JACKSON — In 2023, wildlife watchers gathered by the thousands in Pilgrim Creek, wondering whether she would emerge from the den at all. The famous bear, known for raising her cubs along the roads in Grand Teton National Park, was 27 — an age only 9% of female grizzlies in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem reach. For weeks, the crowds watched with bated breath. Then, on the evening of May 16, 2023, 399 waltzed out of her den with a tiny cub of the year in tow. When she did, she became the oldest known grizzly mother in Greater Yellowstone. The record was set. People were floored.

“Super bear,” Sam Bland, a retired park ranger, said after she emerged. “Super mom.”

But it wasn’t 399’s record that made her a superstar.

Instead, Grizzly 399’s visibility, and the duration of that visibility, made her remarkable — and allowed thousands of people to develop deep, personal connections with her, even if they were unidirectional. If most grizzlies birthed a “quad,” put a cub up for adoption or had a romantic fling with a male, biologists would know if the bear was collared. Everyday people would not. 399 did all of that in public, becoming an ambassador for her species.

“There are a lot more 399s out there than we sometimes realize, which is good because we need those bears for the population,” said Frank van Manen, the U.S. Geological Survey ecologist who leads the Interagency Grizzly Bear Study Team. “That is what’s keeping this population healthy and thriving.”

But 399 was nearly singular, and met multiple incredibly rare milestones for a bear.

Known for having triplets, already infrequent for grizzlies, she wowed her fans by bearing four cubs in 2020. Biologists have counted only 10 other litters of quads since 1973 in the Greater Yellowstone — 11 if you count the first-ever litter of five seen this summer. At 0.5%, that’s a minute fraction of all the grizzly bear litters documented in the past 51 years.

399 also didn’t live to be the oldest bear on record, but she is in the top of her class. Research shows that just 5% of female grizzlies born in the Yellowstone region live to or past 28.

But Grizzly 399’s prominence — especially compared to the quieter bears that live outside of public view — also meant that people could watch her and understand how grizzlies lived. In the span of three years, they could see 399 have cubs, teach them how to forage, keep them out of trouble, mourn when they died, and then kick them off and mate with a nearby boar as she often did with her frequent companion Bruno.

In the fall of 2008, two years after 399 first started raising her cubs along Teton Park roads, Sue Cedarholm watched as the griz taught her three subadult cubs to dig frozen fish out of Oxbow Bend. Ravens and bald eagles milled about overhead as the bears worked and people watched from the road. The next day, 399 nursed the grizzlies. The next day, she pushed them away. Two days later, she was mating.

“Nature can be so cruel,” Cedarholm remembered thinking. “They’re just like they’re living their life with their mom telling them what to do, and then, boom, she chases them off.”

399 also showed the risks humans pose to grizzlies, and how wildlife managers handled them.

“She’s given us a view into what a different regime for wildlife management for grizzlies would look like,” said Kristin Combs, executive director of Wyoming Wildlife Advocates. “She’s given us a glimpse into, ‘How do we turn the focus off bears and turn it onto humans?’ For the first time, she allowed us to do that.”

In 2016, wildlife watchers mourned when 399’s cub known as “Snowy” was hit and killed by a car. The next year, when the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service decided to remove grizzly bears’ Endangered Species Act protections, 399 became the poster child for wildlife advocates opposed to “delisting.” After a court battle, grizzlies’ protections were restored. In her later years, when 399 left Teton Park and ate trash, compost and livestock feed — behavior that would get a bear of average fame killed — Teton County residents lobbied the town and county governments to pass regulations aimed at making the community more bear-resistant. As 399 passed through developed areas, state and federal wildlife managers also tailed her nonstop, doing everything they could to keep her out of trouble, including collaring two of her four cubs.

While her fans were angry that the cubs had been captured, the collars helped wildlife managers track their movements. Collaring data is also part of how scientists and the public know so much about 399, especially in comparison to the other, less visible bears in the Greater Yellowstone.

399’s visibility allowed people like photographer Tom Mangelsen to see human-like emotion behind her matted fur and long claws. At one point, he watched as 399 and her two cubs ended up on other sides of a highway. They were separated and couldn’t find each other because of loud vehicles that were obstructing their hearing. 399 was upset, foaming at the mouth and “bawling,” Mangelsen said. When the family unit eventually reunited, 399 immediately laid down on her back and began to nurse her young.

“That’s the first thing a human would do,” Mangelsen said. “Let them nurse. Calm them down. There’s nothing more comforting to a baby than that. She’s just like a human in that sense.”

When 399 died Oct. 22 after being hit by a car in the Snake River Canyon, Mangelsen was devastated. He has been one of 399’s fiercest advocates. He estimates that he spent 150 days a year following her for the past 18 years.

“That night, I heard Tom wail in a way that was so animalistic,” his friend Julia Nell said at a 399 memorial. “I’ve never heard anyone cry or wail the way that he did. It went on for a long time.”

For Jack and Gina Bayles, photographers and tour guides, 399 became a cheeky part of their personal relationship. Whenever Jack saw 399, Gina said he would whisper quietly “I love you.”

“She was the other woman,” Gina said.

Asked why, Jack Bayles said he spent 10 years in the military, seven years as an ER tech and 13 years as a cop.

“I’ve got about 1,000 memories I don’t want,” he said. “She was quite literally my salvation.”

Other people developed an intense connection with 399 from far away.

After following her triumphs and travails over social media, Angela Linford and her friends from Salt Lake City decided to drive to Jackson in early November for a candlelight vigil held in 399’s memory. They had never seen 399 in person.

“Just that she exists means a lot to us,” Linford said.

The Sunday after 399 died, Red Top resident and grizzly bear advocate Cindy Campbell held a “sacred ceremony” in the bear’s honor.

While Campbell didn’t livestream the proceedings — she chose to honor 399 in private — she invited others to do the same at sunrise, wherever they were, in whatever fashion they chose. People from Israel, Germany, South Africa, France, Italy and Brazil told Campbell they participated.

Back in May 2020, at the very beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, Grizzly 399 emerged with her four cubs after people had been locked inside for months, squabbling with family and adapting to a rapidly changed lifestyle.

“That all fell away when she walked down with those four little cubs,” Campbell said. “Something changed in the world. That was one of the greatest gifts that she ever gave us.”