The Spirit Bear
I guess you could say it started with a young boy living vicariously through Keith and O'Connor, big bore versus light and fast. His school text-books lay ignored, gathering dust under copies of Field and Stream, Gun Digest and the Nosler Manual. Images of Fred Bear arrowing a Brown Bear at 15 yards sears his brain, the Alaskan wood smoke somehow winding its way to the impressionable school kid in Southeast Pennsylvania.
Like most, he cut his teeth on a .22. Roaming the farm fields for groundhogs he learned to put accuracy first. Had to. Ethics. You might not think so but his Weaver 4X and Marlin in .35 Remington took groundhogs and deer at considerable ranges with no fuss at all. Mowing lawns, washing cars, stacking hay bales and busboy duties all meant money came hard. If his new, self-imposed “one-shot rule rifle” had to wait, so be it. It was a lot more about pride than unavailable funds.
Work and life's responsibilities take him away from serious hunting for decades. But great memories aren’t feeding the relentless hunger to climb, to stalk. The span of 66 years has crept upon him unceremoniously. Thoughts of how much time he had left rose to the surface, demanding his attention.
Now living deep inside the NC mountains, the solitude gave him time to ponder.
What “kind” of hunt did he want? Right there, a deeply satisfying question. After much enjoyable research, he settles on a Black Bear hunt in Alaska, Prince of Wales Island. Spot and stalk along the endless shorelines of Inlets and thick forests for a Black bear of atypical size. 7 footers live there. So that's it, hold out for a bruin. A bucket-list hunt deserving of more research, a trusted Guide with good references is finally found and secured. Dates are chosen, a 10 day hunt is on the books, the deposit sent.
A rifle for the hunt? His custom ’06 and his Whelen are both competent, trusted friends. With a DRT uppermost in his mind, there are many, long and enjoyable discussions with folks on various Forums…which cartridge to take? Opinions are endless. OK…skip common sense…take what you want.
A patient search uncovers an older Model 70 in .458 Winchester Magnum. It appears unfired. Attractively priced and purchased. Off to the gunsmith for alterations. Stock is removed. A Brown synthetic with a better pad fitted. All metal parts are coated, the rifle now impervious to weather. Trigger tuned. Removable mounts should an emergency arise. All are placed under a Leupold 1.5X5. This was not a cheap remodeling mind you but in the end, a substantial, trustworthy, purpose built rifle with but one purpose.
Does one need a "stopper" rifle for Alaskan black bear? Heck no, of course not. But it adds an element to the hunt that he wants, a DRT result. He'd come full circle to long ago, one shot, hopefully DRT, no tracking.
Which meant the right bullet. Many were considered, all with good reputations, some excellent. A good friend, long a hunter, suggested looking into C.E.B., Cutting Edge Bullets, a Pennsylvania based company. A few boxes of 300 grain with Tip are purchased and judiciously loaded. A nearby SC plantation a few hours from home has a problem with hogs. Results leave no doubt whatsoever about the C.E.B.'s ability to deliver DRT. Trauma and terminal performances are most impressive! Overkill? No such thing.
Further discussions with C.E.B. results in choosing a faster, 260 grain bullet for Alaska, a bullet already well proven on African game. A sensible load yielded 2,700 fps. Another vital step in the "one shot" plan firmly cemented. The unknown was the bear, when and where, but confidence in the rifle and bullet combination was 100%.
He was dieting and working out with a vengeance, trimming down, building muscle and stamina. One by one, variables were being eliminated. At least the predictable ones as seasoned hunters discover and know all too well. And then, he was airborne to Ketchikan.
