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Author: S.l. merriam, as told by greg merriam

Date: Saturday 20th of June 2009

Url: http://rcsoutdoorwritersinc.com/default.aspx

 I knew I was ready, but was my bear? Since he wouldn't come to me, I selected United Airlines to get me to him and our rendezvous on the Alaskan Peninsula. After the standard hunter greetings, we got down to business. We drew straws to determine which spike camp we would be flown into, because hunting started tomorrow.

 Straws being straws, I didn't know if mine was the longest or the shortest... but it was the last one. I was to hunt an area by the upper river out of a camp that a bear had destroyed two days ago. That's good for hunting bear...but bad for sleeping. Keith had flown my guide Harold in earlier in the day to check and ready the spike camp. He was flying me in during late afternoon with his Piper Super Cub “taxi.”

 As we circled the camp and landed, I couldn't help thinking about that little white tent full of food and having no trees around to hang food in or climb. I couldn’t help but wonder, “Are we live bating for bear?”
 

 Harold came out of the tent to greet us, and I felt a little better. Harold was a big man, but more important, and a rarity in Alaska, he was a little overweight. I was told these wise words from a bear hunting friend of mine: “Never hunt bear with someone that could outrun you. Bears tend to catch the one in back first!” Yes, I was going to feel safe and enjoy hunting with Harold.

 As we unloaded the plane and stowed our gear, a rainsquall came in and drenched everything. The weather report wasn't very favorable: 30 mph winds with rain, sleet, and snow for the next 3 days.

 Five days of wet sleet and wind provided nothing except knowledge that the bears were holding in cover for the weather to break like we were. Tomorrow was my last day of hunting.

 What I had set my goal on wasn’t a 10 foot bear like most, but one 6 or 8 foot; the key is I wanted a “Blond Bear.” I had seen a number of brown to black in color, but I want it to be bright yellow blond. The smaller size requirement was because I had spent 6 weeks in Africa, and my trophy room’s mounting and hanging space was limited.

 First light, last day, caught us wading the Wildman River in front of the lodge and heading toward Wildman Lake. I thought about the forthcoming trip  back to Denver. I wasn’t going to miss any of this windblown icy rain and sleet; maybe I'm just getting old, but I put a lot of value in keeping dry, and right now the only dry place I knew would be the soft seat of an airplane with Alaska fading away behind the tail section.



 The clouds started breaking, exposing the beautiful Alaska sky. The wind was still blowing, but the rain and sleet had stopped. We hoped that with the clearing weather, the bears might decide to take a fishing trip. Our step quickened in anticipation of getting to Wildman Lake and glassing for bear.

 Harold whispered, “We can cross at the top of the stream and look down it with binoculars for any bears on salmon. Then if that doesn’t pan out, we’ll check the lake.” Without saying a word I nodded and stayed right with him. It took two of my steps to make one of his strides. He was a man with a mission, and time was short. I noted that if he ran like he walked, I might be in trouble if we had a bear sprint.

 When we got into position, Harold spotted two bears feeding on salmon about a half mile below us. We both knew that since I flew out that afternoon this would be my last chance!

 We slipped down to the river and crossed in a low spot so we wouldn't be seen. The river blocked any noise, and the wind was with us. We paralleled the riverbank but about 100 yards back and downwind. As we came over one of the many cross ridges, we saw that both bears had left the river and were already heading toward the cover of the dense alders. My mind was racing, trying to confirm everything was right before squeezing the trigger. This would be my first and last chance on this trip.

 

 Keith had explained to me 2 rules of bear hunting:

      (1) Don't ever turn your back on a bear.

      (2) Never try to kill a bear with one shot.

            (a) First shot is an anchor shot. Break a shoulder so your second shot isn't a running shot. Then go for the vitals.

            (b) Otherwise, if you shoot for their vitals and the bear runs 150 yards before it falls dead, and you are only 100 yards away…well, you can do the math. You may get him, but he might also get you.

 The two bears had left the river and were heading across the tundra at a fast walk. I lay down on the soft wet tundra and noted the lead bear was very blond. So blond, that the horizon of his back was almost indistinguishable in the bright sunlight, making it look as though he had head, belly, and legs, but no horizontal line for his back.

