The Premier Online Resource For The Outdoor Sportsman

Blog/

The Bear Appeared As If By Magic

The bear appeared as if by magic, first walking, then running to where his prey, me, bawled like a frantic new-born fawn. He came with laser intent, his huge melon head allowing no shot opportunity. His trajectory put him squarely in my lap, so I quickly repositioned 10 feet to my right. What seemed like the right move turned out to be well-executed, but flawed. At 60 feet he stopped on a stump to turn broadside. As he looked for a path up the rocks to where I now softly called, and with my sights placed right in the center of his vitals, I couldnt release the arrow. A single spindly cedar tree blocked the arrows path.

Prince of Wales Island, the third largest island in the United States, is the crown jewel of Southwest Alaska. Black bear grow to epic proportions. This is awe-inspiring gorgeous country. A temperate rain forest, this part of Alaska receives over 220 inches of rain annually. This is a land of snow covered peaks, emerald green cedar and spruce forests, dense vegetation and endless muskeg bogs. Fresh chrome colored salmon and steelhead crowd the many rivers crisscrossing the land. The numbers of Sitka Blacktail deer boggle the mind. There are no Brown bear on the island, so with no competition and an endless source of grasses, berries, and protein the Black bear here are numerous, and big. In fact, on POW the largest Black bear grow to rival Grizzly bear from the lower 48.

Extensive logging has created an incredible Eden for wildlife. Deer and bear numbers have soared in the wake of timber harvest. Something to make clear (no pun intended): a clear cut is anything but clear. The trees are cut anywhere from 5 to 15 feet above the ground and the slash left lying where it fell. The ground is fertile, and trees grow like weeds. What looks like an easily traversed clear cut is in reality a dense, tangled, impossibly impenetrable jungle of stumps and slash jammed with thick-as-grass 8-15 tall spruce and cedar.

A rifle would definitely make this easier, but thats not the point. I was here to bow hunt for a trophy black bear, and nothing less would do. And I was here alone, hunting without a guide or hunting partner. Theres deep satisfaction to be found at the intersection between common sense and skillfully flinging razor tipped death sticks.

The hunt to this point had been a personal journey full of introspection and lessons in the humility that comes to one who hunts with a bow. Bow hunting is clearly not about killing. It is not easy. The distances must be intimately close, sometimes uncomfortable so. There is a bond that develops from understanding your prey. As an alpha predator, bears demand and deserve your respect. Not only can they quickly turn the tables to maim or kill, but they are wary to the point of seeming to possess a sixth sense to compliment their extraordinary sense of smell. They say that a bear has a sense of smell 800 times more acute than a human, and that they can not only smell your scent on the trail, but can tell how many days since you were there. A worthy quarry, with one swipe of its paw even a small 150 pound bear has the power to rip off an arm, or a head. And on POW, these are not small bears. A large bear here can grow to 500 pounds, and 400 pounders are more the rule than the exception. With this in mind, the dark end-of-day hikes back to the truck definitely reminded me that I was in bear country, in Alaska, and alone¦.

If you havent traveled on foot on the muskeg, let me tell you, its an unforgettable experience. The muskeg is a carpet of moss over bog. Sometimes you walk on top, sometimes not. Each step is an adventure. Even though it looks like the mossy equivalent of dead unwatered lawn, its not. Each step sounds like squish/suck/pop, as if youre walking with suction cupped boot soles. With each step you sink an inch or two into the moss, into the ever present layer of bog water lying just below. And then there are the surprise holes¦which innocently look like soft mud or another step on spongy moss until that weightless moment preceding a knee-jarring plunge. And though exhausted and soaked with sweat, I often found myself grinning ear to ear. This is awesome.

