Gunner46
Well-known member
I'm going to save reading this one until I'm sitting at the guard shack, at 3AM and trying to find something, Anything to keep me from nodding off...
Alaska Blackies - Act IV
- Thread starter Big Fin
- Start date
Gonna try this again. Hopefully I can get through it without losing the entire document.
The Beaver had not been too long gone and we had tents set and camp arranged. An amazing sun was casting low light on the bay to our east. Lush green grass was lit up in a way that is remarkably unique to the spring shorelines of SE AK. Bart was on the spotter and quickly had a sow and a cub in his sights. Given we had flown that day, hunting was not an option, but seeing a couple bears from camp was enjoyable.
A quick dinner of Mountain House had me headed for the tent to get some much needed sleep. Been a very busy last few months and the sound of nothing was going to be a welcome retreat this night. I don’t remember even hitting the pillow.
I got up a little after 5am to check the boat and its position with the incoming tide. All was well, with a light fog hanging across the bay and preventing this early morning Alaska sunrise from dancing across the water. Seeing no bears in my quick glassing, I headed back to the tent to grasp another hour or two of sleep. A bit before 7am I heard Bart and Tyler talking, giving me reason to not be left out of the excitement the day might bring.
They were glassing up a sow and two cubs near where I shot the big bear two years ago. This bay rolls from east to west, starting from a creek way up the mountain side. It is protected by a huge tide flat that only small craft can navigate at anything less than high tide. It is here where I have twice seen huge bears at the back of the bay. Fingers crossed that will repeat itself on this hunt.
Seldom does a SE AK morning carry temps that cause one to head for shade. This morning did. And seldom does the cool coast breeze allow the pesky skeeters and no-see-ems to hang around near the shoreline. This morning being an exception to the insect norms, causing us to think about the values of jumping in the skiff and heading out on the water in search of grazing bears. At the least, it would reduce the irritation of the bugs.
We had already scoured our second bay by the time of the clock read 9:30. The bugs were nowhere to be found. And neither were the bears I had dreamed of over the last few months. They’re around, just need to give it time.
Around 11am we were moving back toward camp on a receding tide. Off to our east, a black object looked very much like a bear. All agreed it had to be a bear. How big of a bear, the tall grass would not reveal. We did a U-turn and beached the boat downwind of the bear. Given the tide was headed out, it was agreed I would hold the boat and walk it out with the tide and Bart would go and inspect the bear.
The sight of Bart and Tyler returning and not hearing a shot told me things did not go as planned, or the bear was not what was hoped for. Turned out to be the later. A sow, without cubs, heavily rubbed, was spared from being a TV star. We loaded and pushed off to continue our journey back toward the island of camp.
Pushed off being the key word, not drove off. The Johnson decided it did not like what we were asking it to do. Time to pull the cowling off and inspect. Sure enough, one of the three bolts that held the starter rope thingamajigger to the flywheel, was missing. The back bolt was missing and when you pulled on the starter rope, it would lift the thingamabob over the flywheel, and rope pulling would do no good.
Tyler climbed to the back, leaned down on the doohickey while I pulled the rope. With full choke and open throttle, the motor fired. We quickly put the cowling over the motor and headed to camp. Not without further problems. No matter how hard I cranked the throttle, the Johnson was stuck at the same speed and the same RPMs.
Not wanting to have to tackle starting the motor again, I told the guys we would just tough it out until we got to camp. It took over an hour with all the Johnson could give us in order to get camp in our sights.
I pulled out the choke and flooded the motor to a stall as we reached the rocks of shore. None of us said much, all pondering the immediacy of the problem and the long-term implications it could have to our hunting. We tied off the boat and headed for the coolers of food.
We sat out the low tide while eating lunch and avoiding the bugs. Hardly no wind. Not sure the temps, but it was really nice; if maybe even too nice. No mention was made of the motor problems we knew existed and would need our eventual attention.
A reversal of tides got our attention back to chasing bears. We popped the cowling and decided to find a way to fasten down the doohickey that held the starter rope and secure it in a manner that would not allow it to lift off the flywheel when the starter rope was pulled. In the process, Bart discovered the throttle cable bracket had broken.
I opened the tool box that was provided with the boat. It contained three flares, nothing else. Hmmm. An inventory of our tools and gear showed we had a roll of Gorilla tape, a roll of electrical tape, a bag of zip ties, a Gerber Multi-tool, and a Leatherman. Using the Gerber and the Leatherman, we tightened the two remaining bolts on the thingamabob, only to find one side had been completely stripped. A foot long section of electricians tape was used to try rebuild the broken throttle bracket.
It was the best we could do with what we had where we were at. We put the cowling on and the Johnson started, first pull. I gave it some juice and the throttle responded. We tossed our "tool kit" and tape rolls into the emergency bag and headed in search of some bears.
Across the bay, we saw a bear that needed closer investigation. His size was not worthy of further pursuit. We cruised west as the sun started to get a bit lower and providing perfect bear glassing conditions. The entire coast looked like bear central.
Prior to entering a narrow passage, the Johnson decided to stop. Shut down. Seized up. Kaput. Locked up. Chit the bed. And a host of other terms to describe a mechanical failure at the most unfortunate time. Most unfortunate that an evening of bear hunting could be lost, but even more so that at this narrow channel, the tides rip at 6-10 knots when running from high to low tide as we would be the case in a couple hours. I instruct Bart and Tyler to row us to a rock pile while I try to coax the Johnson back to life.
With the cowling off, the guys are power stroking against a modest tide flow, aided by my colorful expletives. I give it my best pull and the entire thingamajigger comes off from where it engages with the flywheel. Time for some serious language. In my family profanity improves the likelihood of solving a problem, but this time, no matter how much I cussed, no solution afforded itself.
The oarsmen have us to the small rock pile and all three of us are inspecting the Johnson. It's a wreck. We find a few more nuts and bolts have rattled loose. The MacGyver work on the throttle bracket has failed. We now have some wires dangling from a place they seemed to have been previously connected. None of us can believe our luck.
If there is some good fortune, our calamity strikes when I have two bars of 1x cell coverage. I call the renter and explain the predicament. I’m told a guy is out on the water who will come and fix it. I explain it cannot be fixed, rather, bring a new motor. I give a location of our position and hang up to join the guys trying to piece the rig together.
After a half hour, we take a break; some may call it giving up. We sit and look at the motor, then at each other. I cut a piece of P-cord and tie a double granny knot on the end; enough to make sure it will engage in the notch on the flywheel made for just such events. I find a broken piece of aluminum bar in the splash well, looking much like a broken seat brace. It will serve for a good handle for my newly cut P-cord starter rope.
