“Bear hunting. What’s the big deal? They look more like gigantic raccoons if you ask me. Certainly not something I would consider searing on my grill to a medium rare temp. Deer, Elk and Antelope already fulfill my every hunting desire and freezer. Why would I want to start bear hunting?” This was my uninitiated view before the spring of 2014…
Growing up in the Midwest, my impression of hunting these animals was molded by outdoor television, which emphasized the “sit and wait” tactic. This typically includes a tree stand, bait pile, and a hunter being eaten alive by insects while sitting for hours. In this, I found no allure.
But, now that I have lived in Montana for a few years, my opinion has shifted. As I spent weekends in the mountains chasing elk, I experienced more and more bear encounters. Whether it was simply cutting a track, or coming face-to-face with a bear, these encounters made me rethink the respect they deserve . These are impressive animals, leading a solitary existence in some gnarly places. Often seen scaling thin ridges and navigating sheer cliffs with the sure-footed confidence of a mountain goat. Exhibiting vital signs during each winter’s hibernation that would warrant a physician’s formal declaration of death. The more I was exposed to this animal, the more I began to admire it. I realized my preconceived notion of a garbage looting black bear was far from the full picture. This would be the year. This spring I would do my best to spot and stalk my first bear.
Before putting my boots to the dirt, it was time to learn the ins and outs of bear hunting. Scouting began as it does for most greenhorns, by venturing into the far reaches of the internet, reading any article, blog, or forum I could put my cursor on and, of course, nagging fellow hunters with infinite questions.
Not surprisingly, my first few outings came up dry with no bears spotted, but it didn’t matter. Every time I push myself to venture deeper or into new areas, I learn. This is especially true when hunting a completely new species. Through trial and error, I began to find bears and realize what areas held potential.
Wednesday, May 14th was a normal day of errands and work, but that evening I was resolved to continue my search. There was an area close to home that I had elk hunted many times, and I knew it well. After counting down the minutes to 5:00pm, I flew out the door with my gear dialed. After a short drive, it was a relief to see the National Forest road was closed. This would decrease hunting pressure drastically. An hour into the hike, I reached the National Forest border but found a heavier snow pack than anticipated. I veered east to hunt at lower elevation in the lush foothills. After another mile, I ascended a ridge that offered ample visibility. It was silent, calm and warm... I had a feeling. The bears would definitely be on their feet tonight.
After a couple of hours glassing, all I had seen was a herd of cow elk. Restlessness urged me to adopt a different tactic. I tucked into the timber to try still-hunting. The timber was ideal, with consistent visibility out to 100 yards. After sneaking for a half hour, I caught movement between the lodge pole pines. It was a bear, and a big one by the looks of it. Broad shoulders, a heavily muscled head and stout neck led me to believe it was a boar. His body rippled with each step as he quickly covered ground. I shed my pack, gently loaded a round in my .270, and awaited his next move. He took a hard left, dropping into a cut. He was broadside, but I could only see the top half of his body. If I waited, I would lose sight of him and with the thermals pushing downward, he could cross my scent stream. It was now or possibly never. I took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger, shattering the ominous silence. I pulled away from my riflescope and could see 4 paws in the air. YES! He was down.
An eerie stillness returned to the timber. My senses were flooded with adrenaline and the sensation of my heart rate throbbing at my temples. I remained in shooting position, still peering through my scope, as I replayed the brief yet overwhelming moment over and over in my head. With trembling knees, I struggled to stand and began to slowly walk toward the bear; periodically pausing to verify his motionlessness. As I drew nearer, I was impressed by the numerous shades of his coat, transitioning from chocolate to blonde with a red tinge throughout. He was beautiful, and much larger than I had first thought. His sturdy build resembled that of a 300-pound English bulldog. It was an intimidating sight.
After a few moments gawking at the specimen, I quickly notched my tag, hiked back to my pickup and drove down the road to get cell reception. I called my good friend and hunting partner, Isaac Nelson. After a few short rings he answered:
“Hey buddy, how was the hunt?”
I struggled to fight back the giddy excitement on the edge of my lips. “Oh, pretty good. Saw a few elk and that was about it. Still a lot of snow back there.”
“Really? I see. What are your plans for tonight?”
“Well, I could use a hand.”
“With what?”
The urge to laugh was too much at this point. “Are you going to come help me pack this thing out or what?!”
I immediately heard Isaac’s signature belly laugh, and had to pull the phone away from my ear to avoid hearing damage. “I’ll be there ASAP,” he said. A few more friends joined me on the pack out. We lit a fire, took photos, and made quick work of the bear, filling our packs with meat and hide.
At 4:00 a.m. we arrived at the truck with sore legs, heavy eyelids, and grins on our faces. The next day, I brought the bear to the wildlife biologist to register the kill. He estimated the bear was 14-years-old. This meant this veteran survivor had been roaming the hills since I was 9-years-old. When he was a cub, so was I. My appreciation immediately magnified.
I can guarantee one thing, this spring I will be glassing south-facing slopes with the same goal in mind. I’m converted.
