August 16, 2025 • 9 mins
The Bear Man of Harrison, Michigan
In the 1930s and 1940s, motorists driving through Harrison, Michigan, often stopped at a roadside attraction unlike any other: Spikehorn Meyers’ Bear Den. Here, an eccentric old woodsman dressed in buckskin invited families to feed, pet, and even shake hands with live black bears. For nearly three decades, John “Spikehorn” Meyer turned his rustic camp into a legendary stop along US-27.
Visitors gasped as bears sipped soda from glass bottles and nibbled popcorn from their hands. Spikehorn became both a beloved folk hero and a thorn in the side of state conservation officers, proudly displaying a sign that read, “Feed Conservation Officers to the Bears.”
In this episode of End of the Road in Michigan, we revisit the life of Spikehorn Meyers, his colorful partnership with “Chief Red Eagle,” and the unforgettable stories of the Bear Den. It’s a tale of showmanship, danger, humor, and the unique roadside history that shaped small towns across Michigan.
In the 1930s and 1940s, motorists driving through Harrison, Michigan, often stopped at a roadside attraction unlike any other: Spikehorn Meyers’ Bear Den. Here, an eccentric old woodsman dressed in buckskin invited families to feed, pet, and even shake hands with live black bears. For nearly three decades, John “Spikehorn” Meyer turned his rustic camp into a legendary stop along US-27.
Visitors gasped as bears sipped soda from glass bottles and nibbled popcorn from their hands. Spikehorn became both a beloved folk hero and a thorn in the side of state conservation officers, proudly displaying a sign that read, “Feed Conservation Officers to the Bears.”
In this episode of End of the Road in Michigan, we revisit the life of Spikehorn Meyers, his colorful partnership with “Chief Red Eagle,” and the unforgettable stories of the Bear Den. It’s a tale of showmanship, danger, humor, and the unique roadside history that shaped small towns across Michigan.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
In the middle of Michigan's lower peninsula on a dirt stretch of old US 27 near Harrison,
(00:06):
travelers once met a site straight out of folklore.
An old man in fringed Buckskin, white hair flowing past his shoulders and a long snowy
beard stood outside a log cabin with a black bear by his side.
His name was John Spicorn-Mire, and in the 1930s he turned his homestead into one of
(00:26):
Michigan's first roadside wildlife parks.
To countless families heading up north, Spicorn's bare den was a must-stop adventure.
Spicorn was born in 1870 and lived many lives before the bear camp.
He had been a lumberjack, a miner, even an inventor, a true jack-of-all-trades.
(00:48):
But nothing sparked his imagination like the bears.
Around 1930, as he neared 60, Spicorn adopted an orphaned bear cub and raised it by hand.
One cub led to another.
Before long he had more than 20 bears roaming his property.
Rather than fear them, Spicorn treated these black bears like family pets.
(01:11):
He slept in his rustic cabin beside them, fed them treats, and gave each one a name.
In 1931, with Michigan's new highway bringing cars past his door, Spicorn sensed opportunity.
He opened Spicorn's bare den and deer park at the corner of US-27 and M-61.
(01:33):
A simple log roadside stop that would become legendary.
Visitors gasped as they realized the bears here weren't behind bars.
They wandered freely.
Spicorn would chuckle and hand out day-old bread, candy and popcorn, so guests could feed
the bears right from their palms.
Children squealed as bears lapped sweet soda pop from glass bottles, fizzing and dribbling
(01:57):
just like messy toddlers.
For a generation of Michiganders, the fear and fascination of getting this close to a live
bear became an unforgettable memory.
No one left Spicorn's camp without a story to tell.
Some even shook hands with the bears, literally.
A hand-painted sign at the entrance, proudly declared, "Only bear den in the world that
(02:22):
visitors are allowed to shake hands with bear."
And many did, adults and kids alike, Spicorn would grin as a five-foot bear stood up on
its hind legs and offered a paw to a nervous guest.
Moments later laughter and applause broke out, another handshake successful.
Of course it didn't always go so smoothly.
(02:44):
Now and then, a bear reminded everyone it was still a wild animal.