I start wiggling the loose electrical connectors and find some of them come apart. I join them back together to the most logical looking male-female connections. I manually bend the throttle mechanism to the WOT position. I give it a full choke. With all the frustration of the moment, I jerk the P-cord hard enough to pull the motor off the transom. Wwwwwaaaaaaa, the Johnson is screaming at Wide Open Throttle. Bart and Tyler look in a combined state of shock, and relief.
I yell at them to get in the boat. We’re gonna hobble this thing back to camp. Bart offers to run the throttle with his hands while I steer the boat. With both Bart and me in the back of the boat, Tyler has to sit way up front to allow some sort of planing and point out the rock dangers now exposed by the dropping tide. Tyler starts laughing and breaks out the camera. He films Bart and me running the motor as a two-man operation.
The joke becomes, how many Montanans does it take to drive a dilapidated rental boat from a small village in SE Alaska? Looks like three.
A pic of the doohickey/thingamajigger/thingamabob after it broke completely.
A pic of the throttle bracket in its state of failed repair.
The Beaver had not been too long gone and we had tents set and camp arranged. An amazing sun was casting low light on the bay to our east. Lush green grass was lit up in a way that is remarkably unique to the spring shorelines of SE AK. Bart was on the spotter and quickly had a sow and a cub in his sights. Given we had flown that day, hunting was not an option, but seeing a couple bears from camp was enjoyable.
A quick dinner of Mountain House had me headed for the tent to get some much needed sleep. Been a very busy last few months and the sound of nothing was going to be a welcome retreat this night. I don’t remember even hitting the pillow.
I got up a little after 5am to check the boat and its position with the incoming tide. All was well, with a light fog hanging across the bay and preventing this early morning Alaska sunrise from dancing across the water. Seeing no bears in my quick glassing, I headed back to the tent to grasp another hour or two of sleep. A bit before 7am I heard Bart and Tyler talking, giving me reason to not be left out of the excitement the day might bring.
They were glassing up a sow and two cubs near where I shot the big bear two years ago. This bay rolls from east to west, starting from a creek way up the mountain side. It is protected by a huge tide flat that only small craft can navigate at anything less than high tide. It is here where I have twice seen huge bears at the back of the bay. Fingers crossed that will repeat itself on this hunt.
Seldom does a SE AK morning carry temps that cause one to head for shade. This morning did. And seldom does the cool coast breeze allow the pesky skeeters and no-see-ems to hang around near the shoreline. This morning being an exception to the insect norms, causing us to think about the values of jumping in the skiff and heading out on the water in search of grazing bears. At the least, it would reduce the irritation of the bugs.
We had already scoured our second bay by the time of the clock read 9:30. The bugs were nowhere to be found. And neither were the bears I had dreamed of over the last few months. They’re around, just need to give it time.
Around 11am we were moving back toward camp on a receding tide. Off to our east, a black object looked very much like a bear. All agreed it had to be a bear. How big of a bear, the tall grass would not reveal. We did a U-turn and beached the boat downwind of the bear. Given the tide was headed out, it was agreed I would hold the boat and walk it out with the tide and Bart would go and inspect the bear.
The sight of Bart and Tyler returning and not hearing a shot told me things did not go as planned, or the bear was not what was hoped for. Turned out to be the later. A sow, without cubs, heavily rubbed, was spared from being a TV star. We loaded and pushed off to continue our journey back toward the island of camp.
Pushed off being the key word, not drove off. The Johnson decided it did not like what we were asking it to do. Time to pull the cowling off and inspect. Sure enough, one of the three bolts that held the starter rope thingamajigger to the flywheel, was missing. The back bolt was missing and when you pulled on the starter rope, it would lift the thingamabob over the flywheel, and rope pulling would do no good.
Tyler climbed to the back, leaned down on the doohickey while I pulled the rope. With full choke and open throttle, the motor fired. We quickly put the cowling over the motor and headed to camp. Not without further problems. No matter how hard I cranked the throttle, the Johnson was stuck at the same speed and the same RPMs.
Not wanting to have to tackle starting the motor again, I told the guys we would just tough it out until we got to camp. It took over an hour with all the Johnson could give us in order to get camp in our sights.
I pulled out the choke and flooded the motor to a stall as we reached the rocks of shore. None of us said much, all pondering the immediacy of the problem and the long-term implications it could have to our hunting. We tied off the boat and headed for the coolers of food.
We sat out the low tide while eating lunch and avoiding the bugs. Hardly no wind. Not sure the temps, but it was really nice; if maybe even too nice. No mention was made of the motor problems we knew existed and would need our eventual attention.
A reversal of tides got our attention back to chasing bears. We popped the cowling and decided to find a way to fasten down the doohickey that held the starter rope and secure it in a manner that would not allow it to lift off the flywheel when the starter rope was pulled. In the process, Bart discovered the throttle cable bracket had broken.
I opened the tool box that was provided with the boat. It contained three flares, nothing else. Hmmm. An inventory of our tools and gear showed we had a roll of Gorilla tape, a roll of electrical tape, a bag of zip ties, a Gerber Multi-tool, and a Leatherman. Using the Gerber and the Leatherman, we tightened the two remaining bolts on the thingamabob, only to find one side had been completely stripped. A foot long section of electricians tape was used to try rebuild the broken throttle bracket.
It was the best we could do with what we had where we were at. We put the cowling on and the Johnson started, first pull. I gave it some juice and the throttle responded. We tossed our "tool kit" and tape rolls into the emergency bag and headed in search of some bears.
Across the bay, we saw a bear that needed closer investigation. His size was not worthy of further pursuit. We cruised west as the sun started to get a bit lower and providing perfect bear glassing conditions. The entire coast looked like bear central.
Prior to entering a narrow passage, the Johnson decided to stop. Shut down. Seized up. Kaput. Locked up. Chit the bed. And a host of other terms to describe a mechanical failure at the most unfortunate time. Most unfortunate that an evening of bear hunting could be lost, but even more so that at this narrow channel, the tides rip at 6-10 knots when running from high to low tide as we would be the case in a couple hours. I instruct Bart and Tyler to row us to a rock pile while I try to coax the Johnson back to life.
With the cowling off, the guys are power stroking against a modest tide flow, aided by my colorful expletives. I give it my best pull and the entire thingamajigger comes off from where it engages with the flywheel. Time for some serious language. In my family profanity improves the likelihood of solving a problem, but this time, no matter how much I cussed, no solution afforded itself.
