardinals and Rams.
“Hey man,” he said. “You got a snack? Cake? Chocolate milk. Fried chicken. Wet garbage? I’m starved.”
He looked like one of the famous black bears that I had been in the news media and social media during a summer trek throughout southern Illinois.
I hadn’t seen him, or any bears, around here lately. Short. Husky. Thick. Hunched. He was built like an old offensive guard on the football team.
I gave him my last two peanut butter crackers and asked. “Should I be scared?” because I wasn’t scared.
“Little late for that,” he said, and grinned. His breath took mine away; it smelled like a full Diaper Genie. “I’m Smokey. Yogi. Gentle Ben. Blue. Dewey. Boo Boo. I don’t have a real name. I am a bear. We don’t give names. Call me Bear.”
“Hey, Bear,” I said. “I’m Mack. Real name. Where you been?”
I explained that he was big, big star last summer. But bears have faded from the limelight in Southern Illinois. Where have you been, Bear?
“Being in the Midwest, I’ve learned an important lesson: Stay on the backroads, in the backwoods.” he said. “Out of sight, out of mind. If you want to stay off Facebook, stay off Main Street. Incognito is cool here in the Midwest.”
What about golf courses, Bear?
“Occasionally, I talk to old duffers like you out here solo,” Bear said. “You are out of focus by the back nine. Tired. Fatigued. Daydreaming, like you are right now. Nobody will believe you saw and talked to a bear anyway. Like that birdie on the last hole. You skipped a few putts? It was a 7.”
I laughed. “You can’t sneak around anymore, anywhere, any time. Video cameras everywhere. Everyone has a phone. Everyone is a reporter.”
Bear added, “The good old days. Papa Bear tells me stories. No photos. No proof. No evidence. Even for us bears.”
I asked him about his travel plans and goals?
Bear said, “I’m headed to Chicago. I hear they like Cubs and Bears there. But I get distracted. Lose focus. Two steps forward. Three steps back.”
Based on what I have read, at one point, I told Bear he seemed to be going in circles last summer.
Bear said, “Bears don’t have Google Maps. I don’t have Siri or a spouse telling me when and where to turn.”
I had a few questions for Bear.
How did you cross the Mississippi River, from Missouri to Illinois?
“I’m a chubby bear,” he said. “But I’m a chubby bear who can swim. Never, ever under-estimate the Chub Club. “
How do you bears walk so fast, from community to community?
“Bears don’t sleep,” Bear said. “You humans are sleeping for eight to 10 hours a day. I am out walking in the woods non-stop. Those steps add up. I’ll sleep this winter.”
Why are there bears in southern Illinois?
“We are bears. We don’t know what state we are in. We follow, food, water, climate, mates.”
I asked him when he expected to arrive in Chicago.
“October was my goal, maybe October 2025 now,” he said, “The Cubs season is over in October. High hope for Bears in October but it always ends by Thanksgiving.”
I asked him about the food supply.
“Overrated. Mama Bear told me stories about when there were picnic baskets and cabins in the woods filled with fresh baked foods and trash cans overflowing with fresh garbage. All I find now are Styrofoam cups and energy bar wrappers.”
His observations about golf?
“It’s supposed to be a fun game, right?” he asked. “But you all seem so angry. Always cussing. Always a frown. And the woods are filled with lost golf balls. Don’t know how you golfers play so much but can hit a ball so badly.”
I wished him luck on his journey to Chicago as I pointed him in the direction of Interstate 55. “Stay on 55 all the way,” I said. “There are backroads. But follow along the highway’s path.”
“Stay safe,” I said.
“Count all your strokes,” he said and grinned. Damn Bear winked, I swear.
Bear headed back to the woods. Off the radar. Incognito. In the distance, I saw him pause and take a turn in the wrong direction until he was out of sight. Must have gotten distracted. Or saw a snack.
