A Banged-Up Bear Hunt: Bruins and Bruises

When the black dot in the distance moved, I realized I wasn’t looking at another stump. I pulled my pickup well off the highway and set up my spotting scope. My suspicions were confirmed when a black bear took shape in a big mountain meadow. It looked big. I didn’t hesitate to make the decision to try a stalk, though it wouldn’t be easy. I figured the bear was at least a 1/2 mile away and the country between us was rugged, steep and full of blowdowns.  Worse, I’d have to cross a stream to get within range of my quarry.

Some would say that road hunting is unfair and unethical. My answer to that is simple. You can see Venus from your pick-up too. Getting there is the issue. Though my preference is to spot and stalk while hiking, I wanted to cover as much country as possible. I had only one more day to hunt.

It was May. Though bears are largely nocturnal, they’ll commonly feed extensively throughout the day in the spring.  I hoped that was the case with this bruin. I donned my pack frame, slung my Winchester Model 70 .30-06 over my shoulder and headed out. The first 200 yards was easy, but the rest was nasty. When I topped the first small ridge, I saw the slope below was a serious rockslide. I eased my way down it to the stream below. With scattered pools and small pockets, the water crossing posed a problem. There was no turning back. I was committed and worked my way across, falling twice because of the slippery rocks. I saw stars the second time and knew I’d badly twisted my ankle. Despite the pain I crawled up to a rise and saw that the bear was still feeding. I hobbled along, using a stout stick to help me climb. Then a serious wave of pain made me realize it would be foolish to continue the hunt. My ankle was injured more than I thought. At that point I knew that just getting out of the woods would be an ordeal.

I managed to get back to the pickup several hours later with the help of two walking sticks and a headlamp. I drove to the campground where my tent was pitched, swallowed a couple pain pills and slept fitfully. My ankle pain kept me awake most of the night.

Bear Sign

The next morning, I stumbled out of the tent and walked about gingerly, testing my ankle. I was able to bumble around clumsily, and after a short walk I noted that a patch of lush grass had been heavily grazed upon. A pile of fresh bear droppings betrayed the presence of a bruin. A badly rutted, impassable dirt road led out of the campground and up into the national forest. Tracks indicated the bear was using the road as a travel lane. Despite my injury, I re-committed myself to the hunt, though very carefully.

A half hour later, I sat on a stump to rest my ankle. I was shocked when I looked up the mountain and saw a bear. When I realized it was headed my way, I set the rifle on my tripod rest. A second later, I sent a Remington Core-Lokt into the bruin. It ran a few yards and rolled down the slope, coming to a stop against a tree. Then I was shocked again. Each ear wore a numbered tag. When I reported the bear to the state wildlife agency, the biologist was exuberant. He told me I’d done the department a big favor by eradicating that bear. “We’ve trapped that nuisance bear three times,” he said. “We appreciate you.” Then he added: “By the way, that bear is 12 years old.”

A Crock-Pot would tame the tough meat and I had a pair of tags to add to my collection of waterfowl bands. The lush hide had a few scars which would add character to a rug. And for a couple minutes, I wasn’t thinking about my sore ankle.

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