Yellowstone’s matriarch, Grizzly 399 died last week, hit by a car in Snake River Canyon. It was a sad end for a bear who captivated wildlife fanatics across the globe.
She was 28 years old and had raised 18 cubs. Her number, 399, was given to her when she was radio-collared in 2001 as she was the 399th grizzly captured in the Greater Yellowstone region.
Twenty-eight years makes for an old bear, but 399 defied age. When she emerged to a throng of admirers in the spring of 2023 at 27 with her cub Spirit, she became the oldest reproducing grizzly in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem.
But her legend didn’t begin there. Nearly 20 years ago, when 399 began to frequent areas near roads, behavior biologists speculate was intended to keep her cubs safe.
Given the chance, male grizzlies kill cubs so the females will go into heat and the males can mate with them. But male bruins shun areas along highways crowded with human admirers.
In 2020, already famous 399 became a superstar when she returned from hibernation with four cubs. One cub is cute, but four are exponentially more adorable than one the way the Grand Tetons are more magnificent than a pile of recently excavated soil at a construction site. Her superstar status was confirmed.
Spirit was likely with 399 when she was killed. It doesn’t appear the cub was injured, and he may be mature and resilient enough to survive.
It’s our nature, amplified by Disney’s influence, to project onto wildlife all sorts of human traits. I’ve read emotional stories this week about how 399 was gentle, a loving mother, a bear that might teach humans a few things about humanity.
She was obviously a skilled mother, arguably the greatest mom in the history of grizzly bears. And grizzly bears are a species that reminds us more than a little of ourselves.
The stories we tell about 399, however, like the collective grief so many now feel, may tell us more about ourselves than a great bear. It’s important to remember 399 was a grizzly, not a manic pixie dream bear existing only to provide support and comfort for her many followers. What she really existed for was to defend her cubs and teach them to hunt and forage and rule as apex predators in one of the wildest places left in North America.
Our attachment to her was understandable. While I never joined the crowds waiting for a glimpse of her each spring, I relished reading news about 399 and her cubs.
But all that admiration wasn’t always for the best. When I watched “Queen of the Tetons,” the Nature documentary about 399 that premiered in the spring, I was concerned to hear one of the biologists interviewed for the film say that of course 399 received special treatment. That quote played over footage of Jackson police cruisers escorting the bear and her cubs out of town.
It occurred to me then that 399’s death might not be as illustrious as her life. I remembered the story of Grizzly 168 — Yellowstone’s oldest grizzly — a 34-year-old male that, when it was euthanized in 2021, weighed just 170 pounds and its few remaining teeth had been worn to nubs. The calves 168 had killed seemed bruised, not bitten. The emaciated bear gummed them to death.
Some lament 399’s death was due to a car accident, but that was always the risk of her cub-rearing strategy. Wildlife officials say she was likely killed instantaneously. Her death is surely tragic, but I’m glad she didn’t go like 168.
Grizzly 399 was a special bear. Her life stands as a testament to the magic of the natural world. We can’t help the sadness we feel now that the queen is dead, but I’m optimistic a new queen will soon rise to take her place.