Chuckling softly.
A nip here, a scratch there, even a few bites that sent tourists home with bandaged arms.
It was risky, outrageous and utterly unique.
Yet in an era before lawsuits and liability waivers, people lined up for the thrill.
(03:08):
Having Spicorn's spin this wild frontier experience was his friend, a showman known as Chief Red
Eagle.
Red Eagle was not a Native American by birth, but he dressed the part in a feathered headdress,
beaded buckskins and gold earrings.
Together, the white bearded woodsman and his charismatic partner captivated visitors with
(03:29):
tall tales of life in Michigan's wild woods.
As campfires crackled in the evening, Spicorn's voice would rise and fall in lively yarns,
stories of wrestling bear cubs or chasing poachers through pine forests.
Red Eagle played along, adding drama and whoops of laughter.
(03:50):
Young and old sat spellbound, the dark trees around them stirring with imagination.
In those moments, Harrison Michigan felt like the untamed frontier of an earlier century.
But everyone was charmed.
State conservation officers, today's DNR, saw trouble brewing at Spicorn's camp.
(04:11):
They worried about public safety and the ethics of keeping wild bears captive.
Spicorn scoffed at their concerns.
He was fiercely independent, a self-styled naturalist who believed he understood his bears
better than any government official.
When pressured to obtain permits and cage the animals, Spicorn responded with defiant humor.
(04:33):
He posted a new sign at the front gate.
Feed conservation officers to the bears.
It was his cheeky way of thumbing his nose at authority.
Locals roared with laughter at the sign and it became almost as famous as the bears themselves.
The feud between Spicorn and the state raged for years.
(04:56):
In 1937, a law forced him to pen the adult bears, so he built enclosures, then invited visitors
inside the pens to keep the interactions going.
When a child or a tourist occasionally got nipped, Spicorn would shrug it off, blaming
the victim's clumsiness or the game wardens' meddling.
To him, these woods and these creatures were his domain, and he wasn't about to back
(05:20):
down.
To the 1940s, Spicorn Meyer became a folk hero in Michigan.
His photo appeared on Claire County maps and in newspapers across the state.
Families would plan their vacation route just to stop at his place.
He even made it onto newsreels and radio broadcasts, bringing a whiff of the wild to city dwellers.
(05:42):
One famous newsreel, roaming through Michigan, captured Spicorn greeting visitors with a
bear cub cradled in his arms and a twinkle in his eye.
Reporters called him the bear man of Michigan, and he reveled in the spotlight.
He ran unsuccessfully for state office a few times in the 1940s, mainly to promote his belief
(06:04):
in living free and untaxed, much like his untamed companions.
Spicorn knew how to use a bit of showmanship and sometimes outright stunts to keep people
talking.
The attendance dipped, a bear escape might mysteriously occur, sending locals into a frenzy
until Spicorn heroically lassoed the runaway and brought it back to the den amidst newspaper
(06:28):
cameras.
As the 1950s dawned, however, time was catching up with the old shoman.
Spicorn was in his 80s but still opened the park each spring, greeting tourists from his
rocking chair out front.
Spicorn on a frigid January night in 1957, disaster struck, a spark from his wood stove ignited
(06:50):
the log souvenir shop and museum.
Flames consumed the heart of Spicorn's camp, his keepsakes, postcards and supplies, all
gone in one winter in Ferno.
Remarkably, Spicorn himself and his animals survived.
In the ashes of his life's work, the 86-year-old pioneer faced a choice.
(07:13):
Friends and fans offered money to help rebuild.
One woman even proposed to fund a new bear den for a hefty $60,000.
Spicorn just laughed.
He equipped that her offer was just a trick to get me married, and he wasn't planning
on marrying until he hit 100.
Then I'd marry a rich woman and be the richest man in the cemetery.
(07:36):
Spicorn was classic Spicorn, irreverent, proud, unwilling to be tamed by circumstance.
Against all odds, he did rebuild a smaller version of the camp and reopened later in 1957.
But that fall, Spicorn suffered a severe stroke.
The man who once wrestled bears now sat quietly in a nursing home, his body failing.
