One Last Extraordinary Bear Hunt in Alaska

Almost ten o’clock. If we’re going to make a move, we’d best do it now.”

Somewhere behind gray clouds the sun was slipping down, the beginning of a long Arctic twilight settled in and Dave Dye was ready to move. More than a mile of tundra and alder thickets separated us from a big, sow brown bear being courted by a good-looking boar.

“Let’s go,” I replied, pitching extra stuff from my pack.

Across the flat the ground rose in gentle hummocks I called the Bench. Farther left was a big depression Dave called the Bowl. Above both, the ground rose ever more steeply, finally ascending into a vertical face, still sheathed in ice and snow. More than an hour earlier we’d glassed the sow coming off the ridge, descending into Dave’s Bowl. I glassed right along the lip and picked up the boar, maybe the only spot I beat him to.

The problem was the bears were on the move. We watched them come off the ridge, moving fast, before losing them in the Bowl’s thick alders. An hour passed, and then we picked them up again 1,000 yards to the right, in low alders at the base of the Bench. Now they weren’t moving so fast. With long spring daylight, we had a chance if we hustled.

Tough Fall, Late Spring

We were in the Izembek National Wildlife Refuge near the southern tip of the Alaska Peninsula, the area now hunted by old friend Dave Leonard of Mountain Monarchs of Alaska. Specifically, we were in one of the many drainages coming off Mount Pavlof, a famous area for big bears and even more famous for the mountain itself. Rising 8,251 feet in a cone of ice and snow, in recent years it has been our continent’s most active volcano. Named in 1836 by Russian seafarers, there’s no connection to any Pavlov or his dogs; the name comes from Russia in honor of Saint Paul.

Mount Pavlof is a major landmark on the Peninsula. In 2019, I hunted caribou in another valley off the volcano, and in the fall of ‘23 did a bear hunt just a couple of big ridges away. I missed Pavlof’s most recent fireworks, but I’ve seen its plume of smoke and ash. From most vistas we could see Pavlof when the weather was clear.

This spring’s hunt was a continuation from last fall; hunting with Australian guide (and character) Pete Mayall, we stayed in spike camp the entire season. The lower Peninsula is often windy with heavy rainfall, each valley seeming to have its own weather system. In our valley last fall, that system was brutal. High winds and horizontal rain for days on end. Constantly wet and cold, yet we saw bear. Singular. One huge bear, spotted at distance multiple times, days apart. Twice we thought we had him. Tundra and alders swallowed him up, then the weather closed again.

Eventually we ran out of season. I was worrying about getting stuck, but a break in the weather allowed an extraction by Supercub. I hate to admit it: Even without a bear I was happy to get out of there. So, what to do? Take your licking and keep on ticking. Peninsula bears are only hunted odd-numbered autumns and even-numbered springs. That was autumn of ’23. So, if I wanted to try again, I could wait until fall of ’25 or scramble and go six months later, in May ’24.

Understand, please, this was a silly extravagance. I didn’t need an Alaskan brown bear. I shot a giant 40-some years ago, when I was young. Through most of those years, I’ve maintained I was “one and done,” always knowing I could never find a bigger bear. But needs and wants aren’t the same, and the last few years I’ve been dreaming of one more big bear. At my age, long-range plans don’t make much sense. Rather than wait 18 months, I went back in the spring.

My big bear, back in 1981, was a fall bear. Autumn has the advantage of salmon, concentrating bears lower, along streams if there’s a good salmon run. Spring catches bears coming out of their dens, boars first. Initially they’re groggy, high up in the snow near the dens. Then they get hungry, coming down for new green and maybe a moose. Soon enough they get amorous, cruising for lady bears.

Spring does have one clear advantage: Long daylight. In May on the Peninsula, shooting light runs past 11 p.m. and it’s light again five hours later. In May ’24, I expected mild conditions. Naturally, I caught the coldest, latest spring anyone could recall. At the start, few bears were out with sightings up high and unreachable in deep snow.

The season was a few days old when I arrived in David River Bear Camp, Mountain Monarchs’ base for Peninsula hunts. From there by Supercub, hunters and guides go out to spike camps like spokes of a wheel. I joined guides Pete Mayall and Dave Dye in spike camp. I was glad to see Pete again, happy to hunt with Dave. They’re a few years younger than me. Pete’s a boisterous Aussie with worldwide experience, much in Alaska. Dave Dye is a retired New York state trooper, ten years in Alaska. His wife, Colleen, manages and cooks at David River base camp. If you must get stuck (which happens), get stuck at David River. Also in camp was Austin “Hoss” Pierce, a giant of a fine young man, calm and cool. From camp, Pete’s team would go one way, Dave and I another.

Opening Moves

Although the long daylight is a blessing, it’s important to ration time. A sighting could occur any hour, but bears are most active in the evening, and it’s not sustainable to hunt 18 hours a day. Pete Mayall’s plan was to be on a glassing spot by six p.m. and hunt until dark. We’d have a look around in the early morning, just in case, then lounge around, head for the knobs in late afternoon.

Dave Dye’s favorite glassing knob was just a few hundred yards from camp, offering a good view of both Bench and Bowl. My first legal hunting day we had rain driven by a hard wind. Using hiking poles and rocks, Dave rigged up a tarp, so we could stay dry, if not warm. We stood it for as long as we could, finally deciding any bear worthy of this hide would be sleeping in thick alders. It was the same the next night, except everything we needed to see was fogged in. Finally, we managed a good evening and Dave glassed up a nice-sized blonde sow. We both figured a boar should cruise along, but we lost light with no other sightings.

