Bear Witness

The keeper calls the two bears in Spanish, walks through the enclosure’s gate and dumps fruits and vegetables on the ground. The animals approach. Like the countless bears I’ve seen in pictures and pamphlets over the past few days, Paca and Tola put on a “Who, me?” teddy-bear expression – far from the vicious, roaring poses in which the North American griz is photographed.

In Canada, the last thing I want is to stumble upon a grizzly, but here in Asturias, Spain, I hope to get a close-up view. Only 170 osos pardos (brown bears) are left in the country, nearly all of them living in the mountainous northwest, including Asturias. So the locals are providing dinner for the beasts to boost their numbers, making them an improbable ambassador for tourism. (Paca and Tola, orphaned as cubs by a poacher, have become poster bears for the conservation work.) A bonus is that by saving the bear, the people here may also be safeguarding their villages – and Celtic-style culture, complete with bagpipes, tartans and apple cider – from extinction by rural depopulation. “Where there are bears now, there are tourists, and where there are tourists, there is money,” says Antonio Fernández, a public educator with the local bear foundation.

The government goes so far as to plant fruit and nut trees specifically for the bears. It’s even possible to adopt a beehive for their dining pleasure. This is unimaginable in Canada’s wild country, where town councils urge residents to pick their fruit so bears won’t come for dinner. My heart pounding, I’ve even seen one walking along my mother’s fence on Vancouver Island to nab her apples, a sighting that would be a bucket-list experience for a Spaniard today.

We bike through narrow canyons and tunnels, one of them so long and dark that I can’t see the ground. As we emerge, my partner stutters, “Is that a bear?” But it’s just a large brown boulder in the shadows.

While I’m unlikely to spot the oso in the wild – a lucky tourist from Madrid did glimpse one a few years back – my best chance may well be on the Senda del Oso. Travelling the Path of the Bear by bicycle, I can move fast if I need to.

A former rail line along the Teverga and Trubia rivers, the trail winds through limestone gorges, mountainous pastures and patchwork farms. My man, James, and I pick up rental bikes in La Plaza, where a white cliff hangs gleaming above the town like the dream of monuments to be. We start pedalling at the 11th-century Church of San Pedro de Teverga, one of the oldest churches in Spain. Asturias was the Christians’ only holdout against the Moors; they hunkered down in these isolated valleys until, centuries later, they reconquered the country. Carved on the facade of the church are the faces of bears, and I imagine that the totem beasts helped keep the Moors on the other side of the mountains.

We stop in at the Fundación Oso de Asturias in Proaza, not far from where we have our close encounter with Paca and Tola. “The bear is a symbol of Asturias,” Fernández tells us, “but its history is one of love and hate, fear and admiration,” he adds, leading us to the building’s educational displays. In ancient Asturias, the bear was venerated. But in the Middle Ages, it became the victim of trophy hunting. Starting in the 1500s, bounty hunting nearly wiped out the entire bear population; only about 80 animals remained by 1900. Conservationists had to do something fast or the bear itself would be history. They created the foundation in 1992 to reduce poaching and preserve habitat, working with a neighbouring area’s own bear foundation. Since then, the region’s ursine population has swelled by as many as 60 individuals.

Continuing along the Senda, we ride through narrow canyons and tunnels. One tunnel is over 200 metres long and so dark, I can’t see the ground. I feel like I’m floating. As we emerge, James stutters, “Is that a bear?” But it’s just a large brown boulder in the shadows. Local lore will do that to you (the Asturians are inclined to magical thinking, and statuettes of gnomes and fairies seem to be everywhere). But pedalling through the next valley, we feel more sensible. It’s open and green, sprinkled with small farms, orchards and pastures. Here the ever-present Asturian cow – an official heritage breed, massive and caramel coloured with impressive horns – chews grass placidly while her bell rings through the countryside. We pass several hórreos, traditional wooden storehouses propped up on stone posts. The most distinctive buildings here, they were used to keep grain, chestnuts and other winter foods out of reach of mice and rain. And maybe the odd marauding bear.

After returning our bicycles, we stroll over to Restaurante La Chabola and sit down on the bar’s patio. We order una sidra for the full Asturian experience. Drinking and contemplating the Church of San Pedro with its iconic stone bears, we become philosophical. Is it possible for Canadians to rethink our attitude to bears while we can still take them for granted? We dole out more cider from the bottle, which makes me surprisingly light-headed, as if I’m drinking champagne. (A local gave us the valuable tip to only pour what we can gulp down at once so that it stays frothy.) When dusk falls, an old gnarled tree takes on a suspiciously ursine form. But instead of Canadian fear, I feel Asturian magic.  

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