The oarsmen have us to the small rock pile and all three of us are inspecting the Johnson. It's a wreck. We find a few more nuts and bolts have rattled loose. The MacGyver work on the throttle bracket has failed. We now have some wires dangling from a place they seemed to have been previously connected. None of us can believe our luck.
If there is some good fortune, our calamity strikes when I have two bars of 1x cell coverage. I call the renter and explain the predicament. I’m told a guy is out on the water who will come and fix it. I explain it cannot be fixed, rather, bring a new motor. I give a location of our position and hang up to join the guys trying to piece the rig together.
After a half hour, we take a break; some may call it giving up. We sit and look at the motor, then at each other. I cut a piece of P-cord and tie a double granny knot on the end; enough to make sure it will engage in the notch on the flywheel made for just such events. I find a broken piece of aluminum bar in the splash well, looking much like a broken seat brace. It will serve for a good handle for my newly cut P-cord starter rope.
I start wiggling the loose electrical connectors and find some of them come apart. I join them back together to the most logical looking male-female connections. I manually bend the throttle mechanism to the WOT position. I give it a full choke. With all the frustration of the moment, I jerk the P-cord hard enough to pull the motor off the transom. Wwwwwaaaaaaa, the Johnson is screaming at Wide Open Throttle. Bart and Tyler look in a combined state of shock, and relief.
I yell at them to get in the boat. We’re gonna hobble this thing back to camp. Bart offers to run the throttle with his hands while I steer the boat. With both Bart and me in the back of the boat, Tyler has to sit way up front to allow some sort of planing and point out the rock dangers now exposed by the dropping tide. Tyler starts laughing and breaks out the camera. He films Bart and me running the motor as a two-man operation.
The joke becomes, how many Montanans does it take to drive a dilapidated rental boat from a small village in SE Alaska? Looks like three.
A pic of the doohickey/thingamajigger/thingamabob after it broke completely.
A pic of the throttle bracket in its state of failed repair.
A collective sigh of relief was provided as we rounded the corner of the island that hid our camp. We had made it. I called the boat renter to explain our new location and was assured a new motor was on its way. I’m not allowed to drink, but if I was, a good shot of Crown Royal may have been in order at that particular moment.
We doubted if a new motor was actually on its way. As sketchy as things were to this point, none of us would have been surprised to be left “high and dry.” It was only about fifteen minutes later when we heard the whine of an outboard coming down the straights on the opposite side of our island. It was getting closer; fast.
Around the corner came a nice welded aluminum boat being pushed along by an older vintage Yamaha. Now that’s my kind of motor. Having owned five Yamaha outboards, I take great faith in their reliability. The required level of “handy-man-ness” needed to own a Yamaha is much lower than those who own a 1981 Johnson Sea Horse.
The guy pulled up and started asking questions, fully prepared that he would be able to fix this mess. He was of significant mechanical aptitude, as I suspect came from the experience of owning older vintage OMC boat motors. His tool kit was rather sparse, but he quickly surveyed the situation and arrived at our same conclusion – this motor had now transitioned from the stage of being useful for propulsion to being relegated to anchor detail.
It took three of us to remove the old Sea Horse from the transom and heft it into his boat. He quickly grabbed the 10hp Tohatsu kicker motor off his trolling bracket and hopped from his boat to ours. I inquired as to the logic of putting a short shaft motor on a tall transom, knowing a thing or two about the effects cavitation and disturbed water flow can have on propeller efficiency. He smiled and said, “You won’t have to worry about planing out.”
He wrenched the anchor bolts to the transom by applying the significant mass he sported for a young guy. With all the confidence in the world, he hooked up the fuel line, pumped the bulb a time or two, and looking at me with a smile and wink, gave the rope a pull. Brrrrrrrrrrr. Just like that, we were in business, even if sporting only 40% of the horse power of the Johnson. Better to ride a slow and steady pony than a fast and dying pony.
As he pushed off and wished us good luck, I hoped we did not need such luck. He and his boat load of fisherman rounded the corner and disappeared from view. In a couple minutes, the noise of his Yamaha had faded. And, so had our mechanical troubles for the remainder of the trip.
Whew!
Now, on to a story about bear hunting.
Our newly repaired craft, sporting the time-tested Tohatsu. Even with a top speed of 5mph, it proved to be a worthy bear hunting vessel.
We doubted if a new motor was actually on its way. As sketchy as things were to this point, none of us would have been surprised to be left “high and dry.” It was only about fifteen minutes later when we heard the whine of an outboard coming down the straights on the opposite side of our island. It was getting closer; fast.
Around the corner came a nice welded aluminum boat being pushed along by an older vintage Yamaha. Now that’s my kind of motor. Having owned five Yamaha outboards, I take great faith in their reliability. The required level of “handy-man-ness” needed to own a Yamaha is much lower than those who own a 1981 Johnson Sea Horse.
The guy pulled up and started asking questions, fully prepared that he would be able to fix this mess. He was of significant mechanical aptitude, as I suspect came from the experience of owning older vintage OMC boat motors. His tool kit was rather sparse, but he quickly surveyed the situation and arrived at our same conclusion – this motor had now transitioned from the stage of being useful for propulsion to being relegated to anchor detail.
It took three of us to remove the old Sea Horse from the transom and heft it into his boat. He quickly grabbed the 10hp Tohatsu kicker motor off his trolling bracket and hopped from his boat to ours. I inquired as to the logic of putting a short shaft motor on a tall transom, knowing a thing or two about the effects cavitation and disturbed water flow can have on propeller efficiency. He smiled and said, “You won’t have to worry about planing out.”
He wrenched the anchor bolts to the transom by applying the significant mass he sported for a young guy. With all the confidence in the world, he hooked up the fuel line, pumped the bulb a time or two, and looking at me with a smile and wink, gave the rope a pull. Brrrrrrrrrrr. Just like that, we were in business, even if sporting only 40% of the horse power of the Johnson. Better to ride a slow and steady pony than a fast and dying pony.
As he pushed off and wished us good luck, I hoped we did not need such luck. He and his boat load of fisherman rounded the corner and disappeared from view. In a couple minutes, the noise of his Yamaha had faded. And, so had our mechanical troubles for the remainder of the trip.
Whew!
Now, on to a story about bear hunting.
Our newly repaired craft, sporting the time-tested Tohatsu. Even with a top speed of 5mph, it proved to be a worthy bear hunting vessel.
nidahunter
Well-known member
I love these stories, but PLEASE PLEASE put together a bloopers dvd!
duckhunt
Well-known member
I cant wait for the rest of the story. Sounds like one hell of an adventure.
elkrchr
Well-known member
Can't wait for "the rest of the story"! So far, you and the gang have shown much perseverance and ingenuity.
elkrchr
Well-known member
Can't wait for "the rest of the story"! So far, you and the gang have shown much perseverance and ingenuity.
