We're going on a bear hunt

We're going to see a big one. What a beautiful day. WE'RE NOT SCARED.

“Once I leave,” Our guide said, “You must not go outside the hide until 8am tomorrow morning. Make sure you bolt the door behind me.”

I looked at the small sliding bolt on the thin door a little nervously, hoping that it would be enough to keep out what we were here to see. My mum and I were deep in the Estonian countryside, a twenty minute hike into dense, wild woods, where we were to spend the night in a basic wooden hide, in the hope of seeing brown bears. Estonia has the highest brown bear population density in Europe, with bears even sometimes spotted in the outskirts of Tallinn. The perfect place to go on a bear-watching trip then. I’d heard enough anecdotes about bears over the years to be reasonably concerned that a bear might be able to figure out a simple lock if it realised there might be cornered food in the big wood box.

Our 5-star accommodation for the night.

Once our guide left, we dumped our overnight gear on the rough wooden bunks and took up watchful positions as quietly as possible, one on either side of the hide. One side of the hide looked into the woods, the long, deep green grass shaded by dense tree cover. The other side was an open meadow, bathed in bright sunlight with a small pond nearby. We each sat, our eyes straining through binoculars, searching for any sign of movement, a flicker in the trees, a lumbering shadow, anything that could be our ursine quarry. For the first hour or so, we saw little but woodpigeons and jays. The sky-blue flash of a jay’s wing, a source of excitement in the UK, quickly became old news when we were surrounded by them, though we sat alert each time they scattered, hoping that might be the warning sign that something larger might be on its way.

Common Crane

Eventually something larger did arrive, but it still wasn’t a bear. A common crane glided into view, folding up its wings and extending lanky legs to land gracefully in the long grass of the meadow. For a while it stalked about, picking its way carefully up and down the hummocks and dips of the clearing, its neck bobbing down then curling up like a comma as it picked at unseen food on the ground. It soon left, and we entered another period of straining eyes and sweeping binoculars. I resigned myself to the truth that these were wild animals, we may not see any bears at all and that would have to be absolutely fine. Half an hour ticked past. Then another.

“Kate! Come here!” My mum hissed, trying to stay as quiet as possible while still conveying urgency. I knew what that meant. I dashed over to her forest side, and peered through the window, unbearably¹ excited. It had arrived. A huge lumbering form plodded out from behind the tree trunks, a mass of sheer muscle covered in enticingly fluffy fur, with comically small, round ears perched on top of its great head. I thought again of the small bolt on the door, and the long hike back to the car, but he seemed utterly uninterested in the hides, snuffling around the trees, unconcerned with anything beyond what food he might forage out of the ground, stopping occasionally to lift his head and sniff the air.² He headed around the hide and we raced across to the meadow side, desperate not to lose sight of him. Here he was, foraging again and so close to the front steps of the hide, completely absorbed in whatever it was he had found at the base of a tree. It was almost unreal, I’d never seen anything so enormous in the wild, been so close to an apex predator. I was simultaneously awed and a little scared. Neither of us said anything, just drinking in the experience, the only sound the rapid shutter clicks of my camera. Eventually he lumbered off into the trees and we were able to breathe again. We looked at each other, the huge grin that I knew split my face also reflected on my mother’s.

The first bear of the day, huge, terrifying… enticingly cuddly?

I think this is a female??

Unlike the long wait for that first sighting, the next two bears came in quick succession, but still individually. Two females I think, slightly smaller than the male, one with paler fur around her shoulders, reflecting almost blonde in the sunlight where he had been a deep russet. She paused in the meadow, lifting her nose to the air and taking long, questing sniffs before settling down, looking for all the world like she was sunbathing. Then shortly after, a baby - too large and too early to be this year’s litter but perhaps a yearling. Clearly new to venturing out on its own, it was far more unsure than the adults, more nervous. it looked around constantly and never stayed long in one place, a quick snuffle here and there before moving on.

We entered another long period of empty woods, but I didn’t care. It was only 8pm but I would have happily spent the next 12 hours looking at absolutely nothing - we had been beyond lucky, treated to four separate sightings already, and as far as I was concerned, anything else was a bonus. Our first bonus showed up almost an hour later, and I nearly missed them. The light was showing the first signs of fading, and they were far smaller than our previous visitors: a pair of racoon dogs trotted through the long grass of the meadow, with their delicate, fox-like faces and long, brindled fur like a carpet down their backs, they looked like a cross between their more well-known racoon cousins and a Crufts lap dog.³ They seemed more alert than the oblivious bears, and even the slightest sound from us: a slipped elbow, a camera knocked accidently against the window, would elicit a sudden stop and a flicker of the ears, before moving on to rummage through the bears’ leavings.

