OCTOBER 11, 2026 – You must humor me—or bear with me—as I write yet again about my continuing project combatting browsing deer in the tree garden, so called, on the shores of Grindstone Lake in northwest Wisconsin. Autumn is the season to worry about such things, but in the grand scheme, of the earth, deer feasting on trees is admittedly a low priority of concern.
Yet, I could make a strong case for the benefits of addressing this worry. First, it challenges one’s inner innovative self: “How can I out-smart the deer without the aid of a compound bow or a thirty-aught-six?” Second, once you’ve “innovated” conceptually, you get to design and build a fence, a barrier, or in my case, a cage, to protect your trees against the deer—something tangible, and constructing such a thing brings considerable satisfaction in an age wherein most accomplishments are digital and intangible. Third—and this is the best part—you get to spend lots of time among the trees. Eventually, you learn to see them as people almost, with personality, inner and outward beauty, strengths and frailties, and other human traits, such as stoicism and resilience.
Plus—if you spend enough time in the woods worrying about the deer, sooner or later you’re apt to encounter a bear.
That’s what happened to me early this afternoon. Earlier, I’d been making strides building two large deer cages for our prize hemlocks. Despite having plenty of tools and lots of materials on hand on-site, the innovative part of me came up with the brilliant idea that I should deploy additional tools and materials. This flash of mediocrity compelled a quick hike back to the Red Cabin, barely 100 yards away. Soon I was on the return to the tree garden—drill bag, twine, and a couple of potential base stones in hand. I’d just passed under the “Björnholm Trädgård” sign over the ramp up and over two fallen Leviathans at the entrance to the garden, when to my left I saw a large black furry animal running through the woods. A second later, it turned into an unmistakable black bear and crossed the trail just eight steps in front of me—a proximity I was later able to establish accurately.
The creature looked exactly as a black bear cub should appear in a children’s book—a full rich black coat, nice round ears, beady bear eyes, a nicely shaped snout, and paws wearing—it seemed—a fine pair of black furry slippers. Before I could put my things down, the cub had scampered up a maple tree faster than a monkey can climb a coconut palm. Temporarily frozen in my tracks, I looked warily around but saw no mama bear. Then slowly, I laid down the drill bag, the twine and the stones, and took a few steps backward up the ramp, to what seemed to be a reasonably safe distance. I then pulled out my phone and waited patiently for the cub to descend.
Eventually it did, and through the foliage between us, I could make out a large blob of black fur. I snapped a photo, but the resulting image reminded me of blurred pictures of the abominable snowman: There was definitely something there in the frame, but was it really a yeti or was it some prankster wearing a gorilla costume?
In any event, I thought it best to proceed down the other side of the ramp and head back to the cabin. I felt no need to break into a run or even to hasten my gait. I walked back nonchalantly, but I must acknowledge that compounding my constant low-level worry about browsing deer was a new concern: given the amount of time I spend in the tree garden, would I now have to be on constant alert for bears? Berries abound in the garden, and bears, quite naturally, love berries.
“I just ran into a bear,” I said to Beth who was sitting on the porch. “Or rather, a bear nearly ran into me.”
“Really?! Did you get a picture?” I showed her the “yeti” photo, but in her mind, it was insufficient evidence of a qualifying encounter with a black bear. She pressed me to explain why I hadn’t gotten a better picture.
“Because . . .” I said, “I don’t go around with my phone in hand, photo app open at all times. I mean, I had my hands full, and I didn’t expect to see a bear. I’d been out there all morning and . . . no bears.”
She stood her ground. “I don’t know if you should get credit,” she said. “You should’ve gotten a better picture.”
Talk about persnickety! Wasn’t my eye-witness testimony adequate for a “Red Cabin camp bear-sighting badge”? Beth was looking for sterling proof, and I’d come up short.
In all seriousness, I can’t say that I was frightened or even unduly nervous. I’ve been far more afraid of loose dogs with a mean bark than I was by the sight of that bear. In fact, I felt extraordinarily lucky to have had a close encounter with such fine beast, and in the tree garden, no less, which has become a kind of spiritual sanctuary for me.
Before returning to my worksite, I did a bit of online research about black bears, and the essence of expert opinion is that black bears in the wild pose little threat to humans. Sure, there are the outliers; the one in a million bears that is predatory or the mama bear that is provoked or the bear that someone decides would make a good photo op eating out of the camera-man’s hand, but in the vast majority of cases, bears would rather not have anything to do with a human. (That’s not true of the human’s garbage, however.)
Nevertheless, as a precaution, when I returned to the tree garden I thought it might be considerate to talk kindly to any bears within earshot.
“Okay, bears, I’m back,” I called out in a confident but friendly voice. “I’m not afraid of you, and you shouldn’t be afraid of me. I mean you absolutely no harm, and in fact, my whole mission here is preserve these woods for creatures like you. Trust me, I’m your friend, okay? If you keep your distance, I’ll let you watch me finish building cages around the hemlocks to keep the deer from eating them. Do we have a deal? Yes? I thought so.”
Soon I was fully re-absorbed in the task at hand, and once I’d completed the cages, I reveled in the satisfaction of having built something; something tangible and with a purpose. In fact, the finished product exceeded my expectations, and for amusement, I considered donating proceeds from online sales of “Eric’s Deer Cage Kit™” to the Arbor Day Foundation.
If the bears were still listening, they would’ve heard me talking to the young volunteer white pine growing near one of the hemlock cages. “Hey, little pine,” I said to the happy tree, as I brushed against its boughs. “Why did you have to land so close to this hemlock? I’m gonna have to let you two compete. Time will tell which of you prevails, but maybe you can work something out; maybe you can work together—you know, talk to each other as trees are known to do; share your resources, your advantages. You’re both in a good place—plenty of sunshine right here and good soil, good drainage. I can see you growing up to be close friends one day.”
With that, I snapped a few pictures of the cages, gathered up my stuff and walked back to the cabin.
On the drive home, I designed in my mind, “Eric’s Fencing Operation™” for another set of hemlocks at the east end of the garden. Given the size, spacing, placement and number of trees involved, I think a “fencing operation” will be more efficient than construction of “cages.” On a mental spreadsheet, I listed the required materials.
I’m left to wonder, though, what will ursi sylvae think of all my defensive efforts against the deer?
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
