A young bear clung to a 40-foot power pole, trapped near live wires as onlookers watched helplessly. Forty feet up. Terrified. Clinging to a pole that could electrocute it. Near live wires that could kill it instantly if it moved wrong. And below, people watching. Wanting to help. Unable to do anything except hope someone qualified would arrive.
Utility worker Werner Neubauer and apprentice Efren Gallego arrived, cutting power first. The professionals. The people who could actually help. And their first act—before approaching, before attempting rescue—was cutting power. Making the pole safe. Removing the immediate threat of electrocution.
As Werner approached in the bucket truck, the terrified bear covered its eyes with its paws. The image that captures everything. This young bear, trapped forty feet up, so scared it covered its eyes. Like a child hiding from monsters. Like if it can’t see the danger, the danger can’t see it. The bear covering its eyes as the bucket truck approached.
Speaking softly like a lullaby, Werner coaxed it down inch by inch over what felt like hours. Not quickly. Not by force. But speaking softly. Like a lullaby. Coaxing. Gentle. Patient. Inch by inch. For hours. Werner in the bucket truck, speaking softly to a terrified bear, convincing it slowly that coming down was safe.
When the bear’s paws finally touched desert soil, it paused, then dashed into the wilderness. The moment of freedom. Paws touching solid ground after hours trapped forty feet up. The pause—maybe disbelief, maybe relief, maybe just exhaustion. And then the dash. Into the wilderness. To safety. To freedom. Away from poles and wires and trucks and humans.
Quiet heroism at its finest. Not dramatic. Not flashy. Not the kind of rescue that involves action-movie moves. Just patience. Just a utility worker speaking softly like a lullaby to a terrified bear for hours. Just the willingness to take as long as it takes to do this right.
A young bear clung to a 40-foot power pole. How did it get there? Climbing away from something scary, probably. Or just climbing because bears climb. And then realizing it was trapped. Too high. Near dangerous wires. Unable to safely come down. Clinging forty feet up, terrified.
Trapped near live wires as onlookers watched helplessly. The wires that made this deadly. That meant one wrong move would electrocute the bear. That meant no one could climb up to help. That meant helplessly watching and hoping professionals would arrive soon.
Utility worker Werner Neubauer and apprentice Efren Gallego arrived, cutting power first. The expertise. Arriving and immediately assessing: bear near live wires equals danger. So first step: cut power. Make the pole safe. Remove the threat of electrocution before attempting rescue.
As Werner approached in the bucket truck, the terrified bear covered its eyes with its paws. The bucket truck rising. Getting closer. And the bear, terrified, covering its eyes. The gesture that makes this bear so sympathetic. So vulnerable. So clearly scared.
Speaking softly like a lullaby, Werner coaxed it down inch by inch over what felt like hours. The patience. Not yelling. Not using force. Not trying to scare it down. Speaking softly. Like a lullaby. Like comforting a frightened child. Coaxing. Inch by inch. For hours. Standing in a bucket truck forty feet up, speaking gently to a bear, waiting for it to trust enough to move.
When the bear’s paws finally touched desert soil, it paused, then dashed into the wilderness. The ending. Paws touching ground. The pause—processing safety, probably. And then the dash. Running to wilderness. To safety. Away from the terror of being trapped near live wires forty feet up.
Quiet heroism at its finest. No fanfare. No dramatic music. No news cameras capturing the whole thing. Just Werner Neubauer in a bucket truck, speaking softly like a lullaby, patiently coaxing a terrified bear down inch by inch for hours until it was safe.
The bear covered its eyes. That detail matters. Because it shows how scared this animal was. How vulnerable. How much it needed someone patient enough to take hours speaking softly until trust built enough for the bear to move.
Werner could have tried to force it down faster. Could have used intimidation or noise or tools. But he didn’t. He spoke softly like a lullaby. Treated a terrified wild animal with gentleness. Gave it time. Gave it patience. Gave it the space to trust that coming down was safe.
And eventually, the bear believed him. Moved inch by inch. Came down from forty feet. Touched desert soil. Paused in disbelief. And dashed into wilderness.
Quiet heroism. The willingness to spend hours in a bucket truck speaking gently to a bear. The patience to coax it down inch by inch. The understanding that sometimes rescue isn’t about force—it’s about lullabies.