With a couple hours of hunting light left, it was agreed we would take the Tohatsu for a spin. If not to find a bear, to instill some level of confidence that our hunt could continue by employing our collective bear hunting aptitude and leave behind the lingering mechanical concerns. The route exposed no bears, but smiles abounded as the Big T pushed across the ocean at a slow, but methodical pace. This motor was built for comfort, not speed. Just fine with me.
A new morning brought new hope. This second day of the hunt was a bright and beautiful as the first. Not sure who ordered the weather for this hunt, but give them my gratitude. I’ve spent a week in tents sitting out SE AK downpours and I far prefer the comfort of sunny days in the low 70’s with a nice ocean breeze, even if it does provide good skeeter habitat.
I wish I could say the day was a continual procession of bear sighting after bear sighting. Actually, it was really sparse. We burned six hours of motoring coves, bays, and some of Alaska’s best bear shorelines, without even the slightest hint of a bear. I had no explanation as to the dearth of bears, but the pleasure of being free of mechanical worries was enough to make a glorious day even better.
Throughout the day we tried a series of different tactics; calling, glassing, moving slowing and glassing more. All with the same result. By late afternoon, I was pleading to the crew that this was an anomaly. Never in past hunts had such fertile bear ground failed to yield a harvest of bear sightings. Thank goodness we had past episodes filmed here to support my claims, or the crew may have doubted my comments of prior bear appearances in specific locations we drifted by.
Bart seemed unphased. As was I. Tyler was focused on capturing stories, shooting b-roll, and getting the sound bites of two good friends laughing and joking about their week away from the world’s cares and worries. A great atmosphere that any who hunts can relate to. It is times like this when you realize that the hunt really can be about enjoying the experience and not succumbing to pressures that tags must be filled.
If there is one thing I love about Alaska, specifically the coastal areas, it would be the pace at which life moves. Impatience will get you nowhere here. The tides come and go according to how tides come and go. The sun sets late and rises early, adding to the sense that you are at the mercy of whatever natural cycle is at play. You can have all the schedules, appointments, time slots you want. The bears don’t really care, nor does any other part of this place. The sooner you accept that, the more relaxing the experience.
Bart commented what little pressure I expressed in the face of these mechanical issues and the lack of bears to stalk. Part of that is seven years of experience telling stories on film. The other part is accepting that if you hunt hard and spend your time afield a story will evolve; you just have to recognize it. Getting worked up as I might have in the first year or two of this endeavor would do no good, merely take away from what is always a remarkable trip.
By mid-day, Saturday, we were contemplating what grand scheme may provide a bear. A bay far to our west hooked around for a couple miles. A Forest Service employee told me he had been in there doing some survey work and the bears were pretty visible about ten days prior. Sounded like a good idea. So that is what we did. We set up on a spit of high ground that gave command over the entire two mile stretch of south-facing bear beaches. If ever a big bruin could find sows and solace, this bay seemed to be the spot. Too bad the bears did not get the memo. Four hours with little to show; actually, nothing to show.
On our way back toward camp, we trolled by more prime shoreline. How it was void of bears is a mystery solveable by someone smarter than me. We passed camp and decided to go back toward where Bart had gotten close to the sow the first day.
We didn’t get that far before a black spot in a narrow back cove showed itself to be moving in the bright green grass. The wind gave a perfect approach from a small rock pile just off shore from the beach where the bear grazed inattentively.
Bart refused to go on this stalk, stating he had drawn the straw for stalks the day before. I argued that tomorrow was Sunday and I know Bart did not hunt on Sundays, so this would be better for him. He was having none of it. An impatient look from a camera guy told us we had best quit arguing and start stalking. With that, Tyler and I left Bart to manage the boat against the tide.
This was the best slam dunk stalk I’ve ever seen. Perfect wind, soft grass to hide our approach, and a hungry bear grazing like he had just emerged from the den. In five minutes we found ourselves 105 yards off, camera and crosshairs dialed in on a bear that was feeding, head down, completely oblivious the what fate may await him.
It took another minute before the bear raised his head. The green beach grass sticking out both sides of his mouth like a cow in an alfalfa roll. I kept the crosshairs on his chest as I examined his body and head size. Nope, not gonna shoot this one. Either a young boar or a big old sow. Either way, he/she was safe. It made for some good footage and some good story when we return to Bart and the boat.
With the sun starting to drop behind the islands to our west, we chugged the mile and a half back to camp, smiling and happy about our change of fortunes. This was what we had come here for. Bear encounters, great weather, and good friendship.
A new morning brought new hope. This second day of the hunt was a bright and beautiful as the first. Not sure who ordered the weather for this hunt, but give them my gratitude. I’ve spent a week in tents sitting out SE AK downpours and I far prefer the comfort of sunny days in the low 70’s with a nice ocean breeze, even if it does provide good skeeter habitat.
I wish I could say the day was a continual procession of bear sighting after bear sighting. Actually, it was really sparse. We burned six hours of motoring coves, bays, and some of Alaska’s best bear shorelines, without even the slightest hint of a bear. I had no explanation as to the dearth of bears, but the pleasure of being free of mechanical worries was enough to make a glorious day even better.
Throughout the day we tried a series of different tactics; calling, glassing, moving slowing and glassing more. All with the same result. By late afternoon, I was pleading to the crew that this was an anomaly. Never in past hunts had such fertile bear ground failed to yield a harvest of bear sightings. Thank goodness we had past episodes filmed here to support my claims, or the crew may have doubted my comments of prior bear appearances in specific locations we drifted by.
Bart seemed unphased. As was I. Tyler was focused on capturing stories, shooting b-roll, and getting the sound bites of two good friends laughing and joking about their week away from the world’s cares and worries. A great atmosphere that any who hunts can relate to. It is times like this when you realize that the hunt really can be about enjoying the experience and not succumbing to pressures that tags must be filled.
If there is one thing I love about Alaska, specifically the coastal areas, it would be the pace at which life moves. Impatience will get you nowhere here. The tides come and go according to how tides come and go. The sun sets late and rises early, adding to the sense that you are at the mercy of whatever natural cycle is at play. You can have all the schedules, appointments, time slots you want. The bears don’t really care, nor does any other part of this place. The sooner you accept that, the more relaxing the experience.
Bart commented what little pressure I expressed in the face of these mechanical issues and the lack of bears to stalk. Part of that is seven years of experience telling stories on film. The other part is accepting that if you hunt hard and spend your time afield a story will evolve; you just have to recognize it. Getting worked up as I might have in the first year or two of this endeavor would do no good, merely take away from what is always a remarkable trip.
