GRAND JUNCTION — Four burly, hairy men are gathered around a sputtering garage-sale lawnmower on a Saturday morning, diagnosing its problems as shoppers browse the guys’ other castoff offerings.

The men are holding this sale to raise money for their club. In their ballcaps and well- worn logo T-shirts, and given their prowess at fixing lawnmowers, they could be members of the local Moose or Elks lodge.

But these are members of the Western Slope Bears, a brotherhood of gay men linked by their tendency toward heft and hairiness.

Bears have aligned in major cities since the 1980s, but the clubs have begun to migrate to rural communities across the country, and the Western Slope Bears are one of the newest.

Generally, Bears are men proud of their ample girths, their thatches of facial and body hair and their attraction to men who look like the title characters in “Grizzly Adams” and “Quigley Down Under.”

They are as far removed from the stylish gay men stereotypically portrayed in TV sitcoms as a Dodge Ram is from a Prius.

As Charles Vigil, the 6-foot, 220-pound president of the Front Range Bears, puts it, “We obviously don’t look like the guys on the cover of GQ.”

That’s not to say that all members sport pelts or prefer a Budweiser to a good bottle of wine. One of the credos of Bear clubs is that they accept anyone, however hairless and svelte they might be.

“Bearness is a state of mind, more than a physical type,” said Sergio Antillon, president of the Western Slope Bears.

Bears say they gravitated into their own organization within the gay culture because they never felt like they fit in with the more mainstream gay community.

Bears have banded together in clubs in 35 countries. There are about 45 clubs in the United States, from the Junction City Teddy Bears in Kansas to the Green Mountain Growlers in Montpelier, Vt.

The Front Range Bears, who have been meeting for 20 years, have their own very busy Bear bars. Theirs is one of the oldest Bear clubs in existence, and this October it will hold what is billed as the oldest organized Bear event in the country, Octobearfest, at a Cherry Creek hotel.

“It’s built around socializing. It’s all about brotherhood,” said Stephen Fitzhenry, vice president of the Front Range Bears. “It’s the Elks of the gay community.”

Bears emerged as an offshoot of the gay leather movement in San Francisco in the 1980s. A forum followed, with Bear magazine, as did a book, simply called “Bears.” The Bears have their own flag with a bear paw on a field of rainbow-striped bear fur.

Bears say they aren’t easily identified by those who aren’t aware of the culture.

“You wouldn’t know a Bear unless he wants you to know,” said Rick, a 6-foot, 200-pound member from Grand Junction, who asked that his last name not be used because he lives in a conservative community.

Bears have fashioned their own tongue-in- cheek test for “beariness” — a la Jeff Foxworthy’s “You might be a redneck” riff — that includes:

• “If you’ve been told you’re too straight to be gay, you might be a Bear.”

• “If you know what your mechanic is talking about, you might be a Bear.”

Bears also have many subcategories within each group: Polar Bears are the older, white-haired members. Pandas are of Asian descent. Otters are skinnier versions of Bears.

There are also related groups. The Mirth and Girth movement grew out of the Bears but hews more strictly to the bigger body type. Members of Chubby Chasers might also be Bears or part of Mirth and Girth but have a definite preference for overweight men.

The Denver-based Cycle Sluts and the neighboring Utah Cyber Sluts are gay men with Bear physical characteristics who like to dress in outrageous drag and put on shows and host charity bingo games.

There are Bear gatherings and events across the country — picnics, rafting, rodeos, camping, bowling, four-wheeling and football — Bear websites, a Bear radio station, Bear bars and Bear fundraisers for many charitable causes.

Like the real ursine species, Fitzhenry said, “we pop up in the strangest places.”

Nancy Lofholm: 970-256-1957 or nlofholm@denverpost.com