Racoon dog mopping up the bears’ leftovers

Our next visitor was by far my favourite. Older than the yearling but certainly still a juvenile, his ears seeming enormous, out of proportion to the head that had not yet gained its adult mass. He had the awkward, lanky gait of every teenager, regardless of species, when their body has grown too quickly and they’re not really sure how to deal with all this new, extra limb. His back hump was skinny and extremely prominent and where the adults had lumbered, slow and sedate, he raced from spot to spot, galloping between the trees, full of excitement and unchecked energy. He slipped briefly back into the wood, and was replaced by the long snout of a wild boar. Of all the animals we had seen that night, she was certainly the most aware, I’m sure had the most sensitive hearing. The slightest noise, meerest movement and she would pause mid-step, sometimes doing it so often that it looked as if she were stop-frame animated. Mum thought her binoculars were glitching at first.

The awkward teenage years

Wild boar. The light was really fading by this point, and without a tripod, my camera was struggling.

We had been graced with light just about good enough to take photos till past 10pm, but I knew that the boar would be my last. Twilight was fast being replaced by the not-quite darkness of a northern summer night: enough light to see by, but not enough that my camera was capable of taking anything not blurry and dim. Reluctantly I put it away, but left my binoculars hanging around my neck knowing full well that this would be when the really exciting stuff would kick off.

I was exactly right. My hump-backed juvenile reappeared to feed again, then another (clearly an adult, though I couldn’t tell which) emerged, a huge shadow detaching itself from the darkness beneath the trees. The juvenile stood on his hind legs, alarmed, then bolted off, too young, too unsure to stand his ground. A third bear appeared not long afterwards, but this one confident and comfortable enough to share the space with another, rummaging in the undergrowth close by, happy to simply exist together like old friends. The third bear, as if knowing I was now helpless to record its behaviour, waded into the pond, lapping noisily and splashing about before bounding back out to roll playfully in the grass, stretching its feet out, claws extended high.

The light continued to dim, the sunset long passed and my eyes began to grow heavy and tired. Even the binoculars were starting to fail me now - the rock in the meadow that I’d been staring at for hours was morphing into the head of a baby bear, looking about. My eyes were playing tricks and I was beyond tired. I collapsed onto the bunk, fully intending to just have a quick nap, knowing that we were unlikely to get complete darkness at this time of year, and that the bears were likely to be active throughout the night. Without the birdsong that accompanied daylight, the silence that far into the woods was complete, not oppressive but comforting, like a weighted blanket wrapping itself around me. Unfortunately, between that, a long and stressful week in the run up to the trip and the fact that I can now sleep soundly pretty much anywhere, I slipped into oblivion and didn’t awake until well after the dawn chorus had heralded the return of full sunlight.

Still, I didn’t mind too much. We had seen far more than we ever expected, treated to hours of activity and sightings. Though we had a couple of hours in the morning before our designated 8am checkout, only birds showed themselves - nuthatches, woodpeckers, black caps and tits flitted between the trees, along with the ever present pigeons and jays.

The seeds taste better upside down I guess?

When 8am rolled around, we had to make our own way back to the parking, with untold numbers of bears between us and the car, evidence of their passing pressed into the mud. “Just talk at a normal volume when you leave” the guide had said the night before, “the bears should hear you coming and run away.” He was absolutely right - brown bears are massive scaredy cats, it turns out. Half-way down the trail we rounded a corner to the sight of a large bear not 100m away, taken by surprise. It bolted immediately without a backwards glance, back feet flying up in its haste to return to the safety of the trees. The mosquitoes gave us more hassle, coating every inch of bare skin, flying in behind sunglasses and making a general nuisance of themselves - the first time I’ve ever had a mosquito bite in my hair - and it was a relief to sling the bags into the car and quickly slam the doors behind us.

Places to be

We drove back to Tallinn in a happy haze, reliving our favourite moments from the previous night. At least five different bears, racoon dogs, wild boar and a whole range of birds, an absolute treat. Bears and other large mammals might be old news in other countries, but coming from the UK, where the biggest wild predator is the badger, this still felt unreal, the realm of nature documentaries on a screen, not a real-life experience. We spent a further two days in Tallinn, but for all the beauty and rich history of the Old Town, nothing came close to sitting in that that basic wooden hide, immersed the world of the bears.

1. Sorry

2. I’ve made my sex assumptions based my crash course in bear identification thanks to this PDF, but I am obviously not an expert so probably have it wrong at some points.

3. These canids aren’t actually native to Estonia, but were introduced in the first half of the 20th century from East Asia, to “enrich” the local wildlife (because that always goes well) and for their fur. Predictably, they are now A Problem.