(08:01):
In September 1959, John Spicorn Meyer passed away at age 89.
He left no wife or children, the animals and the legends were his family.
Without Spicorn's outsized personality, the bear camp could not carry on.
The cages rusted, the last few bears were relocated, and the property fell silent.
(08:25):
In time the log buildings either burned or crumbled.
Today if you drive through Harrison, you might miss what remains of Spicorn's empire, a pair
of stone chimney pillars hidden among the trees, guarding the memory of a truly unique
chapter in Michigan's history.
Spicorn Meyer's bear camp is gone, but the stories live on.
(08:48):
In the history of Harrison, Michigan, his name still sparks a smile and may be a shutter
for those who remember shaking hands with a bear.
This Michigan moment reminds us of a time not so long ago when a single individual's wild
dream could bring people together in wonder.
Spicorn dared to blur the line between man and beast, and in doing so he etched his legend
(09:14):
into Up North lore.
In the middle of Michigan's lower peninsula on a dirt stretch of old US 27 near Harrison,
(00:06):
travelers once met a site straight out of folklore.
An old man in fringed Buckskin, white hair flowing past his shoulders and a long snowy
beard stood outside a log cabin with a black bear by his side.
His name was John Spicorn-Mire, and in the 1930s he turned his homestead into one of
(00:26):
Michigan's first roadside wildlife parks.
To countless families heading up north, Spicorn's bare den was a must-stop adventure.
Spicorn was born in 1870 and lived many lives before the bear camp.
He had been a lumberjack, a miner, even an inventor, a true jack-of-all-trades.
(00:48):
But nothing sparked his imagination like the bears.
Around 1930, as he neared 60, Spicorn adopted an orphaned bear cub and raised it by hand.
One cub led to another.
Before long he had more than 20 bears roaming his property.
Rather than fear them, Spicorn treated these black bears like family pets.
(01:11):
He slept in his rustic cabin beside them, fed them treats, and gave each one a name.
In 1931, with Michigan's new highway bringing cars past his door, Spicorn sensed opportunity.
He opened Spicorn's bare den and deer park at the corner of US-27 and M-61.
(01:33):
A simple log roadside stop that would become legendary.
Visitors gasped as they realized the bears here weren't behind bars.
They wandered freely.
Spicorn would chuckle and hand out day-old bread, candy and popcorn, so guests could feed
the bears right from their palms.
Children squealed as bears lapped sweet soda pop from glass bottles, fizzing and dribbling
(01:57):
just like messy toddlers.
For a generation of Michiganders, the fear and fascination of getting this close to a live
bear became an unforgettable memory.
No one left Spicorn's camp without a story to tell.
Some even shook hands with the bears, literally.
A hand-painted sign at the entrance, proudly declared, "Only bear den in the world that
(02:22):
visitors are allowed to shake hands with bear."
And many did, adults and kids alike, Spicorn would grin as a five-foot bear stood up on
its hind legs and offered a paw to a nervous guest.
Moments later laughter and applause broke out, another handshake successful.
Of course it didn't always go so smoothly.
(02:44):
Now and then, a bear reminded everyone it was still a wild animal.
Chuckling softly.
A nip here, a scratch there, even a few bites that sent tourists home with bandaged arms.
It was risky, outrageous and utterly unique.
Yet in an era before lawsuits and liability waivers, people lined up for the thrill.
(03:08):
Having Spicorn's spin this wild frontier experience was his friend, a showman known as Chief Red
Eagle.
Red Eagle was not a Native American by birth, but he dressed the part in a feathered headdress,
beaded buckskins and gold earrings.
Together, the white bearded woodsman and his charismatic partner captivated visitors with
(03:29):
tall tales of life in Michigan's wild woods.
As campfires crackled in the evening, Spicorn's voice would rise and fall in lively yarns,
stories of wrestling bear cubs or chasing poachers through pine forests.
Red Eagle played along, adding drama and whoops of laughter.
(03:50):
Young and old sat spellbound, the dark trees around them stirring with imagination.
In those moments, Harrison Michigan felt like the untamed frontier of an earlier century.
