I was seated on the sandy soil among the arrowgrass and pondweed with my back against a two-foot-high bluff. I and seven new acquaintances—fellow bear-viewing tourists at Alaska’s Katmai National Park—marveled at a mama grizzly and her cub, not more than 35 yards away on the other side of a river. She grazed on the scrub, and he rolled and played, acting like the toddler he was, until, from the distance, a large male charged them. Suddenly, the mama bear grabbed her cub by the scruff, placed him on her back, and waded into the water. She swam straight toward us.

“Stay still,” our guide said. 

Bear viewing is not a new phenomenon. In the 1950s, Yellowstone National Park rangers installed bleachers around garbage dump sites so visitors could watch the bears scavenge for food. In some Eastern European countries, bears are purposely baited to provide paying humans with a “bear experience.” It’s not conservation biologists’ idea of a good plan. But Dr. Owen Nevin, of CQ University in Queensland, Australia, says respectful bear viewing—done with the bears’ best interests in mind—offers “a fantastic opportunity for people to have a wilderness experience, and to appreciate bears in their natural settings.”

As the sow and cub crossed the inlet toward us, the boar turned on his tail and headed back the way he came. My heart pumped at the spectacle. Male bears, extremely protective of their territory, are known to kill and eat anything that enters their turf, including their own cubs. That means mama bears have to be extra-protective parents, and I soon learned that one of the ways they do that is through us.

Conservation biologist Dr. Barrie Gilbert explains, “In some instances, females with cubs approach people, or leave cubs with people, to avoid infanticide by big males.” Gilbert, who documents such occurrences in Katmai and has for two decades studied bear-human interaction—and the economics behind it—knows firsthand how brutal big males can be. In 1977, he lost an eye to a mauling grizzly in Yellowstone. Yet he has become one of bears’ staunchest defenders. “These are very bright animals,” he says, “and they test our ability to respect and not demonize them.”

Nevin adds, “Bears change how they behave if they haven’t grown up with hunting.” When humans are present, he explains, females will spend more time catching fish and will let their cubs roam farther. “They don’t have to be as vigilant, because humans keep big males from the cubs,” he said. “[Parks’ and wildlife refuges’] bear-viewing periods provide a temporal refuge.”

Dr. Lana M. Ciarniello, co-chair of the Human-Bear Conflicts Expert Team of the International Association for Bear Research and Management, cites bear cubs’ 50 percent mortality rate. “[It’s] mostly from infanticide but could also be due to starvation or falling off a cliff,” she explains. Still, that’s a lot of infanticide. Male grizzlies, Ciarniello says, will kill cubs so as to mate with the females, as mating induces ovulation. “Everything is tied to reproduction.”

Ciarniello monitors bear reproduction, behavior, movement, and habitat uses year-round via remote cameras installed near Oxford Bay in British Columbia. She studies a marked trail far from any bear viewers as well as sites where bear viewing takes place. That way, she can compare natural bear behaviors to human-interactive behaviors. “As soon as visitors leave,” Ciarniello says, “bear movement spikes.” She explains that grizzlies typically rule the roost and that black bears are more nocturnal. “But when humans are introduced,” she says, “black bears come out in daylight, and grizzlies act more nocturnal. Large males are displaced, and females with cubs move in.”

The effects of human interaction on bear populations are both positive and negative. Our presence may afford the sows more access to fish and berries, which in turn improves survival rates for cubs. But that means the males may not get as much food, nor will they get to mate as often. And of course, if human interaction isn’t restricted to a limited space, humans could destroy parts of the bears’ habitat.

That’s why Gilbert is concerned about the fact that Katmai National Park is expanding its viewing bridge and park concessions in 2017. He fears it stands to change the character of the Brooks River, “risk a crisis with the bears,” and cause “the collapse of salmon” in the area.

Of foremost importance to Gilbert, Ciarniello, and Nevin is protection of the animals. Each says responsible bear viewing starts with the tour operator. They should know the area well, have an understanding of bear biology, know the area bears’ behavior patterns, and design a tour that best suits the bears.

From there, operators should provide attendees with appropriate behavior guidelines and ensure adherence. Viewing should take place during specific windows, in specific places, with a cap to the number of bear tourists. Ciarniello points to the example set by Homalco Nation and their Bears of Bute Inlet cultural experience near Vancouver. Homalco has a 63-day bear-viewing season that runs from August 15 to October 20 this year, and permits 4,000 people—“not too many people for too long, or too often.”

Based on his research and experience, Nevin recommends a two-hour viewing period that does not exceed more than 40 to 50 percent of daylight hours. He adds that a bear-viewing area should not interfere with prime feeding areas—such as salmon and berry resources—but should only take place in restricted areas where bears naturally congregate and where they will grow to understand that humans will be there. “Being predictable is key,” Nevin says. The hope, he says, is that once people experience bears firsthand, they’ll want to protect them.