Southern California bears have Yosemite roots

A mother bear and cubs hang out high in a tree in the woodlands of Altadena, Los Angeles County. A mother bear and cubs hang out high in a tree in the woodlands of Altadena, Los Angeles County. Photo: Genaro Molina, McClatchy-Tribune News Service Photo: Genaro Molina, McClatchy-Tribune News Service Image 1 of / 1 Caption Close Southern California bears have Yosemite roots 1 / 1 Back to Gallery

Los Angeles --

On a mid-November day in 1933, seven men and one woman crowded around a pickup parked near Big Bear Lake, wooden crates stacked high in the bed.

The cargo came from Yosemite National Park, part of a pilot program that officials hoped would flourish in the forests of Southern California. The containers were opened and the group waited, a camera at the ready.

Then came the bears.

"One bear leaped from the open door of its cage, charged at the camera and when within a dozen feet of it, suddenly sat down and quietly studied the strange contraption," a Los Angeles Times article reported, "allowing plenty of time for a picture before it scampered off into the woods."

The six black bears that tumbled out of the crates and into the wild that day weren't just any animals. Along with 21 others sent south from Yosemite, they were the forefathers of the bears that roam the San Bernardino and San Gabriel mountains.

Everyone knows Southern California's celebrity bears: Glen Bearian, whose appetite for frozen Costco meatballs helped him earn 10,000 Twitter followers, and Samson, who fancied avocados and splashing in Monrovia's Jacuzzis.

But these bears might just have mischief in their DNA: Their ancestors earned a one-way ticket south with high jinks of their own that exasperated wildlife officials - and entertained tourists.

"If they thrive, they will become a real attraction to the thousands of visitors who spend summers and weekends in the mountain playgrounds," a December 1933 report by the state Fish and Game Commission read. "Their comical, clownish appearance and actions are a never-ending source of amusement to youngsters and adults alike."

In other words, like father, like son.

The "bear pits" built in Yosemite in the 1920s and '30s weren't as glamorous as those in Yellowstone National Park - those had bleachers - but were popular just the same.

Rangers would dump trash on the platforms and encourage visitors to watch the bears feast; one 1938 park document notes that six to eight bears showed up at nightly feedings, except when the arenas flooded, "spoiling this evening feature."

"The emphasis was on visitor entertainment," said Steve Thompson, who heads Yosemite's wildlife management division.

"I'm glad I wasn't a ranger back then," he joked.

Both the humans and the bears grew bolder. Visitors tried to feed the animals themselves, while the bears resorted to unruly behavior in their search for dinner, raiding cabins and ice chests.

Enter J. Dale Gentry, a San Bernardino businessman who became the president of the state Fish and Game Commission.

At the time, there were no black bears in Southern California. As more bears flooded the Yosemite Valley, Gentry "expressed a desire" to bring some south.

"They were killing two birds with one stone," Thompson said.

But the implications of the decision became increasingly noticeable as people flocked to the foothills, neighborhoods creeping higher up the hillsides and closer to the bears' turf. Wildlife officials had a new concern - one they still face.

How do you balance the needs of the bears and the people?

Marc Kenyon, who heads the state's black bear program, believes they would have wandered down to Southern California on their own - the mountains were an open range, and the state's growing bear population has spread to previously uninhabited areas, such as Monterey County.

"I think that all we did in the 1930s was speed up the process," he said.

No matter how long it would have taken them to trek south, the result now is the same.

"When you have so many bears and so many people," Kenyon said, "you're going to have conflicts erupting."

Keith Miller had just stepped outside his Altadena home to get the paper one May morning in 2012 when he saw it: a cinnamon-colored bear, who had been snacking on some leftover birthday cake thrown in the garbage the night before.

Miller did an about-face and started back for the house.

"I thought, 'What the hell?' " he said. "So then I turned around."

The bear turned around too.

"I said, 'Whoa,' and I looked up into the tree and saw two cubs," Miller said. "I thought, 'I'm out of here. Feet don't fail me now.' "

But he soon shrugged off the sighting and went to the gym. When he came back, reporters and sheriff's deputies were camped outside.

The bear and her cubs had settled down for a nap in a large oak tree curling over Miller's driveway.

The bear seemed very familiar with the neighborhood, his wife, Judy, said. "That bear's been here before."

Of the 28 bears caught in Yosemite for relocation, one died during the trapping and transport, but the rest found new mountain homes in sunny Southern California.

Eleven were released near Crystal Lake in Los Angeles County, 10 in Santa Ana Canyon and six near Big Bear Lake. Their arrival was recorded in newspaper articles, one of which noted the concerns of area beekeepers, who worried their hives would become a target for a honey-loving bear.

Before the bears were let loose, one Times article warned residents they "should not be surprised if they find, not the wolf, but a congenial bear sniffing at their doors."

Sure enough, just days after the crates were opened at Big Bear Lake, one of the bears wandered 40 miles to what was then known as Cucamonga, "terrorizing children and housewives" as it walked city streets. It then made its way to Chino, devouring chickens and bothering beehives along the way.