‘Have you seen any bears?’
The question comes as a surprise.
We are hiking only a few hours’ drive from Vienna and, unlike on many of our weekend trips, we are not alone: neither as we follow the clearly marked path that winds up the steep slope, nor at the huts where we rest along the way. Surely bears would keep away from such a well-frequented route.
Our fellow hiker is serious, however. He has attached a metal cup to one of his walking poles that rattles with every step. ‘To ward off the bears,’ he informs us nervously.
We try to laugh it off as we move on, leaving our anxious acquaintance to enjoy a bowl of cabbage soup at the hut where we stopped for lunch. Yet we are no longer completely at ease.
That night, we set up our tent in the shelter of a small hollow just below the path. The wind has picked up, tearing across the ridge that forms the spine of the Lower Tatras National Park. It is early October and there are already a few patches of snow. We stow our food and toiletries at a respectable distance from the tent – just in case we have a nighttime visitor…
Of course, I know there are bears in Slovakia. I read in the news only recently about the introduction of a law allowing almost a quarter of the country’s 1,300 bears to be shot; now it is even legal to sell the meat for public consumption. The controversial decision to cull the population of this ‘near threatened’ species was made after an increasing number of encounters with humans, several of whom ended up either severely injured or killed.
I try not to think about that possibility as I lie awake that night, tense and shivering (it is a very chilly night).
The following morning, our food remains untouched and I feel slightly more relaxed as we continue our journey west. The landscape changes from golden to bronze-tinged red: it is spectacularly beautiful here. We talk and laugh and get lost in abstract thoughts, enjoying the peace and quiet up here in the Slovak hills.
When we stop for lunch, I can hear the sound of human voices, evidently engaging in a similar activity not far away. We are not far from civilisation now: just one more hill before we reach the town.
It is on this final ascent when David suddenly comes to a halt.
‘Look,’ he says, and I glance in the direction he is pointing.
A bear cub is watching us, its head just visible above a fallen tree trunk. It is gazing at us with what can only be curiosity, and I stare back.
A little further away, I catch sight of another cub, who is more interested in the forest floor than in the appearance of two humans. I am already reaching for my phone to take a photo when the voice of logic interrupts me.
‘Let’s move on.’
There is a third bear. The mother. I didn’t see her to start with because she was partially hidden behind a tree, but she saw us.
The bear growls. Before we have time to react, she has reared up on her hind legs and – thud, thud, thud – is pounding towards us.
David starts talking very loudly. ‘Go away! Get out of here! Leave us alone!’ I open my mouth, unsure what sound will come out. The noise that emerges is something between a battle cry and a roar. To my ears at least.
Mid-stride, the bear turns in her tracks and runs off into the woods together with her cubs.
Whether she is fleeing in fear of my ferocity, I will never know.
‘Let’s move on,’ David repeats, and we set off again up the hill, talking nervously and throwing frequent apprehensive glances over our shoulders.
At the very edge of the forest, we pass a couple of Slovaks coming in the opposite direction. This time, it is our answer that comes as a surprise to their half-jokingly put question,
‘Have you seen any bears?’