With so many reports of bear sightings in northern Michigan—the Michigan Department of Natural Resources estimates there are 2,000 black bears living here, with more than 10,000 in the Upper Peninsula—author Tim Mulherin selected the black bear as a subject of interest as part of his research for a book on Michigan’s wildlife. The Empire “sugar bear” made headlines when it broke into Grocer’s Daughter Chocolate this past April; in our May edition of we examined how humans struggle to coexist with black bears as our encroachment upon their habitat continues. Last spring, the DNR connected Mulherin with researchers from Utah State University, who are conducting a study called the Baldwin Bear Project. The project “aims to understand the ecology and human dimensions of black bears in Michigan,” with an emphasis on examining the growing population here.
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Glen Lake School will not consider turning 180 acres of forestland which it owns on Benzonia Trail into affordable housing—at least not yet. School Board members were to hear presentations at the meeting on Monday, Dec. 9, concerning the property which is currently managed by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources. Informational presentations were scheduled that would feature forestry and conservation director Ellie Johnson explaining how Glen Lake’s forest can be used under current DNR provisions, as well as a session from the Sleeping Bear Gateways Council, which was approached by Glen Lake School in summer 2023 to consider how the land in question could be used for affordable housing—an acute and dire need in Leelanau County, where home prices have surged. Instead, Glen Lake superintendent Jason Misner announced that the board would hear no such presentations.
Sleeping Bear. It’s our home, the namesake of our national park. We delight in living here, on the edge of the wild. But when a black bear emerges from hibernation and crosses our privacy thresholds, breaks into our shops, drags our dumpster trash through the village, eats our chickens, and leaves paw prints on our windows, do we suddenly fear it? Do we condemn its right to live amongst us? Do we breathe a collective sigh of relief when the authorities set traps and take the bear away? This may be the land of the sleeping bear, but only so long as it sleeps, we tell ourselves. When it wakes, we must remind the bear that this is our land now. Sun editor Jacob Wheeler asks whether we can coexist with bears in the cover story for our May 16 edition—several weeks after a 450-500-pound bear broke into the local chocolate shop, devoured a 50-pound bag of sugar and was later trapped and relocated by the DNR.
A black bear has visited Grocer’s Daughter Chocolate in Empire on five consecutive evenings this week, rummaged through a dumpster and spreading garbage around the village, and pulling open the back door and devouring a 50-pound bag of sugar. On Tuesday night, April 16, around 10:30 pm, the bear entered the beloved chocolate shop for no more than 20 seconds, stole the sugar and returned to the sidewalk to eat it. It touched nothing else in the shop, not even the small, chocolate bears on display by the checkout counter.
Writer Tim Mulherin, who splits his time between Indianapolis and Leelanau County, shares his “big fish” story, when conservation officers with the Michigan Department of Natural Resources weighed in his brown trout at 7.8 pounds and rainbow trout at 4.5 pounds.
Recently, writer Tim Mulherin met Michigan Department of Natural Resources’ veteran Rich Stowe, 57, a former Grand Traverse County Sheriff’s Office deputy. While researching a book on the impact of the pandemic, climate change, and tourism on northwest lower Michigan, Mulherin had the opportunity to ride along with Officer Stowe in late September. “It’s always a great day to be a game warden,” Stowe told him.
Where do the rights of boaters end and those of riparians—who own inland waterfront property—begin? The laws can be confusing, and it appears that many, including some law enforcement officers, might be misinformed.
With Lake Michigan as high as it is right now, 579.6 feet, that means less than one foot of elevation from the water’s edge would require a DEQ permit if a beach owner wanted to “move around” the sand or remove vegetation.