By mid-day, Saturday, we were contemplating what grand scheme may provide a bear. A bay far to our west hooked around for a couple miles. A Forest Service employee told me he had been in there doing some survey work and the bears were pretty visible about ten days prior. Sounded like a good idea. So that is what we did. We set up on a spit of high ground that gave command over the entire two mile stretch of south-facing bear beaches. If ever a big bruin could find sows and solace, this bay seemed to be the spot. Too bad the bears did not get the memo. Four hours with little to show; actually, nothing to show.
On our way back toward camp, we trolled by more prime shoreline. How it was void of bears is a mystery solveable by someone smarter than me. We passed camp and decided to go back toward where Bart had gotten close to the sow the first day.
We didn’t get that far before a black spot in a narrow back cove showed itself to be moving in the bright green grass. The wind gave a perfect approach from a small rock pile just off shore from the beach where the bear grazed inattentively.
Bart refused to go on this stalk, stating he had drawn the straw for stalks the day before. I argued that tomorrow was Sunday and I know Bart did not hunt on Sundays, so this would be better for him. He was having none of it. An impatient look from a camera guy told us we had best quit arguing and start stalking. With that, Tyler and I left Bart to manage the boat against the tide.
This was the best slam dunk stalk I’ve ever seen. Perfect wind, soft grass to hide our approach, and a hungry bear grazing like he had just emerged from the den. In five minutes we found ourselves 105 yards off, camera and crosshairs dialed in on a bear that was feeding, head down, completely oblivious the what fate may await him.
It took another minute before the bear raised his head. The green beach grass sticking out both sides of his mouth like a cow in an alfalfa roll. I kept the crosshairs on his chest as I examined his body and head size. Nope, not gonna shoot this one. Either a young boar or a big old sow. Either way, he/she was safe. It made for some good footage and some good story when we return to Bart and the boat.
With the sun starting to drop behind the islands to our west, we chugged the mile and a half back to camp, smiling and happy about our change of fortunes. This was what we had come here for. Bear encounters, great weather, and good friendship.
Laying in the tent this night, the sounds of the island made me think about Uncle Elton, a hunting and life mentor who recently passed away due to brain cancer. His funeral was today. While my family gathered in Idaho to celebrate his life, I did what I thought he would want; I went to Alaska and filmed this bear hunt.
Elt’s memory was heavy on my mind all day. When we last met and I was able to help him get out and about a bit, his dignity was already tarnished by the indignities cancer forces upon you. Needing help for even some of life’s most basic functions is hard for anyone; harder for a man of his independence and self-reliance. In this last time we visited in person, he left me with this bit of wisdom, “Randy, don’t confuse breathin’ with livin’. There’s a big difference between the two and don’t forget it.”
That will stick with me forever. Before I closed my eyes for the final time that evening, I listened to the heavens and thought of Elt. I could only hope he would approve of me being out here “living,” fearful of the day I might only be breathing and wishing I had taken all opportunities afforded me. It seemed fitting to be in such a cool place, a place Elt had often visited in his life, while thinking of a man who had such a formative influence on my life.
When I awoke, I had to ask who was responsible for providing this many consecutive days of great weather in Alaska. Such pleasant conditions are as rare as the infamous eight foot black bear that guys claim to see with regularity. The morning brought sun, fair temps, and a certainty of a good bear. Bart assured me of such outcome for this day, given it was Sunday and he being highly observant of his teachings of faith would only tag along for the sights and stories of the day; vowing to not raise his rifle to a bear on the Sabbath.
Bart and I had previously discussed that he was under no pressure to hunt on Sundays when being a guest on our show. Whether he wanted to tag along, stay in camp, or whatever of his faith gave him comfort, was fine with me. I admire his principle and respect his commitment to that which he holds in high regard.
Being more of a heathen, I am not called to observe the rituals of faith my Grandmothers so diligently followed. As Grandpa would say when he took us fishing on Sundays, “It’s not that I am a non-believer, I am just not as observant as your Grandmother;” to which he would turn and drop his line down in hopes of catching another walleye.
All that aside, if the hunting turned out to be as fine as the weather, a B&C bear would fall today. Morning fog burned off as I devoured a bit of Granola and Blueberries for a snack, followed by an apple and Snickers bar. Not sure what Bart and Tyler found from the cache, but if I ate as much and as often as they do, I would need a wheelbarrow to haul my gut around. The must have some major league metabolic activity. Mine being more akin to a denned February bear.
Each morning we would bet how many cranks it would take on the Tohatsu to get “ ’er fired up.” Bart guessed five; me two. He won; it took eight. Yet, when it started, “she ran like a top.” In my logging family, every object was given the female connotation of “her” or “she.” When acting half my age, as I often am when enjoying such amazing places we find ourselves filming for this show, I am always cracking humor as how my Dad would say it, or my Uncle Elt.
We pushed off and motored south to where we had the encounter the night before, gliding through a pod of seals like I’ve never seen. There had to be a hundred of them in a tight group, some diving, some splashing, all doing something that I suspect put a dent in a school of unfortunate herring. Was fun to watch all these critters that are so different than what I observe while hunting elsewhere.
Not sure where the bears were on this fine day. By 3pm, Bart’s prediction of “bears aplenty” seemed in grave danger. We cruised some new beaches in hopes we had overlooked some obvious feeding spots. I showed the guys the location across the bay where four years ago my buddy Joel Treat decided to jump over the bow in clear water that turned out to be over his head. Still one of our most comical events captured on film.
The day passed with Bart doing some of his imitations. He is a world-class imitator that can make you laugh to the point of needing oxygen. He and my brother would be two top qualifiers for any contest of imitation people. By evening, my side hurt from laughing. The more I would laugh, the more Bart would throw on the fire. Tyler sat in the bow, occasionally filming and chuckling at the two knuckleheads imposing on his work.
It was time to slowly turn our ship of fools north and retrace the beaches we had covered in the last few hours. Shooting light was supposedly until around 10pm, though my ability to see well expired about a half hour prior. It only took about a half hour to find a black blob grazing in a cove as we floated by. It was exactly where Bart stalked a sow two days earlier, so we just suspected it was her.
We all threw up our binos and applied hard examination from 500 yards distant. Bart said that sow was heavily rubbed to the point of looking like a dirt ball. This bear was black and sleek. The tall grass made it hard to estimate size, but it was surely worth a closer look.
Once again, a small island made perfect cover as the Tohatsu whispered into the bay where the wind direction was completely to our favor. We beached at the peak of high tide. We couldn’t be more than 200 yards away, so I told Bart to follow along and not worry about the boat. A small anchor would hold it in deep water during the time this stalk would take.
