COLUMN: Don’t Mind the Mess – The bear who came to town

In a quiet prairie town like ours, it doesn’t take much to stir things up. We move through the seasons in a rhythm that’s comforting in its predictability—shoveling snow, watching the fields flood or dry out, griping about that same pothole on Main Street that’s been there longer than some of us.

We bump into each other at the post office or the grocery store, swap stories over coffee, and meet up for ice cream when the sun finally returns.

But every now and then, something comes along that shakes us out of our routines and reminds us just how connected we really are.

On the morning of May 2, that “something” was a bear.

A three-year-old black bear, to be exact.

It all started when a local fellow stepped out into his backyard, steaming cup of coffee in hand, and looked up into the old poplars behind his house. What he saw stopped him in his tracks—a big, black shape nestled high in the branches. At first, it seemed too strange to be real. Maybe he needed stronger coffee. But sure enough, there it was. A black bear, curled up like a housecat, taking a nap in the spring sunshine.

After a few moments of disbelief, the resident did what anyone would do—he called the police.

Before long, our sleepy little town was anything but. Yellow tape went up, conservation officers rolled in with tranquilizers and a bear-sized transport cage, and police were stationed on every corner, not for a crime scene, but for crowd control. Because the people came. And they kept coming.

It was the kind of story you might read in a children’s book—“The Bear Who Came to Town.” Families showed up with wide-eyed kids in tow, pointing excitedly from strollers and bikes. Neighbours gathered in the taped-off zone, some with cameras, some just there to see it with their own eyes. Even folks from out of town made the trip, drawn by the magic of it all.

That bear, lounging up there in the tree, didn’t seem to care one bit about the fuss he was causing. He climbed a little, shifted positions, then settled in again like he had all the time in the world. And in that moment, we all paused with him. We became a town of spectators, united in quiet wonder.

And maybe, in a way, that bear did more than climb a tree. He brought us back together.

It felt like the first time in a long time that we’d all been in one place, sharing something other than news headlines and grocery lineups. The lingering weight of the past few years—the isolation, the worries, the screens between us—lifted for a while. We were shoulder to shoulder again, laughing, pointing, hoping out loud that the bear would be OK.

By nightfall, the streets cleared and prayers were whispered at bedsides across town—prayers for a bear most of us had never met, but all seemed to care about. And sure enough, around 1:30 a.m., the bear quietly climbed down and wandered off. The officers didn’t need to trap him or scare him. They simply followed at a respectful distance, guiding him gently back to where he belonged.

And just like that, he was gone. But the feeling he left behind stayed.

We might go back to worrying about the weather or the price of eggs, but for one day, a sleepy bear reminded us what it means to pause, to marvel, to come together—not out of crisis, but out of curiosity and care.

And isn’t that what small towns are all about?