She has 50,000 followers on Facebook and a recent post on her page there had 4,200 likes, 250 comments and 400 shares within a day. When you Google her, roughly 125 million results come up. Born in 1996, she has had 18 children, including quadruplets born in 2020. She is Bear 399, the most famous grizzly in the Northern Rockies.

I’ve seen videos of Bear 399 and her offspring, including one from a security camera at the police station in downtown Jackson, Wyoming, that showed five large bears strolling down a city street. But I’ve never seen the family in person. I’d like to, but part of me believes it’s my responsibility as a wildlife lover not to try to find her.

People were looking for her this spring. They knew where she’d denned, and so, when the famous five-some emerged in Grand Teton National Park, 15 to 20 cars were waiting. Word spread quickly, and soon roughly 100 vehicles lined the road to catch a glimpse of the group.

The bears are undeniably cute. They have a rolling, pigeon-toed gait that is amusing to watch. The cubs frolic around mama, while she continues on her way, ignoring their antics, but always watching to make sure they are near. Their faces are expressive, their bodies roly-poly and cuddly. They play like kids with a harried mother who is slightly overwhelmed by her disorderly brood.

But therein lies a problem. Wildlife biologists have chosen not to name animals they study, instead giving them numbers for identification lest we anthropomorphize them. But that hasn’t worked for 399.

Her life story and personality has made her beloved by people all over the world, and especially in her home around Jackson Hole. She seems to be used to the human attention. We relate to her life, her children and her adventures, ignoring that she is a wild grizzly bear. We forget that she can be as dangerous to us as we are to her.

Hilary Cooley, the grizzly bear recovery coordinator for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, said at a meeting of state and federal wildlife and land managers last August, “The future’s not bright for these guys. They’ve been in a lot of trouble.”

During the quadruplets’ lives, they’ve gotten into livestock feed, human garbage and backyard beehives. In 2020, that happened five times. In 2021, it was 17 times, according to the Fish and Wildlife Service. They’ve walked through neighborhoods and they often cross highways. They’re around popular trails where people hike, bike and run.

399 had one encounter with a hiker in 2007 when the man — a friend of mine from Lander — stumbled upon her with her cubs feeding on an elk carcass. My friend doesn’t blame 399 for attacking him, which caused some nasty bites. Still, it was a scary experience, and that’s what seems to be missing in the media frenzy over 399.

She’s not a toy. She’s not a person. She’s an unpredictable, large, omnivorous, intelligent animal that has discovered she can find easy food near humans and continues to teach her children that skill.

We’ve probably all heard the expression, “A fed bear is a dead bear.” Studies show that eating human food or trash can turn a wild bear into a food-conditioned one. Suddenly the animal, which relies on a varied diet to maintain adequate weight for survival, has a new, easily accessible yummy food source: from a garbage can, a birdfeeder or a beehive. These bears grow less wary of humans, and, over time, often become aggressive.

To its credit, Teton County, Wyoming, has updated its land-development regulations. Beginning in July, residents will be asked to bear-proof garbage containers, livestock feed, birdfeeders, compost and beehives.

Still, Hilary Cooley, who works to save grizzlies, is not optimistic. She’s told reporters she thinks it’s likely one, two, or all of the family will have serious conflicts with humans during their lifetimes, leaving wildlife managers with a narrow range of options. And, to compound the problem, the family has moved south out of the park, toward trouble.

People can do a lot to help prevent this. For me, it means remembering that 399 is wild. It means not hopping into my car to go join the bear jam. It means making sure my property or my campsite is bear-proof. It means carrying bear spray.

It means trying not to be part of the problem. Molly Absolon is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, a nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She writes in Wyoming.

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When they re-emerged seconds later, they’d lined up along the crest of the pass we were hiking toward. They looked as if they were poised to attack.

Then … nothing happened. Once the wolves figured out what we were, they turned around and vanished. But for those few anxious moments, I tingled with adrenaline, fearing the worst even as I thought how thrilling it all was.

I knew, and I hope most people know, that wolf attacks on humans are extraordinarily rare. In fact, even minor attacks by predatory animals are rare, yet it doesn’t take much to get our imaginations to run wild with fear of fangs and blood. It’s the realization that we aren’t always at the top of the food chain — that we could end up as some other animal’s dinner.

Years ago, on a camping trip, I participated in a predator-prey game that gave me a taste of that vulnerability. I played a mouse, and everyone else in the game was out to eat me. I spent most of the time slinking between hiding places, worried that any movement might get me spotted. Ecologists call this unease the “landscape of fear,” when everything is suffused with hyper-awareness and a sense of vigilance.

But the evidence doesn’t support that kind of fear of wild animals. Yellowstone National Park has, on average, some 4 million visitors annually. According to park data, just one person is injured by a bear each year on average. Since 1892, bears have killed only 18 people in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem.

That doesn’t make the attacks that do happen any less terrifying or tragic, though. This summer, a woman in Montana was attacked and killed in her tent by a grizzly bear; in April, a grizzly killed a man near West Yellowstone, Montana; and in Alaska this June, a sleeping couple was mauled in Alaska’s Kenai National Wildlife Refuge. This is the stuff of nightmares. 

