While reading Black Bear by Trina Moyles, my wanderings of the hills and trails near my home took on a new quality. I found myself suddenly noting which trees might make good "rub trees"; which could be best for young cubs to climb.
Because of the author's impeccable translation of her curiosities, experiences and observations, readers are gifted with a vicarious relationship to black bears.
But this is far from a book solely about bears.
The rich and layered narrative shifts to Moyles' at-times tumultuous relationship with her brother; to bitumen extraction in the Alberta oil sands; then back to bears who thread it all together—sometimes explicitly, sometimes as metaphor.
But never does this shifting and threading feel overwrought.
The dynamic relationships between writer and bear; writer and brother; landscape and bear; landscape and brother; is what gives Black Bear the momentum of an engaging page-turner.
Me, admittedly guilty of previously thinking of black bears as totally harmless berry eaters, the book humbled me into a more reality-laced understanding (ie. they can charge as fast as racehorses when spooked). Simultaneously, it opened my perspective well beyond a healthy fear toward something downright magical.
Throughout the book, and because of Moyles' seasonal work at an isolated fire lookout, her relationship to the resident bears—like her relationship to her brother—evolves. At first, she describes them with generalized identifiers like 'sow' and 'boar'. But, ultimately, her reins loosen into recognizing and even giving name to those who forage, and even nap, nearby her fire tower and home.
Moyles' sharp observations are as funny as they are poignant and I laughed with delight when big boy Oscar stomps by in a "bad mood"; felt the awe of Osa emerging and re-emerging.
To be clear, this is no Grizzly Man. Moyles' walks the balance deftly between connection and separation, ever aware of the potential for anthropomorphism, but also not denying her observation and experience.
And we as readers feel a wordless kinship full of beauty and life.
Indeed, there are scenes in this book that will break your heart, including unforgettable juxtaposition between indigenous reverence for a creature often referred to as Brother and Sister and the disposal-culture of a booming oil industry actively encroaching on nature.
But the reality—tapped into so well in this book—is that sometimes hurt and care are inextricable.
This, highlighted by the Mary Oliver quote at the book's forefront (which happens to be one of my gut-wrenching favourites):
"I tell you this to break your heart, by which I mean only that it breaks open and never close again to the rest of the world."
Black Bear is a 5-star, highly recommended read.