Heading straight upwind, we cut the 100 yards across this island, weaving through the mixed alder-deadfall mess. As always, thicker and noisier than it looked when we first dove into the brush. I worried I was making too much noise for a stalk of this close proximity.
As I hit the high point of this rock outcrop, all of 25’ in elevation, I could see down to the adjacent beach where the bear had been. He was grazing hard, completely oblivious to the Doom Squad easing up to his position. Now, the pulse was quickening.
I pointed to Tyler, so he could get the camera rolling. I parted some alders and showed the bear to Bart. He smiled big and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Oh ye of little faith, I had told you this would be the day.” From initial glance, it looked like it could be the day. I slowed our pace as we covered the next 30 yards of brush need to get to a clear filming/shooting lane.
I was worried the bear would hear this procession of three guys in noisy waders. Nope. He had the feedbag going and he was not to be distracted. We sat down on the edge of the alders, each settling into a spot that gave unobstructed viewing. I raised the RX-1200 rangefinder; 124 yards.
Yogi continued to graze, at times looking our way, though showing no signs of concern. I now had the Howa resting across the pack with the crosshairs following his chest. As if he wanted to milk his TV fortunes, he sat right on his rump, almost like a big dog, looking right at us as he gummed a mouth full of beach grass.
In the binos, his head looked good, marked by a huge scar above his left eye. Someone had laid the pipe to him. He seemed no worse for wear. I tried to size him up in the tall grass, his body somewhat obscured. His head looked good, but not huge like a few other bears I had chased hereabouts. He turned sideways, walking a few steps to our left, showing a big gut plowing through the beach grass and a pronounced front shoulder hump indicative of a mature boar.
I looked to Tyler and Bart. Their expressions were that of “Watcha waitin’ fer?” I just couldn’t tell for sure if this was a good bear. I was not looking for some huge trophy. For our show, any representative specimen is fair game.
Tyler then pointed to another bear creeping toward our set up. I looked in the shadows and saw this completely black face slowly making a path to this other bear. Given a hot sow had been here two days prior, it seemed her scent lingered longer than she did, attracting a few suitors. It was hard to make out this other bear, but I gambled he would be bigger than the scar-faced dude 125 yards across.
So, I got up and moved left about 20 yards, giving some concern to the closer bear such that he decided he would graze toward the alders. I set up on the black-faced bear and waited for him to give a profile of size. I ranged at 233 yards and easing our direction.
Finally, he made himself fully visible and a broadside profile. Then he looked at me. Damn, what a mistake. He had the front shoulder structure of a boar, but now seeing his head, old Scar Face seemed much larger. I pointed Tyler back to the closer bear now at the edge of the alders and moving away. I had the .308 tucked tightly behind his front shoulder as he moved in and out of small openings in the hedge of brush. Eventually, he disappeared.
I turned to look at the crew and it was obvious I had made a bad choice. Their head shaking told me all I needed to know. I explained I was not trophy hunting, just wanting to make sure it was a decent boar. Both guys assured me such was the case.
Ugggh. After all this, Bart’s prediction came true. I blown a golden opportunity.
Elt’s memory was heavy on my mind all day. When we last met and I was able to help him get out and about a bit, his dignity was already tarnished by the indignities cancer forces upon you. Needing help for even some of life’s most basic functions is hard for anyone; harder for a man of his independence and self-reliance. In this last time we visited in person, he left me with this bit of wisdom, “Randy, don’t confuse breathin’ with livin’. There’s a big difference between the two and don’t forget it.”
That will stick with me forever. Before I closed my eyes for the final time that evening, I listened to the heavens and thought of Elt. I could only hope he would approve of me being out here “living,” fearful of the day I might only be breathing and wishing I had taken all opportunities afforded me. It seemed fitting to be in such a cool place, a place Elt had often visited in his life, while thinking of a man who had such a formative influence on my life.
When I awoke, I had to ask who was responsible for providing this many consecutive days of great weather in Alaska. Such pleasant conditions are as rare as the infamous eight foot black bear that guys claim to see with regularity. The morning brought sun, fair temps, and a certainty of a good bear. Bart assured me of such outcome for this day, given it was Sunday and he being highly observant of his teachings of faith would only tag along for the sights and stories of the day; vowing to not raise his rifle to a bear on the Sabbath.
Bart and I had previously discussed that he was under no pressure to hunt on Sundays when being a guest on our show. Whether he wanted to tag along, stay in camp, or whatever of his faith gave him comfort, was fine with me. I admire his principle and respect his commitment to that which he holds in high regard.
Being more of a heathen, I am not called to observe the rituals of faith my Grandmothers so diligently followed. As Grandpa would say when he took us fishing on Sundays, “It’s not that I am a non-believer, I am just not as observant as your Grandmother;” to which he would turn and drop his line down in hopes of catching another walleye.
All that aside, if the hunting turned out to be as fine as the weather, a B&C bear would fall today. Morning fog burned off as I devoured a bit of Granola and Blueberries for a snack, followed by an apple and Snickers bar. Not sure what Bart and Tyler found from the cache, but if I ate as much and as often as they do, I would need a wheelbarrow to haul my gut around. The must have some major league metabolic activity. Mine being more akin to a denned February bear.
Each morning we would bet how many cranks it would take on the Tohatsu to get “ ’er fired up.” Bart guessed five; me two. He won; it took eight. Yet, when it started, “she ran like a top.” In my logging family, every object was given the female connotation of “her” or “she.” When acting half my age, as I often am when enjoying such amazing places we find ourselves filming for this show, I am always cracking humor as how my Dad would say it, or my Uncle Elt.
We pushed off and motored south to where we had the encounter the night before, gliding through a pod of seals like I’ve never seen. There had to be a hundred of them in a tight group, some diving, some splashing, all doing something that I suspect put a dent in a school of unfortunate herring. Was fun to watch all these critters that are so different than what I observe while hunting elsewhere.
Not sure where the bears were on this fine day. By 3pm, Bart’s prediction of “bears aplenty” seemed in grave danger. We cruised some new beaches in hopes we had overlooked some obvious feeding spots. I showed the guys the location across the bay where four years ago my buddy Joel Treat decided to jump over the bow in clear water that turned out to be over his head. Still one of our most comical events captured on film.
The day passed with Bart doing some of his imitations. He is a world-class imitator that can make you laugh to the point of needing oxygen. He and my brother would be two top qualifiers for any contest of imitation people. By evening, my side hurt from laughing. The more I would laugh, the more Bart would throw on the fire. Tyler sat in the bow, occasionally filming and chuckling at the two knuckleheads imposing on his work.