During our hunter-gatherer days, wild animals truly posed a danger, and we were right to fear them. But these days, attacks by predators — gruesome and terrifying as they are — cause only a handful of deaths around the planet. Yet there are lots of other animals we should worry about, but usually don’t.

According to a 2019 report by researcher Michael Conover, 47,000 people seek medical attention each year after being attacked or bitten by wildlife, and roughly eight of them die. Most of the culprits are snakes, birds, rodents and raccoons: 27,000 rodent bites — meaning mice, rats and squirrels — versus less than one bite annually by wolves.

Elk attacks resulted in three injuries that required medical treatment, while grizzlies were responsible for 0.8. Alligator attacks were more common, with an average of 9 bites per year and one fatality. Meanwhile, some 30,000 Americans die in car crashes every year.

Still, most of us don’t think about dying when we get into the car, while a lot of us worry when we hike in grizzly country. It’s built in. And encounters with wildlife are increasing as we compete with them, in their own habitat, for limited space and food.

The recent increase in mountain lion attacks is likely due to the blurring of the urban-wildland “interface.” In Colorado, the Parks and Wildlife agency has documented 25 mountain lion attacks since 1990, with four since 2019.

But in our national parks, rangers report a different problem: Tourists get into trouble when they treat wild animals like pets. Tom Smith, biology professor at Brigham Young University, told National Geographic that most bear attacks are avoidable if people just remember that bears react instinctively.

“Bears don’t have a unique response for humans,” Smith said. “If we unwittingly trigger that bear-on-bear response, then it’s full-on, and you’d better be ready.”

I don’t ever want to be attacked by a wild animal, but I appreciate the intensity and humility I feel in their presence. It’s humbling to know that these wild, beautiful animals don’t care who we are or what we do. We have entered their turf, after all, and it’s up to us to watch our step.

Molly Absolon is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, a nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She loves to explore the West from her base in Idaho.

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After a few decades of hiking and mountain biking the West, I’ve learned the trick is to search out the obscure, the not-quite-as-beautiful, the off-season or the remote. If I’ve chosen well, I may not see another human all day.

But this approach means you can’t just plug into some top-10 list of must-see natural attractions. Instead, you need to study maps.

What you’re looking for are blank spots — still-wild places whose names you don’t recognize. There are lots of them. The National Park Service manages 423 units, totaling 84 million acres of land, but more than half of the system’s total annual visitation takes place in just 20 of its most popular parks. That leaves a lot of less-visited destinations to explore.

Or, broaden your horizons to consider national forest or Bureau of Land Management lands, and you will discover millions of acres that only locals are canny enough to visit.

I realize not everyone is as crowd-averse as I am. Linda Merigliano, wilderness program manager for the Bridger-Teton National Forest in Jackson, Wyoming, says most visitors — even those in busy places — enjoy their experiences despite lots of people.

That’s a good thing, because scientific studies show that it doesn’t take much for nature to work its magic. Spending as little as two hours a week in green spaces —even a crowded city park — has health benefits, from lowering blood pressure to improving self-esteem and mood.

I don’t think about health outcomes when I plan my outdoor excursions, but I know I get antsy and grumpy if I don’t get outside. A few quiet hours surrounded by the sights, sounds and smells of the natural world are what I crave. But I’ve learned that if everyone is going to the latest hotspot, I’m itchy to go somewhere else.

One such place is Rawlins, Wyoming. For years, I’ve raced through Rawlins, noticing little more than a dusty stop for gas and gummy bears on I-80. But then I studied the map. A couple of hours southwest of town there’s a wilderness study area called Adobe Town.

It features a maze of pinnacles, arches, buttes and craggy badlands. It also contains archaeological remains from 12,000 years of human habitation, and wild horses and pronghorn roam above the rim. Even better: Most people have probably never heard of Adobe Town.

This is blank spot nirvana.

Another gem is the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, which receives roughly 10 percent of Grand Canyon National Park’s 5.9 million annual visitors. Ditto for the North Rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park in western Colorado. It’s just as spectacular as the South Rim, but with only a handful of tourists.

Or try starting at the edges of popular places like Arches National Park in Utah or Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming and checking out what’s nearby. A national forest adjacent to a national park may share the same landscape that a park boasts. Once there, you’ll get a feel for the wonders protected by the park but you’re likely to see a fraction of the people.

Above all, avoid sites featured in social media posts and skip the must-see view.

If you want personal opinions – and I tend to trust those in the know – check in with outdoor shops, public land managers or conservation nonprofits close to where you’re headed. Often, a passionate local who knows the best hiking or mountain biking will be happy to talk to you. Chances are that they’ve explored it all and helped restore some trails to boot.

What’s the big payoff when you get to be mostly by yourself in the backcountry? You swap out ringtones for the resonance of a true blank spot – the sound of birds and the feel of a brisk wind. No overheard conversation. And any number of insects will remind you that in this place you’ve entered nature’s domain.

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