The 3-hour ferry ride from Ketchikan to Hollis was a fitting introduction to Alaska and the coming hunt. All thoughts or sense of self-importance in his universe quickly evaporate. Peering off the rail thru the light drizzle, he is reminded of his total and utter irrelevance. The isolation and solitude of the land and sea around him are prehistoric, devoid of man's callous footprint and temporary influence. The sea gull’s airborne freedom reminds him uncomfortably of humanity's frailty, our tenacious dependence on man’s comforts and machines. This is a timeless and intolerant wilderness surrounding him. The thrum of the Inter-Island Ferry diesels below his feet are reassuring but will soon be gone, delivering him closer to the very edge of civilization.
The Guide at the dock is not without wit and a smile but comes across as a serious man. It's harsh country here and Mother Nature won't be tolerating fools or impudent behavior. The canyons and waters are deep, the forest thick beyond measure. Deer, bear and wolves thrive here. Man is the visitor. The people here bend daily to Alaska’s unforgiving routine. It's a take it or go back home proposition in Alaska so come prepared.
The Guide's cabin is tucked away, stocked and will serve as base camp. In our favor, the winding, tumbling, 17 mile gravel and dirt logging road to the Inlet and high country is now open and can be traversed this year. But not always. Traveling to the Inlet in his 4X4 rig, there are sharp turn-offs that lead quickly up to the steep ridges and passes where the bears den. This is early May and the bears are emerging, scouring for forage. Some are working their way down to the endless miles of Inlet coves and shoreline where we are glassing and waiting.
17 miles in, the rig is emptied of packs, gear and rifle. The 16 foot Lund skiff at the dock is weathered but tough, just like the pilot…licensed, Coast Guard certified and visibly competent. The Honda 4 stroke gurgles reassuringly as they inch their way up the Inlet, binoculars ever probing for the right shape, the telltale black speck against shore rock. The electric motor handles the shallow backwaters as they sneak silently through the coves, always alert for a bear around the next blind turn. The tension wears on the anxious hunter, eyes sore from the strain of relentlessly focusing into the shadows.
He spots a seal’s head, rock still, staring at the shoreline. The Guide says quietly, “Check that spot, that seal is watching something!” And there's a bear! Always a heart pounding announcement on the boat. The bear is oblivious to their presence as they glide up slowly and silently, sizing up size and length. Close but not the one.
They make their way up to the next cove, trolling speed, binoculars scanning, penetrating fore and aft. The scenery is breathtaking; always reminding them to tread lightly, beware the consequences of a misstep. In the shallow coves, the boulders and trees are uncountable. A sighting could come at 10 yards or a mile across the Inlet.
Hours later, bear, on the edge of the horseshoe shaped beach! They pass the beach, press in and secure the skiff. They’re out and moving. The guide turns and says, “bullet up.” The hunter steadies himself and eases a round into the chamber. Each step takes them further and further around the corner exposing more and more shoreline. The beach they can see is empty. Where is that bear? A few more steps reveal more beach. Still no bear. They’re running out of cover. And beach. A massive downed logged log hides the drop-off and view of whatever beach is left to see. Turning back, the guide motions him and says, “Walk up, look over the log.” Sure…………rifle ready, safety off, he eases forward, peering over the log. This will be close. Really close! No bear. The beach is empty. Busted! Back to the boat. Disappointed? Maybe a little. Discouraged? Hell no. Premonitions of success are deep, there are no doubts. None. Only when and where.
A spot favored by the Guide, deep in the inlet is next. 2 otters dart away from the boat as the water shallows. The boat is tied and they’re out. This is a grass clearing, deep as it is wide. A 10 acre pasture, it looks out of place here. The Guide whispers, bears have been taken here before. Hunter and Guide hike to the back side and tread lightly up the feeder creek, looking for tracks, sign. A path appears, obvious, worn down hard. This is a bear highway. Looking for Jumbo tracks, soon found. Definitely a Jumbo. Fresh. The wind favors the hunter so they retreat, step into the forest and sit. A good view. Lunch is a sandwich and protein bar. Water from each pack is life giving. They wait. They wait some more as the young Bald Eagle glides overhead and the geese voice their objections. While he knew absolutely there would be…..there had to be…..there was no bear. He was reminded again to keep his expectations in check. These are messages from the Spirits, ever-present in the wilderness if he pays attention. He was. They said…success will come but not on his timetable.