It was time to slowly turn our ship of fools north and retrace the beaches we had covered in the last few hours. Shooting light was supposedly until around 10pm, though my ability to see well expired about a half hour prior. It only took about a half hour to find a black blob grazing in a cove as we floated by. It was exactly where Bart stalked a sow two days earlier, so we just suspected it was her.
We all threw up our binos and applied hard examination from 500 yards distant. Bart said that sow was heavily rubbed to the point of looking like a dirt ball. This bear was black and sleek. The tall grass made it hard to estimate size, but it was surely worth a closer look.
Once again, a small island made perfect cover as the Tohatsu whispered into the bay where the wind direction was completely to our favor. We beached at the peak of high tide. We couldn’t be more than 200 yards away, so I told Bart to follow along and not worry about the boat. A small anchor would hold it in deep water during the time this stalk would take.
Heading straight upwind, we cut the 100 yards across this island, weaving through the mixed alder-deadfall mess. As always, thicker and noisier than it looked when we first dove into the brush. I worried I was making too much noise for a stalk of this close proximity.
As I hit the high point of this rock outcrop, all of 25’ in elevation, I could see down to the adjacent beach where the bear had been. He was grazing hard, completely oblivious to the Doom Squad easing up to his position. Now, the pulse was quickening.
I pointed to Tyler, so he could get the camera rolling. I parted some alders and showed the bear to Bart. He smiled big and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Oh ye of little faith, I had told you this would be the day.” From initial glance, it looked like it could be the day. I slowed our pace as we covered the next 30 yards of brush need to get to a clear filming/shooting lane.
I was worried the bear would hear this procession of three guys in noisy waders. Nope. He had the feedbag going and he was not to be distracted. We sat down on the edge of the alders, each settling into a spot that gave unobstructed viewing. I raised the RX-1200 rangefinder; 124 yards.
Yogi continued to graze, at times looking our way, though showing no signs of concern. I now had the Howa resting across the pack with the crosshairs following his chest. As if he wanted to milk his TV fortunes, he sat right on his rump, almost like a big dog, looking right at us as he gummed a mouth full of beach grass.
In the binos, his head looked good, marked by a huge scar above his left eye. Someone had laid the pipe to him. He seemed no worse for wear. I tried to size him up in the tall grass, his body somewhat obscured. His head looked good, but not huge like a few other bears I had chased hereabouts. He turned sideways, walking a few steps to our left, showing a big gut plowing through the beach grass and a pronounced front shoulder hump indicative of a mature boar.
I looked to Tyler and Bart. Their expressions were that of “Watcha waitin’ fer?” I just couldn’t tell for sure if this was a good bear. I was not looking for some huge trophy. For our show, any representative specimen is fair game.
Tyler then pointed to another bear creeping toward our set up. I looked in the shadows and saw this completely black face slowly making a path to this other bear. Given a hot sow had been here two days prior, it seemed her scent lingered longer than she did, attracting a few suitors. It was hard to make out this other bear, but I gambled he would be bigger than the scar-faced dude 125 yards across.
So, I got up and moved left about 20 yards, giving some concern to the closer bear such that he decided he would graze toward the alders. I set up on the black-faced bear and waited for him to give a profile of size. I ranged at 233 yards and easing our direction.
Finally, he made himself fully visible and a broadside profile. Then he looked at me. Damn, what a mistake. He had the front shoulder structure of a boar, but now seeing his head, old Scar Face seemed much larger. I pointed Tyler back to the closer bear now at the edge of the alders and moving away. I had the .308 tucked tightly behind his front shoulder as he moved in and out of small openings in the hedge of brush. Eventually, he disappeared.
I turned to look at the crew and it was obvious I had made a bad choice. Their head shaking told me all I needed to know. I explained I was not trophy hunting, just wanting to make sure it was a decent boar. Both guys assured me such was the case.
Ugggh. After all this, Bart’s prediction came true. I blown a golden opportunity.
stillkickin
Well-known member
Story is great as usual, keep it coming!!!!
On the boat ride back to camp, Bart and Tyler ribbed me hard. I had no idea I was making a big mistake. I’m not an expert on judging bears and I guess I had to prove it for the world to see. Oh well, two more days for Bart to fill his tag. I told him I was not shooting from here on out, so he had better get his shooting eye tuned up.
It was still quite light when I crawled into my tent. The warm weather had the bugs in numbers that were hard to tolerate. The Hilleberg was the only respite from the annoyance and I was thankful for that. As I tried to fall asleep, my mind kept running about what could have been.
To further complicate things, we encountered a big outfitter boat on our way back in. They anchored right out in front of our camp, pretty much laying claim to the big bay east of us and with their presence went any chance of shooting one of the big bears I had seen in the back of that bay on past hunts. By the time we returned to our camp, they had the big boat anchored and two skiffs offloaded and floating next to the boat. With them now hunting the same bears we were, I concluded my mistake of the evening was even more problematic than it had seemed just an hour ago. These guys had the gear to get after the bears and I suspect they knew these bays better than I did. Dang it!
I awoke to find Bart combing the beaches. The guy never just sits down and relaxes. He’s always investigating something, hiking around, snooping under the rocks, herding up some of these huge SE AK slugs, and an assortment of other distractions that passes time. Finally got a pic of him sitting down for three minutes to eat.
This morning Bart returned with something I had never seen before. In his hand is a Sitka Blacktail deadhead that may have died some strange fate. And not just any deadhead. A deadhead of monstrous proportions, as far as Sitka Blacktails go. When he set it in front of me I was ranting and hooting. I’ve not seen many Blacktails, but I knew this one was a whopper. Bart looked at me as though I had caught my pants on fire. I exclaimed that he had a treasure of great magnitude. He laughed, stating, “ I saw these bones and thought you would like to take this deadhead home, given you have spent so much time here.”
I appreciated his gesture, but no way would I take that from him. I explained the buck was of B&C caliber. He seemed doubtful. Tyler emerged for breakfast and saw the buck laying there. His reaction did a bit more to convince Bart this may actually be a rare find. I pulled out my tape measure that I remembered was packed in a tote. Rounding down each measurement and not counting the 6” non-typical point on the passenger main beam, I came up with 118. B&C Awards score is 100 and All-time is 108. And to think this buck had been laying on a salt water beach for some unknown period of time. We’ve found some cool things in our travels, but this topped anything. His horns were dark green in areas where exposed to air, with the soft brown Sitka blacktails are known for in the locations where bacteria and oxidation had not yet taken a toll.