Hope springs eternal for the hunter. It only takes one chance intersection of game and hunter to make a successful hunt. I have to admit I wonder what will happen when (and if) I find myself 5-20 yards from a big bear: will I freeze? Get buck fever? Go brain-dead? Or find the hunters predator mind-set and do what needs to be done: stay calm, nock the arrow, set the release, smoothly draw back the bow, hold the tension of that deadly energy, find the magic fatal spot, center the pin, visualize the arrow slipping through the vitals, and then smoothly release the arrow to destiny. Time will tell. Hunting is part skill, part serendipity, and a large part being in the right place at the right time. Stay in the field and off the couch and it will happen. All I need is 1/5 of a second. An arrow traveling at 300 feet per second covers twenty yards in roughly .21 seconds. Just hope it happens on this trip.

Today I hunted hard. Put in the miles on the Beast (my rented 4×4 Ford F350 pick up) and on the soles of my Sta-Tuff rubber boots. Dusk found me surrounded by plenty of bear sign. Big bear sign. As I slipped over the bank to sneak into a ˜skeg clearing, I literally stumbled over bear scat the size of beer cans. Actually, bigger than beer cans. It takes a big bear to pass logs like that. It was fresh, so I knew two things: there was a big bear nearby, and if he was crapping turds bigger than bricks, he was most likely a very grumpy bear.

I set up in a clearing, let out my best imitation of a plaintive fawn call and had a revelation: I was alone, I had no idea where, when, or how a big bear would come tearing in looking for an easy meal, it was getting dark, and this was the first time in a lifetime of hunting that I was hunting with a sharp stick, on the ground, looking to match up with a 400+ pound predator. Sitting in a tree stand, spotting and then stalking, even hunting with a buddy or hunting with a high powered rifle, ¦thats different. This thing about being at eye level, not knowing where he is, when hes coming, or knowing his mood that changes the game. I have never been in deadly combat, and can only imagine that there the adrenalin and sensory acuity is ten times as intense¦.but for me this was definitely a moment of laser intensity. I realized that if things got interesting, there was no option for a time out. And no back up.

Its different hunting for bear. Hunting for deer, elk, wild pig, or antelope is challenging, but for lack of a better metaphor: these hunts lack teeth. Its different to bow hunt on the ground. Theres no separation. In a treestand, or in the company of a friend or guide, ¦¦..there is a degree of separation. Alone, on the ground, there is no separation, only a tension, an awareness where every twig snap, branch break, bird call, has a larger meaning. Walking through dense cover not knowing where mister bear might be sleeping, lurking, lunching¦adds a layer of adrenal excitement to a simple walk in the woods. Theres also the element of surprise. I have called from places where a bear could come to less than 30 feet before I even knew he was there. Hunting a predator brings my awareness to the greatest simplicity: be the prevailing predator.

We talk about the hunters senses being so keen. The mind becomes sharper too. Water splashing, a branch breaking, or the breeze whispering in the trees take on a greater significance. A soft breezes caress, unnoticed at any other time, looms large in the awareness of a hunter. Beyond the sensory, you realize that in addition everything has consequence: both external events and internal decisions. Every action, every choice has consequences. Go left, or right, or straight ahead. Choose to set your hidey spot at the center of a clearing, or against its edge. Choose to take an animals life, or let it live, or even the choice to pay attention to any of the cacophony of events in the woods, everything has consequences.

*********************************

After several days spent becoming familiar with the rhythm of the island the ubiquitous Sitka Blacktail began their annual birthing. This is why I had come. During the first two weeks of June the cycle of life jumps into high gear. As the helpless fawns are born the bears go into a post-hibernation feeding frenzy.

This particular morning I saw my first bear of the day as he ambled down an abandoned logging road. Calling as soon I was out of sight of the Beast and the bear, the bear came running back to within 20 yards. I had him dead to rights: the pin centered in the boiler room, close range, full draw, ready to release. But the bear was seriously rubbed (the coat would not have made a good rug), spotting a bear on the road just didnt feel like the pure hunt I was after, and he was a three legged bear missing his right hind paw. For the record, he got along just fine on three legs, with no hint of handicap. I followed him into the woods, and at one point was within 15 feet. We came to a mutual decision: time for each of us to move on.