Each exploration into the next shallow cove is intense, ever alert for the next sighting around the next bend, and the next. Some days offer more sightings than other days. They press on hard, focused, committed. Bear after bear is passed as they hunt for "the one." After multiple days on the skiff, they change tactics and push the sure-footed old Ford Scout up the steep inclines to view the clear cuts. They park. Hike. The Inlet is spectacular, thousands of feet below. They’ve previously seen 2 bears on the side of the logging roads so they frequently stop to check scat and tracks, fresh or old? One after another, each bend in the road offers the promise of a sighting a bear in the vast, wide clear-cuts or beaver swamps. When the darkening shadows finally intrude, they’re forced to start the long ride back to the cabin, dodging Blacktails all the way. Dinner will be late.
Next day in the skiff, at nearly a mile, the Guide spots a bear on the beach just before dusk. They close the gap to estimate. As they close, the hunter’s rangefinder tumbles out of a pocket and alerts the bear. The bear postures his displeasure, stiffening his gait and squaring his shoulders, menacing whatever unknown intruder has violated “his” space. The visibly irritated bruin begrudgingly melts into the forest. That bear, said the Guide, was one to be wary of.
It’s day 8, Mother’s Day and late in the afternoon. The “one” has eluded them but not for lack of effort and spirits in the rig are high. The Ford scrabbles over the loose shale, finds a grip and pushes them up over a steep incline, the hood blocks their view ahead. As the nose of the rig dips.....bear! Big bear. Binoculars up, the engine idles as they size up the muscular rolling shoulders and easy gait. Pelt is not rubbed. Front paws are slightly pigeon toed. Guide and hunter look at each other seeking a decision. The hunter won’t go until the guide confirms, is this “the one?” Yes? No? Terrain and distance makes estimating size problematic and time is running out. The Guide is smiling, optimistic. He calmly tells his client there are bigger bears on the island, but, it's definitely a big bear. So, it's the hunter's call. And the seconds are counting down as the bear steadily makes his way toward the timber.
Go or not, the hunter must decide, now. He’s processing at light speed, waiting for an answer from within. How many bears seen, number of days left, weather moving in, the odds of finding another bear of this size...now…or not? Make haste Son.
The answer comes and the rifle is out, feet moving, closing the distance. A round flows easily from the magazine into the waiting chamber, the scope turned down to 2X. Rifle safety is checked. On. They go slow quickly, a trickling creek muffling their approach. Stop. Go. Stop. Wait! Now go. Closing the distance. Stop. It’s time! Just under a hundred yards. Safety off, the crosshairs won’t settle. Too much adrenaline. The rifle is steadied again. He waits for the bear to extend the front leg. One last confirmation in the scope. Mind and body will the crosshairs still. The trigger is coming back. There is no sound, no recoil. Absolutely nothing. Just an eerie silence, an empty vacuum in the universe as the bear literally collapses into his footprints where he’d stood. DRT, not a single step. The bolt rocks back and forth, another round into the chamber. The sight picture shows no movement. Nada. 10 long seconds later, the hunter comes out of the scope, clasps the Guide's hand, genuinely appreciative, thanking him and the Spirits for offering us this time and place…this magnificent bear.
Was it a trophy? Was it a 7 footer? I ask you...from one hunter to another...does it matter? Really? If I told you it was 7'3", or 6'8", would my Alaskan story mean less to you? The wilderness less inspiring? The bear more or less regal? This I can tell you.....it was, unquestionably and absolutely the greatest hunt, the finest bear Alaska could offer this grateful, humbled hunter.
Guide and trusted companion: Johnnie Laird, Muskeg Excursions
Hunter: Danny Lee
