By Rory Hale – REALTOR®, Rural Properties & Acreages near Calgary
In the quiet shadows of the Alberta foothills, where snow still clings to the north side of the pines and the willows are just beginning to bud, something stirs beneath the earth.
A great brown snout emerges from a den tucked beneath a rocky outcrop. It's crusted in soil and framed with sleep. Behind her, a deep-chested yawn echoes, followed by the soft, clumsy scuffle of four wobbly paws.
Mama Bear is awake. And so are her cubs.
They’re tiny—absurdly so. Born in the stillness of January while their mother slumbered in a torpor-like sleep, they came into the world naked, blind, and no heavier than a pop can. But now, in early spring, they tumble over each other in a blur of fuzzy ears and mischief, blinking into the sunlight for the first time.
The world is a wild, chilly place for a bear family just out of the den.
The snow is stubborn, lingering in drifts. Food is scarce. But their mother, stoic and strong, knows this dance. She’s done it before. She teaches by example: sniffing the wind, turning over mossy logs for beetles, unearthing the first brave shoots of horsetail and dandelion. Her cubs mimic her, chewing everything, including each other.
Once, with practiced ease, she swipes the earth aside and plucks a chubby Columbian ground squirrel from its burrow—a protein-packed snack she knows well. It squeals, and the cubs squeal too, startled and delighted. The world is full of surprises.
There are dangers, too. A cougar’s tracks cross their path one dawn. The snow is deep in places, making little legs tired fast. The cubs stumble, whine, and climb atop their mother when the going gets too tough. And though she’s hungry—desperately so—she carries on, relentless.
Yet in the gentle rhythm of spring, even a grizzly knows how to pause.
Some afternoons, when the sun is warm and the wind still, she stretches out on a rock ledge. Her massive head rests on her paws. She grooms the dirt from her fur with deliberate licks and nibbles the edge of a blooming crocus. Her cubs, full-bellied and quiet for once, nap beside her in a golden puddle of light.
This is motherhood in the wild. Fierce and tender. Relentless and restful.
Most don’t know that a grizzly like her delays the very spark of life—her embryos don’t implant until late fall, when her body decides if she’s fat enough to sustain them. Only if the land has been good to her, if the berries have been thick and the salmon strong, does she become a mother at all. It's nature’s way of ensuring she’ll never fail them.
And fail them she won’t. Her sense of smell could detect a buried carcass from miles away—better than any bloodhound. Her instincts are ancient. She doesn’t just survive. She thrives.
Grizzlies in Alberta are masters of the foothills. They avoid people more than most realize, preferring dawn and dusk wanderings through secluded meadows.
Their lives are tucked into the folds of forest and creek, rarely seen—until one day, a lucky hiker or rural dweller glimpses a mother bear from afar, and wonders how something so powerful can be so quietly present.
So today, on Mother’s Day, we honour them.
The mothers with sticky paws and clumsy cubs. The ones who carry the world on their back, then lie in a sunbeam and smile—if bears smile at all.
Let this be a reminder: all mothers deserve rest, even the ones with claws.
And for those lucky enough to live in the foothills of Alberta, where the line between wild and home is thin—you might just catch a glimpse of her. From your kitchen window. Over morning coffee. A quiet figure padding through the trees. A wild mother, pausing for a moment of peace.
Happy Mother’s Day from the forest to your doorstep.
