On a frigid Friday morning in the Book Cliffs of eastern Utah, a line of figures stood braced against an oncoming snowstorm.
They dotted the steep hillside in patches of color: search and rescue volunteers in red coats, Division of Wildlife Resources biologists in muted earth tones, conservation officers in dark uniforms punctuated by gold badges. Snow blew sideways across the scrub oak and sandstone.
We were all there for a bear.
Below us, a small group from the Utah Division of Wildlife Resources carefully side-stepped down the steep slope toward a rocky outcrop half-hidden in oak brush. In his hand, lead biologist Clint Sampson carried a jab stick — a specialized veterinary tool used to deliver injections to animals from a safe distance. The team moved slowly toward a narrow opening in the rocks.
Sampson explained how they are able to find bears that are so well hidden.
“It's quite a process to find one. We go off the GPS collar data now, and then we use the VHF frequencies with our antenna and receivers to narrow down where they're at," he said. "When you're stumbling around a cliffy hillside covered in snow, it can get pretty exciting, pretty sporting, and then, when you kind of narrow it down between a couple different rocks or a big tree, your blood pressure can go up and your heartbeat. It's an exciting process.”
The den opening, we would soon learn, was no larger than a beach ball. Inside was a 4-and-a-half-year-old female black bear, her coat a cinnamon color. Even after burning through much of her fat during winter hibernation, it was hard to imagine the bear squeezing through such a small entrance.
Visits like this might seem unusual — wildlife biologists hiking into rugged country to examine a hibernating bear, but in the Book Cliffs, this work is part of a three decade long project.
Curled among a cluster of tall rocks to escape the wind, retired biologist Howe Black reflected on the study he established in the early 1990s.
“We started the long term study in ‘91. Trapping, tagging summer bears," Black said. "My goal was to see what kind of reproductive performance we could expect out of them over a long period of time.”
Now in his 80s, he still attends as many den visits as he can, picking his way across the same rugged slopes.
Often accompanying him are former students who helped carry the research forward. One of them is Janene Auger, now with the Bean Life Science Museum at Brigham Young University. She explained that even before you see a den, the landscape can offer clues.
“In this kind of country, the bears will often strip off a juniper tree, strip all the bark off of it, and shred it up and haul it into the den. And so those juniper trees really act as a flag," Auger said. "They're bright, kind of red color underneath the bark.”
Over decades of monitoring bears in the Book Cliffs, Sampson explained that the end goal of all of this challenging conservation work is rooted in science.
“One thing that we gather from our den visits are production," he said. "If they're having babies, and if the previous cubs, are surviving to yearlings, the overall health of the bear in the spring is really important it's a way for us to kind of gauge overall body condition.”
The research has revealed one key insight.
“Over the 27 years of study, we found that what really drives the population is the survival of the adult females," Auger said. "If they can live through these bad years to another year and another opportunity to reproduce. That's really what matters for the population.”
For Black, the study has always been about more than data.
“The idea that the teddy bears we all grew up with really kind of exist in the wild is exciting, and it would be disappointing if that was not ever something that was in people's dreams or experience," he said.
Auger gently adds a reminder that the animals inside these rocky dens play a far more complex role than the cuddly image suggests.
“They have an important role as a top carnivore, although they do a lot scavenging in the ecosystem," she said.
Once the examination was finished, the team carefully returned the bear to her den. Scrub oak leaves and loose soil were piled back over the entrance, helping protect her from the winter wind.
Then, as the group gathered their packs for the hike out, Sampson and Black offered an unexpected tradition — a song they call the hibernation song.
“I can’t wait to hibernate! A few months of sleep makes a bear feel great! I can’t wait to hibernate. I can’t wait to hibernate!”
The notes drifted across the snowy hillside — a lighthearted end to a long morning
As we hiked out, Howe pointed to a cluster of trees where the valley bottom met the toe of the mountain. Howe explained, “That’s where it all started.” The first bear he ever trapped and collared as a young biologist was in a den about 500 yards away.