Hey Bear!

Learning to Love the Rain

Adrian Unger — Wed, 14 Jan 2026 00:00:00 -0800

I grew up, and still live, in what we — as in humans— have decided to call a coastal temperate rainforest which as you can I imagine by the name, rains¹. Sometimes a lot.

And it doesn’t seem inherent to my nature to love rain. Now the sun. Oh, me and the sun get on swimmingly. It’s one of those effortless relationships, ya know? Like we could go years not seeing each other, not even talking on the phone, and once reunited? Just like old times. Easy. Natural. Comfortable.

The rain? Now that’s more of an enigma for me. As a kid I literally dreamt of California. Inundated with skateboard media I longed for that dusty, dry, coastal desert air.

But the sun doesn’t have a sound.

Of all the sensual, earthly experiences we can have, the sun lacks any auditory stimulae. The howl or whisper of wind, the crunch of snow, the putter patter of rain.

I’m currently sitting on my patio, parked in my little packable camp chair, hunkered under the maybe two and a half foot overhang that — mostly — keeps me dry, and my ears are filled with the loving taps of thousands, perhaps millions?! Of individual drops of water.

It’s a sound that fills me with so much love and I suppose nostalgia. It’s like I’m hearing all of the times in my life that I’ve noticed the lovely din of dropping water all at once.

The sound of rain on the family camping tent that we used as kids — that my parents used in their twenties — canvas and not exactly water proof.

The sound of rain on the metal roof of my partners family cabin — oh how the metal and water resonate so well together! Or, the rain on the metal roof of a car as the windshield hammers into the falling liquid.

The light almost hum of a gentle mist on the polyester or nylon of an umbrella, as I am walking through the grey dampness of Vancouver.

Or, the sound of the rain, when there was just enough wind to make it come in on an angle and hit the plastic shingles of the house I grew up in. Such a hollow, round echo that it made compared to the sharp, pointed ting of a metal roof.

Or, simply the dullness of the rain hitting the ground, be it earth or asphalt, as all the vibration seems to be sucked up and absorbed.

Right now I hear all of it. In every drop. Each one containing the totality of all my memories. And I can’t help be filled with gratitude. Despite my coldness and dampness I am filled with comfort and friendship with that lovely sound. How strange it would be to live somewhere where it was a rarity!

Even as I write this, the pace and concentration of the rain has ebbed and flowed in its own stochastic rhythm, which feels so alive and natural and not at all mechanical.

And that’s its own kind of comfort. And I simply love it. I want to embrace it and hug the rain and let it now how much its presence matters, how the sound it makes as it hits the earth is perhaps the most homely, warm sound I know.

Perhaps I don’t need to learn to love the rain at all. Really, I think I’ve loved it all along.

maybe I should have called this Hey Rain instead of Hey Bear 😅 ↩

The Art of Noticing

Adrian Unger — Sat, 06 Dec 2025 00:00:00 -0800

You know how children’s stories and Christmas movies and other fantastical tales often have a moment where the kids are getting older and start doubting the magic of life?

Often, in these movies and books it’s quite literal, fantastic magic which they had experienced like dragons and wizards and talking lions or whatever.

Then there’s that moment when they have to choose, they have to remember, they have to open themselves up rather than close themselves off, and just believe—then they’ll experience the magic again.

Well, I don’t think it’s so much about belief as it is about noticing. Noticing what’s around us all the time. I’m not going to promise you wise dragons or talking lions, but magic IS everywhere. We just have to have the eyes for it.

Today I went for a run. It’s December. The leaves have all but fallen and begun their decomposition. The clouds are a near permanent fixture. The sun doesn’t rise over the mountains till like 10 or 11 in the morning.

Yet, this was perhaps one of the most magnificent, stunningly beautiful mornings of my entire life. It’s was damn near magical.

I didn’t have to believe. I just had to see.

My gosh, the numerous shades of brown! The subtle shifts of blue and green and turquoise in the waters. And just the perfect break in the morning clouds to cause a stark, horizontal line of pure sunlight on the western mountains, shining a light on the depths and textures of the evergreens.

As I ran south towards the ocean, I kept staring up at the show of light on the wall of firs. Sometimes fading out and expanding as the clouds obscured and revealed the rays of the sun.

Reaching the terminus of my southward expedition I caught birds soaring, well, about as high as any bird can soar without embodying the mythical Icarus which, of course, meant Bald Eagles. Wow. The way they ride the winds, hardly exerting any effort, surfing the currents of the sky…

They were numerous. Nine I counted circling over the estuary. Among them were six crows, not quite as high in altitude—tricky little fuckers who seem to keep all birds in check, even the Eagle despite being out of reach. I stopped and watched their hypnotic motions.

What it must feel like to fly that high?

As my gaze fell back down to Earth I noticed blue tinted clouds behind the western mountain, with that horizontal line of sunlight still illuminating the evergreens and a contrasting dark grey cloud just above, creating a sort of contrasting glow around the edges where the mountains meet the sky.

I thought, “if I was a painter I would have to try and capture the subtle complexity of all these shades and colours and textures and light.” I also thought people would doubt that this was a scene from life and not imagination.

I’m not a painter so I just stared at it for a minute, etching it into my brain—at least for a while. Time to turn around and head back home filled with The joy, reverence and peace that moments of Earthly existence seem to afford.

I took some treed paths on my return, occasionally glancing through the bare deciduous branches to see if I could still spot the Eagles high above… but… what’s this??

