WHISTLER, British Columbia - The late-night scratching at the door of my condo would not have been so alarming had I not known that this resort apparently was as appealing to bears as European vacationers.

And, if what I'd read about the black bears was to be believed, this was no ordinary breed. These critters reportedly were capable of everything short of deciphering the NBA's salary cap.

"Many of Whistler's bears have learned to do things like open car doors or hold spring-closed gates open," read one of the condo's brochures.

Maybe they were merely being polite, like most Canadians.

Meanwhile, the sound persisted.

The condo is located in Whistler Village, which further reading revealed, had once been a garbage dump, a dump that was particularly popular with the local black bear community.

And now that the dump has been replaced by condos, hotels and a faux European town center that, in typical North American fashion, is actually an outdoor mall, nostalgic bears occasionally return for visits.

Perhaps my condo had once been the spot where Taco Bell unloaded its leftovers, and the bear outside had returned to satisfy a craving for Gorditas? It wasn't nearly as outlandish a concept as Johnny Weir and Tanith Belbin sharing a Vancouver apartment.

In any event, it certainly wasn't unwise to assume that there was a bear at my door. After all, during a men's downhill practice last week, a lynx sprinted across the course and approached photographers. A day later, reporters saw one in the woods near the Whistler Sliding Center, where the luge and skeleton events are held.

The only lynx I'd ever seen were in crossword puzzles, but if those lightweight felines weren't afraid of visiting journalists, then I'm certain a big old bear would not think twice about having an Inquirer reporter as a midnight snack.

Locals say there also are cougars in these mountains, and occasionally - though one hadn't been spotted in many years - a wandering grizzly.

Have you ever seen the claws on a grizzly?

That could explain why the scratching suddenly seemed louder.

I did a quick search about grizzlies and Whistler on my laptop. Sure enough, a local outdoorsman had claimed to have seen them here.

"If the bear attacks," he wrote, "get on the ground in a fetal position and get your head protected with your arms. If you get a chance, get your thumbs and fingers into its eyes. . . . Gouge them out if you can."

And what if I couldn't?

Would it be OK to kick it in the groin?

He didn't say.

These bears might be brazen enough to try to break into a condo. After all, we'd been told that they were so prevalent here that among the security agencies charged with keeping the local athletes village safe was an animal conservation group.

All around this little resort town you can find signs that warn you about bears. "Caution Bears," "Whistler is Bear Country," and "Do not leave garbage outside. A garbage bear is a dead bear."

If that were one outside, I was pretty sure it wasn't one of the dead ones.

The time finally came when it was either go to bed with a fireplace utensil under my pillow or go outside and confront the great beast.

For some reason, I opted for the latter.

I creeped down the stairs. If only the Inquirer had put me up in a hotel. The door would have had a peep hole.

I turned the lock and, gripping the handle as firmly as I could in case the bear grabbed it, opened the door.

It wasn't a bear.

It was an Austrian.

He rented the condo next door. He had been skiing and drinking, which is what you would expect from an Austrian at the Winter Olympics.

Now he was drunk and trying to balance his skis as he fiddled in vain with the door's lock. As he did, the skis kept brushing against my door.

"How are you, my friend?" he said when he saw me there, perhaps fearful that I was going to assail him with the brass poker.

"Fine now," I said, "but I thought you were a bear."

He looked at me funny as I closed the door.