I had an ace in the hole. I’ve always preached “reasonable goals.” Obviously, if I saw a giant bear we’d go for him. Although legal, I wouldn’t deliberately go after a lone sow. My hidden ace was that giant bear I’d taken 43 years earlier. No stretching, he was 10’10” nose to tail, 11’2” across the paws. By Alaskan “square,” 11 feet. Ever since, I’ve known I couldn’t do better. Until recently, I had no desire to try. On this hunt, let Alaska deal the cards; I wouldn’t pass an adult boar.

Failure and Redemption

Things were improving and bear sightings would only increase, but my goal was set. That good boar and his blonde girlfriend were held up in low alders below the Bench. Time to go.

At 600 yards they were still in good position, in and out of sight as we waded streams and negotiated alders. We caught another glimpse at 400 yards, now things not so good. The sow was 100 yards up onto the Bench, moving toward dense alders above the lip. The boar was still at the base, almost certain to follow her. When we left our perch, I’d mentally given us an optimistic 50/50 chance. Now, with the bears moving away, we were less than 20/80. The light was still okay at 10:30 and we kept going.

A deeper stream crossing and a slight rise of alders kept us out of sight. When we regained elevation, we were well short of the Bench and both sow and boar were gone. Game over.

As we were about to start the trek back, a bear walked into view–a big, burly bear, tall shoulders, big hump, reddish coat, definite boar. We will never know, but we think this was a different bear than the boar we’d started after. It seemed bigger, more red and less chocolate in the coat. From this vantage, he was an obvious shooter. Maybe we could use the terrain and come in right on top of him.

It was not to be. We jinked left and the bear jinked right, across a little stream and up onto an alder-covered knob. The wind had changed several times, now coming straight to us. That little stream came down from a deep, brushy cut scarring the center of the Bench. We might still catch him, so we removed scope covers and chambered rounds, me in my Blaser with .338 Win. Mag. barrel; Dave in his Hawkeye .375 Ruger. I’d already told him to use his judgment, shoot as necessary. I didn’t expect he would need to. I was wrong.

We stepped across the stream and started up the knob. We hadn’t gone 50 yards when we saw the bear up toward the top, sitting facing us like a huge dog. I got the rifle up just as he dropped to all fours and turned away to our right, lost in alders.

“He couldn’t have smelled us,” said Dave, so we continued up the knob.

Near the crest, we could see up into the cut, scooped-out earth near the top, where runoff had sheared away earth like a huge backhoe. The bear was standing in the open, mostly broadside, head to our left. The light was going quickly now. That wasn’t our biggest problem. He was close enough and big enough, but we were standing in six-foot alders. There was nothing to rest on, too thick to get lower. Take the shot or leave it. I sucked in air, got the wobbling crosshairs on his shoulder, opened the ball game.

I’m guessing the first shot—maybe second or third—immobilized him. He stood for long seconds, bullets thunking solidly. Then he shuffled down the cut and stood below the right-hand bank, facing away, unable to climb, but unwilling to give up. I was stuffing more cartridges in the chamber when Dave’s .375 dropped him out of sight.

He didn’t come out in any direction, so we hoped he rolled into the cut. Now in deep gloom, rifles ready, we picked our way through the alders and found him piled up in the shallow creek. No, I will not tell you how many shots were fired. I will concede that holes in hide did not equal cartridges expended. Nothing worse than having to shoot offhand out of breath. Reality we must prepare for. Not far, not a small target, but the most difficult shot I’ve taken in many a year.

Big Bonus Bear

Never mind, we had our bear, a fine boar, unusually well-furred all the way to the edges. I’d like it to have been tidier, but it is what it is, likely my last big bear. We wrestled him into position as best we could, no worries about spoilage in the cold creek. We were excited and relieved, but even in the middle of nowhere, formalities must be observed. I dug out the permit, punched month and day, and we attached the locking tag. Then we made our way to camp in the dark, and returned in the morning for skinning. Austin “Hoss” Pierce earned his nickname with the heavy pack, but his day wasn’t quite over.

Skinning the bear in the creek took forever; it was late afternoon by the time we made it back to camp. This day was colder and windier. Pete left a message for Austin to bring his parka, so we gobbled food and Austin headed off to Pete’s glassing knob.

With the wind we didn’t hear the shots. Well past 11, Pete sent an inReach: another hunter had a big bear down. In open tundra, they had a good place for skinning and elected to do the work by headlamp. At sunrise, cold and hungry, they stumbled into camp, Austin packing his second bear in 24 hours. It was a big bear, head like a bushel basket. They’d seen him early, then he’d vanished into alders, popping up again at last light. A good stalk in steady wind, great shot at 70 yards with Matt’s Gunwerks .375 Ruger.

Fleshing took two days, and then we rolled the hides out on the tundra, a rare sight. Both perfectly furred, unrubbed, luxurious. My bear squared 9’7”, a great boar, all that I wanted with extra. Matt’s was bigger in all directions, honest 10’6”, likely the biggest skull of the season. Truly the bear of a lifetime. Matt is younger than I was when I took my big bear. I wonder if he’ll be content to stand on it as his one and only. Or, like me, 40 years from now, will he feel compelled to have one more encounter with North America’s greatest game?

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