Cub of Wyoming Grizzly No. 399 Has Been Unseen Since Mom's Death but Odds Look Good

This photo provided by Grand Teton National Park shows Grizzly bear No. 399 and her one-year-old cub after emerging from hibernation, May 16, 2023. (C. Adams/National Park Service via AP)
This photo provided by Grand Teton National Park shows Grizzly bear No. 399 and her one-year-old cub after emerging from hibernation, May 16, 2023. (C. Adams/National Park Service via AP)
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Cub of Wyoming Grizzly No. 399 Has Been Unseen Since Mom's Death but Odds Look Good

This photo provided by Grand Teton National Park shows Grizzly bear No. 399 and her one-year-old cub after emerging from hibernation, May 16, 2023. (C. Adams/National Park Service via AP)
This photo provided by Grand Teton National Park shows Grizzly bear No. 399 and her one-year-old cub after emerging from hibernation, May 16, 2023. (C. Adams/National Park Service via AP)

The death of the world’s most famous grizzly bear on a highway in western Wyoming has made an orphan of its cub, but biologists say the youngster’s chances of surviving -- even with a chilly mountain winter coming on -- are good.
"High chances of survival going forward for the yearling, even being on his own,” said Grand Teton National Park bear biologist Justin Schwabedissen.
It should be reassurance to the many worrying, The Associated Press reported.
After grizzly No. 399 died in a vehicle strike Tuesday south of Jackson Hole, her male cub's fate has been a big topic of discussion on a popular Facebook page dedicated to following the bear and her previous cubs. Evidently unhurt by the crash, the cub hasn't been seen since.
Some online commenters say the cub — known informally as “Rowdy” or “Spirit” — should be found and rescued.
Others agree with the usual approach of wildlife managers: Don't interfere with nature. So far, no cub search has been announced.
Had the cub been born last winter, survival would be much less likely.
But this youngster's age of nearly two years, its healthy size and the season — almost time to den up, safe and snug for the winter — are factors working in his favor, according to Schwabedissen.
Perils for grizzlies in the region besides highways include getting shot when the smell of game carcasses draw them into unintentional confrontations with elk hunters. Others are killed when they acquire too much of a taste for apples, dog food, garbage and other human sources of food near homes and become a risk for people.
This 28-year-old momma bear was the oldest known reproducing female grizzly in the Yellowstone ecosystem. Starting in 2004, she birthed 18 cubs in eight litters and had a penchant for hanging out with them near roads in Grand Teton.
Such behavior made her a hit with tourists, sometimes drawing hundreds at a time and causing traffic jams. Dozens of wildlife photographers and scientists — she's named for a numbered tag they put in her ear — watched her as well.
She's not the only famous animal in the region. Last summer, a confirmed sighting of a rare white buffalo calf in Yellowstone stirred widespread excitement.
Just a handful of people saw the bison calf soon after it was born and there have been no sightings since. But according to Native American legend, the calf fulfills an old prophesy and foretells better times ahead.
In 2009, a 725-pound Yellowstone bull elk known by his ear tag number drew attention when he died at a ripe old age of at least 15. Famous for getting aggressive with other males — and cars — elk No. 6 suffocated after tripping on a fence and getting pinned between rocks on his back.
Other Yellowstone-area wildlife are known only in death, such as a wolf which a man ran down with a snowmobile and brought into a bar in western Wyoming before killing it last winter.
Grizzly No. 399 and her cub leave a more uplifting legacy: helping people appreciate grizzlies as their numbers in the Yellowstone region continue to rebound from just over 100 in the 1970s to around 1,000 today.
Some of her offspring have had cubs that are now much older than her youngest who's now out there alone, fending for himself.
“She truly was an icon and ambassador for not only for of her species but also the wildness of the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem,” Grand Teton Superintendent Chip Jenkins said.



In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
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In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)

We watch video after video, consuming the world on our handheld devices in bites of two minutes, one minute, 30 seconds, 15. We turn to moving pictures — “film” — because it comes the closest to approximating the world that we see and experience. This is, after all, 2024, and video in our pocket — ours, others', everyone's — has become our birthright.
But sometimes — even in this era of live video always rolling, always recording, always capturing — sometimes the frozen moment can enter the eye like nothing else. And in the process, it can tell a larger story that echoes long after the moment was captured. That's what happened this past week in Beirut, through the camera lens of Associated Press photographer Bilal Hussein and the photographs he captured.
When Hussein set up his camera outside an evacuated Beirut apartment building Tuesday after Israel announced it would be targeted as part of military operations against Hezbollah, he had one goal in mind — only one. "All I thought of," he says, “was photographing the missile while it was coming down.”
He found a safe spot. He ensured a good angle. He wasn't stressed, he said; like many photographers who work in such environments, he had been in situations like this one before. He was ready.
When the attack came — a bomb, not a missile in the end — Hussein swung into action. And, unsurprisingly for a professional who has been doing this work for two decades, he did exactly what he set out to do.
Time slowed down
The sequence of images he made bursts with the explosive energy of its subject matter.
In one frame, the bomb hangs there, a weird and obtrusive interloper in the scene. It is not yet noticed by anyone around it, ready to bring its destruction to a building that, in moments, will no longer exist. The building's balconies, a split-second from nonexistence, are devoid of people as the bomb finds its mark.
These are the kind of moments that video, rolling at the speed of life or even in slow motion, cannot capture in the same way. A photo holds us in the scene, stops time, invites a viewer to take the most chaotic of events and break it down, looking around and noticing things in a strangely silent way that actual life could not.
In another frame, one that happened micro moments after the first, the building is in the process of exploding. Let's repeat that for effect, since even as recently as a couple generations ago photographs like this were rare: in the process of exploding.
Pieces of building are shooting out in all directions, in high velocity — in real life. But in the image they are frozen, outward bound, hanging in space awaiting the next seconds of their dissolution — just like the bomb that displaced them was doing milliseconds before. And in that, a contemplation of the destruction — and the people it was visited upon — becomes possible.
Tech gives us new prisms to see the world
The technology to grab so many images in the course of little more than one second — and do it in such clarity and high resolution — is barely a generation old.
So to see these “stills,” as journalists call them, come together to paint a picture of an event is a combination of artistry, intrepidity and technology — an exercise in freezing time, and in giving people the opportunity to contemplate for minutes, even hours, what took place in mere seconds. This holds true for positive things that the camera captures — and for visitations of violence like this one as well.
Photography is random access. We, the viewers of it, choose how to see it, process it, digest it. We go backward and forward in time, at will. We control the pace and the speed at which dizzying images hurtle at us. And in that process, something unusual for this era emerges: a bit of time to think.
That, among many other things, is the enduring power of the still image in a moving-picture world — and the power of what Bilal Hussein captured on that clear, sunny day in Beirut.