Why aren't hungry bears still hibernating? #phenology

We had a visitor last night. S/he tipped over the compost drum, snapped off the 2" X 4" the bluebird house was mounted on, trashed the bluebird house, and then trashed two of the screen panels while climbing onto the deck to see if we forgot to bring in the bird feeders. We obviously have a very hungry bear in the neighborhood, but one that didn't bother to eat the fresh, new fern fronds.

The question that serves as the title for today's post is an honest one. Bears awaken from hibernation at a time when there's almost never much to eat. They do it almost every year. Why, if evolution conditioned bears to basically sleep through the Winter months, didn't it bring bears to the point that they don't become more active until there's more forage for them to eat? Although this article on the essentials of hibernation has lots of interesting information, it doesn't enlighten us as to why bears seem to become active prematurely in the Spring.

sometimes, hungry bears visit during the day

Photo by J. Harrington

There are at least two elements of irony we can think of in regard to last night's visitor. First, we just started rereading Robin Wall Kimmerer's Gathering Moss. The bear's nocturnal visit may have occurred as we were reading the description of the bear clan of the Potawatomi, found in one of the early chapters. Second, the bluebird house has lived on its 2" X 4" for more than 20 years. We installed the stand ourselves and mounted the birdhouse on it. Yesterday, for the first time ever, the Son-In_Law person borrowed our post hole digger. Although far from critical, the loss of the house the very same evening we're missing the tool needed to readily replace it is ironic to the point that we're wondering if there's a larger message here and, if so, what it might be.

In more straightforward activities, the first dandelions are appearing in the yard and the first hummingbirds, ruby- throated, have appeared at the nectar feeder on the front window. We've our fingers crossed that soon we may see scarlet tanagers or indigo buntings or some other semi-exotic transient. The large nectar feeder is now hanging on the deck, adding one more thing to bring in each night to keep from wandering, hungry, curious bears.

Sleep

Twyla M. Hansen

Adult: I have trouble falling asleep at night.
Child: But don’t you close your eyes?

The art of sleep isn’t tough for those who have the gift—
they’re puzzled at the rest of us with trouble in the night.

And during the day, that tumbling sensation, anxious, sad,
the blues, the sun slipping low beyond our grasp.

Tossing and taking forever, we conjure the ancient ones
whose lives revolved around the same sun—sun worshipers—

who discovered fire, calculated the heavens, tracked stars,
who likely slept through most of this gloomy season.

We can’t help but wonder how they’d react to light—
fake light—the stuff we do to trick our body-clock

into believing we are more than some grand experiment—
superior, in fact—to the pull of nature, however quaint.

It’s all we can do to force ourselves out the door in the dark,
overcome the urge to curl into a book and hibernate.

And that child—remember? how we tiptoed not to wake—
a now impossible teen in all her tough circadian torpor.

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