Could it be?

A mother fucking Rainbow. 🌈

Goodness, the gods were smiling on me today! And, knowing how a rainbow occurs makes experiencing a rainbow no less magical. There’s no rule book or guarantee that says ANY of this (life, earth, the cosmos) should exist. It just does. And it’s unfathomably beautiful.

I don’t have to believe in rainbows. Or that birds could soar 20 thousand feet above. Nor do I have to believe that a giant nuclear reactor sitting at a very fine distance from us would shine down its warming, life-giving rays. Or that so many shades of brown could possibly exist and I would have the physicality to see so many of them.

I just have to notice.

I don’t run with my phone. As I got home, I scurried to the patio in hopes the rainbow was still there and I could share it’s glory with my partner, Angela—and it was!

The Elegant Heron

Adrian Unger — Thu, 16 Oct 2025 00:00:00 -0700

I see herons—sorry, Great Blue Herons—most of the year, but their plumage seems to change this time of year so now I’m really eyeing them up.

They’re stoic lil’ fuckers. Except, they’re not that little. I often see them knee deep is some murky estuary or river water, motionless. And then, BAM, they dive their awkwardly long neck into the murk and in an instant come up with some fish or worm or… frog? I don’t actually know what they’re munching, but damn if they ain’t good at catching that mystery meal.

With their statuesque poise and precise, ninja-like actions one might think to call them “elegant” or “refined.” When they take flight some of that elegance turns to grandeur—how is this creature becoming airborne? How slow its wings flap. How languidly it seems to move through the air. Amazing.

And then it opens its fucking beak and makes a sound—which it doesn’t do often, not like some birds—and what a sound! Imagine a large bird screeching but in all low notes. Or, like a broken horn of a bygone jalopy. I guess it’s exactly how you’d imagine a dinosaur to sound. A pterodactyl perchance.

Odd story, but it reminds me of this time many moons ago: Walking up the stairs of the Stadium-Chinatown station in Vancouver. There was a group of Japanese teen schoolgirls—dressed exactly how you’d imagine, all prim and proper—walking ahead of me. I had similar thoughts as when I see a Great Blue Heron—wow, such refinement! I don’t think I’ve ever dressed so cohesively in my life!

Then one of them lets’er rip. A fart. Like a solid fart, not just a toot. And I’m just walking up the stairs, following behind them thinking “oh gosh, do I get out of the firing line?!” And then they all laugh exactly as you’d imagine Japanese school girls would laugh.

That’s precisely what it’s like when you hear a Great Blue Heron make its call. Shocking. A bit of contrast to wake you up from your presumptions, reminding you that life can always surprise.

So, I salute you Mr. G.B. Heron, you keep me on my toes, never really knowing what life will bring me next.

—AU

I don’t have a modern Big Daddy lens, so had to make due with some vintage manual focus contraption. Well, at least the reeds are sharp as a tack.

The Sun Was Out

Adrian Unger — Mon, 06 Oct 2025 00:00:00 -0700

The sun was out. This may sound like a mundane statement—I assure you—it is not. The sun was out! By the glory of God, the Sun had broken through the clouds and reached my dull, damp skin.

You see, I live in what they (ecologists?) call a coastal temperate rainforest. What you need to know about this is that it rains (shocker) and even when it’s not raining, it’s damp.

When the clouds take form after their short summer break, they can be quite stubborn and persistent. Perhaps it had only been days since the direct light of the Sun had graced us mere peasants—but it certainly felt like weeks.

Anyway, the point is: The Sun Was Out. Praise be.

So my partner and I embarked on an aimless jaunt—how could it matter where we went? The Sun Was Out.

Of course, we encountered three, maybe four, bear. It’s just that time of year when the acorns are.. fresh? And the salmon are tired and rotting at the rivers edge.

So, yes, bears are abound.

And it never gets old. Seeing bears. Not for me anyway. It feels like I’ve snuck behind the curtain of this drama and seen something I shouldn’t have.

I mean, they’re potentially dangerous, yes. Yet, perhaps the most cuddly, huggable thing imaginable. And they just seem to be enjoying themselves. Every creature seems to have its own vibe and bears seem to embody enjoyment to me. Just living their life. Content.

“Oh is that some hoomans walking by again? No bother I’ll just be 15 feet up this tree ripping branches off for acorns.“

Is that not how I wish to live my life? Not fifteen feet up a tree—but just… unbothered?

And they’re just right there. Right amongst where we live. But of course, we’re probably encroaching on them. With all of the logging and construction and pipelines and activity us humans have going on, I guess it just surprises me that there’s enough natural abundance for all these bears.

I suppose I saw four bears today. But I saw a lot more humans. So, I dunno, maybe it’s not abundant.

Either way, it still feels like I’m seeing something I’m not supposed to. And they still appear unbothered to me. And it just feels like a gift. Seeing animals brings me uncanny amounts of joy. I can’t reason with it. It just is as it is.

So I named this newsletter after the phrase we all get used to bleating out, living amongst Ursus Americanus, “Hey Bear!”

And I’m forever grateful every time they look at me with the least amount of interest possible—totally unbothered. That is, if they even pay me any attention at all.

Eventually the bears will hibernate. And I hope this newsletter goes on because it’s not really about the bears, but the feeling I get that only nature seems to afford me. Wonder, awe, and joy. ✨

—AU