 Our hope for a 100-yard shot was more like a 175-yard shot. I knew the gun and bullet could do it, but the question was, could I? I cranked the scope to 7 power and lined up on “Blondie's” shoulder as he crested a spongy muskeg ground mound.

 As I got ready to shoot, he turned quartering toward me. The bear provided me a perfect presentation for his extended front right shoulder. I don't even remember hearing or feeling the .416 bellow. What I do remember is seeing the bear roll over backwards and not move.

 The bullet had shattered the shoulder, put bone fragments through the lungs, and then broken the backbone on the way out. I would like to say I planned it that way, but in truth my only goal was to break the shoulder and be ready for a second shot.



 Then things changed for the worse; we knew we were in trouble as the other bear stood on his hind legs and started growling and clapping his teeth together. He was definitely angry but didn't know for certain what we were. He started to make a charge, and Harold quickly said, “Don't shoot him unless it’s self-defense.”

 I yelled back, “Isn’t a bear charging self-defense? He’s not just coming over to borrow a cup of sugar!” Harold was quite protective and didn't want to end up with an extra bear to explain to the Alaskan Game and Fish; then he would have to fill out 3 forms triple stamped and double signed. Personally, if I had my druthers, I’d “druther” be alive to fill out the forms.

 I was certain, if he got any closer and I felt threatened, Harold would get writer’s cramp, but I'd be alive to sign it.

 He said to shoot a couple of shots below him, maybe that would bring him back to his senses. It did, and he lumbered back down to the river, out of sight and out of our minds.

 We set our packs up by the bear and set the bear up for a photo session. Looking the bear over, it was perfect. The coat was blond with legs starting light at the top of the shoulder but deepening into a chocolate brown toward his feet. The sun was nice and warm, the ground was drying, and for the first time I could actually say the wind stopped. Life was good!

 We started taking some pictures. Harold said, “Hold the head up high with your hands under the jaws.”

 I did so, and as I looked up at Harold, my blood chilled. I shouted, “Bear!” as this big brown rolling mass of muscle came charging at us.

 I lunged for my gun leaning against my backpack. Harold took a quick glance over his shoulder, and he was 90% airborne leaping for his .375 H & H set up against his pack.

 

 Our actions must have confused the bear because he stopped about 100 yards out and stood up to start clapping his teeth together again. Harold said, “Shoot the ground below him, and see if it will break him loose. I'll stay right on him ready to fire if he starts charging again.” After two .416 shots in the muskeg underneath his feet, the bear slowly turned and lumbered off over the hill. We both sat there in a daze trying to recover from the combination of shock, panic, and probably 5 gallons of adrenaline!

 The bear had walked up the river to where we had crossed, found our scent, and followed it like a big Chocolate Labrador. He walked right to where I had shot the other one and smelled the ground where Harold had lain for the first shot. He still didn't know what we were, but we didn't smell like bear, so we must be something he could eat.

 Harold said, in a noticeably shaken voice, “Watch from the top of that hill for him to come back; I’ll skin the bear and redistribute the gear in our back packs as fast as possible.”

 Thirty minutes later, we were off at a trot, still burning adrenaline as we slipped though the patched of heavy alder cover. I strained under the weight of the 100-pound pack, but I knew Harold’s, with the bear hide, was heavier. I also knew the only way to have a lighter pack was to leave something and come back on a second trip, with a chance to be greeted by brownie. Neither one of us liked that option.


 Also, we were both so pumped with adrenaline that we didn't even have to tell our legs to walk. We just had to stay on top of them.

 Harold's long legs were making those 6 foot strides like I said earlier, but mine were making two 3 foot strides in the same amount of time. We kept this pace until we got to the river across from the lodge.

 I filled Keith in on our day and he made comments about blonds not having more fun, then said, “Remember my rule about never turning your back on a bear?”

 I replied with a smirk, “I didn’t, but I sure do now!”

 Later I was pleased to have my blond wrapped up in the belly of the plane and headed home. But if you were to ask me was it more important being in that warm, soft airplane seat with Alaska disappearing behind the plane’s tail or having that blond, it might have been a toss up...but I think the blond would win.

 Oh, and by the way, what they say about the .416 Remington Magnum…it’s all fact!