But everyone was charmed.
State conservation officers, today's DNR, saw trouble brewing at Spicorn's camp.
(04:11):
They worried about public safety and the ethics of keeping wild bears captive.
Spicorn scoffed at their concerns.
He was fiercely independent, a self-styled naturalist who believed he understood his bears
better than any government official.
When pressured to obtain permits and cage the animals, Spicorn responded with defiant humor.
(04:33):
He posted a new sign at the front gate.
Feed conservation officers to the bears.
It was his cheeky way of thumbing his nose at authority.
Locals roared with laughter at the sign and it became almost as famous as the bears themselves.
The feud between Spicorn and the state raged for years.
(04:56):
In 1937, a law forced him to pen the adult bears, so he built enclosures, then invited visitors
inside the pens to keep the interactions going.
When a child or a tourist occasionally got nipped, Spicorn would shrug it off, blaming
the victim's clumsiness or the game wardens' meddling.
To him, these woods and these creatures were his domain, and he wasn't about to back
(05:20):
down.
To the 1940s, Spicorn Meyer became a folk hero in Michigan.
His photo appeared on Claire County maps and in newspapers across the state.
Families would plan their vacation route just to stop at his place.
He even made it onto newsreels and radio broadcasts, bringing a whiff of the wild to city dwellers.
(05:42):
One famous newsreel, roaming through Michigan, captured Spicorn greeting visitors with a
bear cub cradled in his arms and a twinkle in his eye.
Reporters called him the bear man of Michigan, and he reveled in the spotlight.
He ran unsuccessfully for state office a few times in the 1940s, mainly to promote his belief
(06:04):
in living free and untaxed, much like his untamed companions.
Spicorn knew how to use a bit of showmanship and sometimes outright stunts to keep people
talking.
The attendance dipped, a bear escape might mysteriously occur, sending locals into a frenzy
until Spicorn heroically lassoed the runaway and brought it back to the den amidst newspaper
(06:28):
cameras.
As the 1950s dawned, however, time was catching up with the old shoman.
Spicorn was in his 80s but still opened the park each spring, greeting tourists from his
rocking chair out front.
Spicorn on a frigid January night in 1957, disaster struck, a spark from his wood stove ignited
(06:50):
the log souvenir shop and museum.
Flames consumed the heart of Spicorn's camp, his keepsakes, postcards and supplies, all
gone in one winter in Ferno.
Remarkably, Spicorn himself and his animals survived.
In the ashes of his life's work, the 86-year-old pioneer faced a choice.
(07:13):
Friends and fans offered money to help rebuild.
One woman even proposed to fund a new bear den for a hefty $60,000.
Spicorn just laughed.
He equipped that her offer was just a trick to get me married, and he wasn't planning
on marrying until he hit 100.
Then I'd marry a rich woman and be the richest man in the cemetery.
(07:36):
Spicorn was classic Spicorn, irreverent, proud, unwilling to be tamed by circumstance.
Against all odds, he did rebuild a smaller version of the camp and reopened later in 1957.
But that fall, Spicorn suffered a severe stroke.
The man who once wrestled bears now sat quietly in a nursing home, his body failing.
(08:01):
In September 1959, John Spicorn Meyer passed away at age 89.
He left no wife or children, the animals and the legends were his family.
Without Spicorn's outsized personality, the bear camp could not carry on.
The cages rusted, the last few bears were relocated, and the property fell silent.
(08:25):
In time the log buildings either burned or crumbled.
Today if you drive through Harrison, you might miss what remains of Spicorn's empire, a pair
of stone chimney pillars hidden among the trees, guarding the memory of a truly unique
chapter in Michigan's history.
Spicorn Meyer's bear camp is gone, but the stories live on.
(08:48):
In the history of Harrison, Michigan, his name still sparks a smile and may be a shutter
for those who remember shaking hands with a bear.
This Michigan moment reminds us of a time not so long ago when a single individual's wild
dream could bring people together in wonder.
Spicorn dared to blur the line between man and beast, and in doing so he etched his legend
(09:14):
into Up North lore.
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