Bear Visits Home in Port Saunders

Everyone is familiar with the tale of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. In August 1947, a reversed version of that story unfolded in the Newfoundland community of Port Saunders. A bear wandered into the room of a sleeping baby, forcing a mother to confront the terrifying intruder with nothing but her wits and a well-worn broom.

The following is a fictionalized account based on newspaper reports of the incidents. None of the reports identified the name of the mother. As the incident happened less than 80 years ago, its probable the details are still remembered by some citizens of Port Saunders.

If anyone would like to share what they know, the comments are open.

 

The Baby, The Bear & The Broom

It was August 11, 1947, and early morning in Port Saunders, NL.

Outside, the air still carried the damp cool of coastal summer night, but inside the little house at the edge of the woods, the stove had already filled the kitchen with thick, heavy heat. The fire had been burning since dawn — summer or not, there was bread to be baked.

The young mother moved through her morning chores her motions quick and practised. She worked as quietly as she could. In the next room, her infant lay sleeping in his cot, and she wanted to finish as much as possible before he woke.

In The Woods

Beyond the little house, the community was already stirring. As soon as the dampness burned off the air, there would be cod to spread on the flakes. It was a busy time of year, the kind that left no room for idleness—not for people, and not for the creatures that shared the land with them.

In the dense tangle of spruce beyond the community, a black bear prowled.

It had been foraging since first light, its heavy paws pressing into the dry moss as it nosed through empty berry patches and overturned rotting logs. Hunger rumbled deep inside the animal’s belly — finding enough to eat dominated its waking hours. It had been like this all summer, and fall would soon be closing in.

Then — a scent.

Something warm. Something rich. Something unlike anything the forest had to offer.

The bear lifted its head, nostrils flaring. It turned toward the smell, moving with quiet purpose — past tangled roots and over rocky ground, it slipped from the cover of the trees and into Port Saunders.

It padded past sheds and woodpiles, its massive shoulders rippling beneath thick fur. No one saw it. No one heard it. It moved like shadow, guided by the promise of food.

Its nose lifted, tracing the scent through the village, toward a little house where fresh bread was baking.

In The Kitchen

Inside, the mother peeked into the oven. The loaves had turned a pale golden hue — nearly ready. Thank God, she thought, soon she could let the fire burn down.

She glanced into the front room, where her tiny son lay in his cot, sleeping soundly. The air in there felt even warmer than in the kitchen.

There was a door in that room, though it was rarely used; most people came and went through the kitchen door. But maybe — just for a little while — she could open it and let a breeze in.

She unlatched the door. A gentle wind swept in, it was a blessed relief from the heat. She hooked the door open so it wouldn’t slam shut.

She never would have done it, of course.

Not if she’d known what was lurking just outside.

But not knowing — and never imagining a 300lb black bear was just about to come into her garden — she went about her business.

In The Front Room

The bear crept closer, crossing the yard.

The scent of baking bread was overwhelming, pulling it forward with an irresistible force. Step by step, it climbed cautiously onto the small wooden bridge of the house. The boards creaked faintly beneath its weight, but hunger dulled any hesitation.

It crossed the threshold.

Inside, the bear moved without a sound, its claws — sharp as knives — grazing the wooden floor. It inhaled deeply, its empty stomach clenching with need. But now that it was inside, something else had caught its attention.

A different scent.

Something small. Something warm. Something alive.

The baby.

The bear hesitated, then altered its course. The bread still smelled wonderful, but a lifetime in the wild had taught it one thing —survival favoured those who adapted, those who could change their mind. The choice was clear — the best meal was always the easiest meal.

And right now, the unprotected infant just within reach was the easiest meal by far.

In the next room, the young mother worked, broom in hand, sweeping dust into small, tidy piles.

Then—a noise.

Her head snapped up. It had come from the front room.

She moved quickly, stepping through the doorway—then froze.

A black bear stood in the middle of the room.

Its massive head was low, its dark eyes locked on the cot.

For a single heartbeat, it was as if the world held its breath.

Then, she moved.

No hesitation. No fear. Every second counted.

With a cry that reverberated through the house, she seized the broom — the very broom she had been using to clean the floor seconds before — and launched herself at the intruder. Each swing was fuelled by raw determination, the bristles snapping against the bear’s thick fur, sending a billowing cloud of dust into the air.

The bear flinched, startled; its ears flattened tightly against its massive skull.

Again, she swung.

For a split second, the beast hesitated, its powerful muscles coiling like springs and its sharp claws glinted against the wooden floor. In that fleeting moment, it could have lunged forward, its lethal force capable of crushing both mother and child.

But she did not waver. Driven by a fierce determination, she struck — blow after blow, each one chipping away at the bear’s resolve.

At last, the bear let out a deep, huffing breath and turned. With a final, shuddering glance, it scrambled backward. It retreated along the path it had come—through the open doorway, down the creaking wooden bridge, and back into the safety of the trees.

Trembling, the mother stood, the broom still clutched in her hands, her breath coming hard and fast.

In the cot, the baby stirred, stretching his tiny arms upward with a sigh, blissfully unaware of the battle fought on his behalf.

She rushed forward, scooping him up, pressing a kiss to his warm forehead. Her heart was still pounding.

Then ran to the door and slammed it shut.

In The Community

Later, the men of the village would gather their rifles and murmur in hushed tones about the creature that had dared to cross into their world. They would set out into the woods, determined to track it down and ensure it never threatened their homes again.

But the danger was already past.

On the porch, the mother rocked her child, her steady gaze fixed on the dark line of tangled spruce. The bear was gone — and she had sent it fleeing. Not with bullets, but with the swift, unrelenting fury of a mother defending her own.

They might call it a close call. They might say she was lucky.

But she knew the truth.

The bear had come hungry. It had come bold.

But there are forces in this world more powerful than hunger and fiercer than any wild animal.

That morning, in a quiet house on Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula, the bear learned an old truth:

Nothing is more powerful or fierce than a mother’s love for her child.

• Sources and Further Reading

  1. Bear Visits Home at Port Saunders, Evening Telegram, August 12, 1947

  2. Mother Saves Infant from Marauding Bear, Western Star, August 22, 1947

  3. Bear Nearly Attacks Infant, Observer’s Weekly, August 19, 1947

  4. Bear Visits Home at Port Saunders, Evening Telegram, August 16, 1947

  5. Port Saunders, Encyclopedia of Newfoundland and Labrador