Just over four years ago, a legendary bear known as 399 emerged from her den with four cubs. By then, I had been following her adventures for several years. Despite the onset of COVID, I knew I had to get to Grand Teton National Park to photograph this remarkable bear.
On my very first morning in the park, just five minutes in, I was lucky enough to encounter 399 and her cubs. Those who know me have heard how, in my excitement, I lost track of distance while peering through my 600mm lens. Focused only on the viewfinder, I didn’t realize how close she had gotten. By the time I snapped out of it and decided to move, she and her cubs were only about 30 feet away. As I slowly backed up, they kept moving forward, passing within just 15 feet of me—completely unfazed by my presence. It’s an experience I’ll never forget and one that taught me an important lesson.
Later on that trip, I watched 399 lead her cubs along the edge of a field filled with elk. As she neared the herd, she moved stealthily into the woods. By the time the elk sensed danger, 399 had already cut off their escape. The herd was forced to run along the front of the field, where a long line of spectators stood. Park Rangers had to intervene, parting the crowd to let the elk cross the road and escape. But as the last elk crossed, one cow stopped in the middle of the road, looking back at the field.
She turned and ran back, frantically searching for her calf, which had been lost in the chaos caused by the approaching bear. She dashed through the field and into the woods, eventually finding her calf, but it was too late—399 had already caught it.
I vividly remember the sight of the cow standing over her calf’s body in the woods, as if trying to protect it. 399 waited, giving the cow time to grieve before she left. It struck me how cunning 399 had been, using the line of people to trap the elk and complete her hunt. It was incredible to witness how she was teaching her cubs these survival skills.
During some downtime on that trip, I decided to explore other parts of the park. It was then that I experienced one of the most powerful moments of my photography career. While driving past a remote field, I came across a lone pronghorn antelope. I stopped to photograph it for a few minutes and then continued driving. But as I drove away, something felt off. The pronghorn hadn’t behaved as they typically do—it hadn’t run off.
My gut told me to turn around, and so I did. When I returned, the pronghorn was still standing in the middle of the field. I walked to within 50 feet, and yet she didn’t move. I set up my tripod, focused my camera, and watched as she lay down, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Minutes later, through my camera lens, I saw another head emerge—the pronghorn had just given birth to a baby, right in front of me. I’ll never forget that moment. The photograph I captured shows the mother and her newborn meeting face to face for the first time.
All of these unforgettable experiences stem from my fascination with 399. Today, for me and many others who have followed her story, is a heartbreaking day. Last night, 399 was hit and killed by a car. The news brought me to tears. I will miss following her adventures, but I’ll always be grateful that I had the chance to see her in person and witness firsthand what an extraordinary animal she was.
She has given me, treasured memories.