Which brings me back to the beginning of my story. Within minutes of leaving the three legged bear I came to perfect set up overlooking a small drainage, quickly hid and started calling. Then it happened: a beautiful, large mature perfectly jet-black boar came to the call. He was so large that he appeared bow-legged, his belly seemed to drag on the ground, and he moved powerfully, effortlessly over the broken glen. His vibrant black coat glistened and rippled over hundreds of pounds of fluid muscle as if made of iridescent diamonds. He appeared like magic at 100 yards, and then with my staccato heart thumping he came straight to me, quickly closing to 60 feet. Excitement, exhilaration, heart pounding: physically and emotionally on the razors edge. I remember a lucid thought: what am I doing? If I just stop calling, hell stop coming. When a big bear is coming straight at you while you make the enticing sounds of defenseless dinner¦I suppose its different for everyone, but for me, my mind was clear, but my heart was pounding trying to leap out of my chest. I do remember thinking that the sharp stick in my hand must be placed with great precision in a very small target area at a very small angle of arc with deadly intent. My world became very small. Every bit of my being was focused in the moment. The tree was in my way. I would not risk wounding or maiming this magnificent beast. He turned to go around the intervening rocks which would put him directly downwind of my scent. I silently raced to head him off, but he simply vanished. He must have winded me, and as quick as that, it was game over. As I said, the hunter is constantly aware that every single choice has consequences. This time it worked out for the bear. Had I not initially moved to the side, this would a very different story.

Despite the low odds of ever seeing him again, I went back later that evening. I knew without question that this was the bear and the hunt experience I had come for. Finding a better spot, and after calling for ten minutes, it wasnt happening, so I took a moment to take some photos ¦¦¦.and out of the corner of my eye noticed him coming fast. One again he held up at 20 yards, this time in a copse of small scrubby cedars. I knew that this time the shot would be perfect. There, at full draw, with my emotions and adrenalin at peak, ready to let an arrow fly, I was sure of the outcome. But then, as if by an act of bear Grace, the capricious evening wind swirled and my scent hit him like a Mack truck. All I saw was a black blur that slowed at 50 yards, then stopped at 80 to stare at my odious form. The let down was horrible. What words to use? Depressed. Devastated. Dejected. Disappointed. What followed were two hours of the lowest of lows. As Dickens wrote, It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I had had an incredible experience calling in a magnificent large bruin, but now had been busted twice, had not released an arrow, and was left with an aching hollow bittersweet emptiness. But I also had been blessed with an incredibly perfect hunt.

The next day passed as if in a waking dream. I went through the motions, but the edge was gone. I tried in vain to call him in one last time, but my plaintive bleats were left hanging in the still air. All too soon it was time to leave. I had seen bear almost daily. Bald eagles, beaver, cranes, and deer were a constant part of the dense delicious fabric of island life. Four times my bow was at full-draw, twice I let a bear go, and twice the bear I wanted got the better of me. In a lifetime of hunting, this particular hunt helped define who I am as a hunter. For me, it is the totality of the experience that I seek. For me a trophy is defined not by the size of the animal, but by the quality and purity and effort of the hunt. I once heard it said that a discriminating hunter is guaranteed only great memories. I have those, full and rich, and they are more than enough.

When I returned a good friend asked how I would score the game. When I replied that the bears won, he grinned and said it was a tie. No one got eaten, and everyone went home unharmed. So be it. We each return to the field yet another day.

Did I mention that Im going back in the fall? Stay tuned. There are more chapters to be written on this journey.

~ by Eric Newman

Those interested in hunting this magnificent island may want to contact Brent Dickenson at Thorne Bay Lodge. Although professional guiding is not allowed on the central part of Prince of Wales Island, Brents friendly and helpful lodge specializes in providing all you need for a memorable self-guided hunt. www.thornbaylodge.com