For perspective, that's a 75 qt. Yeti the deadhead is sitting on.
Bart insisted I take the deadhead. I protested. He threatened to go put it back if I did not take it. Alright, twist my arm. It sure provide some fodder for the upcoming blacktail hunt we will be filming in August just 100 miles south of where Bart found this one. I was excited at the prospect of that upcoming hunt, but this find has me daydreaming even more.
We didn’t spend too much time with breakfast, given the outfitters were still anchored across from us and had their boats at the ready. We needed every advantage and being out there in front of the competition seemed like a good plan. With that, we pushed off. I won the contest of how many cranks the Tohatsu would take. I guessed two. It took two. This was going to be a good day.
Our plan was crafted over breakfast. We would head south to the bay where I had made the mistake last night, in hopes the scar-faced boar would come back out. I knew of a bigger bay a quarter mile south where I have seen lots of bears. Given the wind was now from the north, I suggested we go to this bay further south in hopes that the wind would not give us up. In the spot from last night, the north wind would be blowing right to where the bears would be bedded. All agreed.
As we rounded the first point from camp a float plane buzzed overhead. They landed in the bay and taxied over near the outfitter boat. The clients got out. Whew, with no hunting on the day of flying, we had another day to ourselves. We had better make the most of it.
Midday found us on a small island that became main land when the tide rolled out. We had spent the last four hours moving around as the shade moved with the arching sun. We had finally had enough. We’d shot every segment of TV we could think of while waiting and not a single bear was seen. It was time for a change of plans. Just what, we hadn’t yet decided.
Bart made an observation while we contemplated our next step. It was when he saw one of the outfitter boats cruising the shoreline looking for bears. They had just flown in, but they were hunting a few hours later. A guide stood at the helm with the motor barely idling, while he glassed the shoreline. In the bow was a big old boy glassing along with him. Not sure how they planned to get the big old boy up on shore if they saw a bear, but that was not my problem.
I know AK has some strange rules about what outfitters can do versus what self-guided hunters can do. As a self-guided hunter, I know I cannot hunt the same day I fly on a charter transport plane. If it is a regularly scheduled commercial air carrier, I can hunt. Given these guys were hunting within a couple hours of flying in, I can only surmise that AK has some exception to the same day flying rule for guided black bear hunters. Maybe they just took the hunters out to do some scouting.
It was worrisome that they were buzzing the same bay where I screwed up my chance the night before. They have the same right to hunt that bay as we do, but the fact they went in there with the wind at their back did not seem to be helpful to our cause. A bear's nose is not going to let him down. Our best hope was that their scent/sound to the north of where the bear was hanging would push the bear further south to the bay we were set up on.
We sat for a while longer, but no bear appeared. Tyler wanted some more boat scenes, so we decided we would motor out to the middle of the channel and go to where we could glass into the bay the bear was in last night and simultaneously glass the bay to the south. A nice north breeze would move us down the shore and be an aid to our effort.
A prelude to the scene of the incident. Don't let those tree pics fool you; it's jungle-thick once a bear gets off the beach.
It was still quite light when I crawled into my tent. The warm weather had the bugs in numbers that were hard to tolerate. The Hilleberg was the only respite from the annoyance and I was thankful for that. As I tried to fall asleep, my mind kept running about what could have been.
To further complicate things, we encountered a big outfitter boat on our way back in. They anchored right out in front of our camp, pretty much laying claim to the big bay east of us and with their presence went any chance of shooting one of the big bears I had seen in the back of that bay on past hunts. By the time we returned to our camp, they had the big boat anchored and two skiffs offloaded and floating next to the boat. With them now hunting the same bears we were, I concluded my mistake of the evening was even more problematic than it had seemed just an hour ago. These guys had the gear to get after the bears and I suspect they knew these bays better than I did. Dang it!
I awoke to find Bart combing the beaches. The guy never just sits down and relaxes. He’s always investigating something, hiking around, snooping under the rocks, herding up some of these huge SE AK slugs, and an assortment of other distractions that passes time. Finally got a pic of him sitting down for three minutes to eat.
This morning Bart returned with something I had never seen before. In his hand is a Sitka Blacktail deadhead that may have died some strange fate. And not just any deadhead. A deadhead of monstrous proportions, as far as Sitka Blacktails go. When he set it in front of me I was ranting and hooting. I’ve not seen many Blacktails, but I knew this one was a whopper. Bart looked at me as though I had caught my pants on fire. I exclaimed that he had a treasure of great magnitude. He laughed, stating, “ I saw these bones and thought you would like to take this deadhead home, given you have spent so much time here.”
I appreciated his gesture, but no way would I take that from him. I explained the buck was of B&C caliber. He seemed doubtful. Tyler emerged for breakfast and saw the buck laying there. His reaction did a bit more to convince Bart this may actually be a rare find. I pulled out my tape measure that I remembered was packed in a tote. Rounding down each measurement and not counting the 6” non-typical point on the passenger main beam, I came up with 118. B&C Awards score is 100 and All-time is 108. And to think this buck had been laying on a salt water beach for some unknown period of time. We’ve found some cool things in our travels, but this topped anything. His horns were dark green in areas where exposed to air, with the soft brown Sitka blacktails are known for in the locations where bacteria and oxidation had not yet taken a toll.
For perspective, that's a 75 qt. Yeti the deadhead is sitting on.
Bart insisted I take the deadhead. I protested. He threatened to go put it back if I did not take it. Alright, twist my arm. It sure provide some fodder for the upcoming blacktail hunt we will be filming in August just 100 miles south of where Bart found this one. I was excited at the prospect of that upcoming hunt, but this find has me daydreaming even more.
We didn’t spend too much time with breakfast, given the outfitters were still anchored across from us and had their boats at the ready. We needed every advantage and being out there in front of the competition seemed like a good plan. With that, we pushed off. I won the contest of how many cranks the Tohatsu would take. I guessed two. It took two. This was going to be a good day.
Our plan was crafted over breakfast. We would head south to the bay where I had made the mistake last night, in hopes the scar-faced boar would come back out. I knew of a bigger bay a quarter mile south where I have seen lots of bears. Given the wind was now from the north, I suggested we go to this bay further south in hopes that the wind would not give us up. In the spot from last night, the north wind would be blowing right to where the bears would be bedded. All agreed.
As we rounded the first point from camp a float plane buzzed overhead. They landed in the bay and taxied over near the outfitter boat. The clients got out. Whew, with no hunting on the day of flying, we had another day to ourselves. We had better make the most of it.
Midday found us on a small island that became main land when the tide rolled out. We had spent the last four hours moving around as the shade moved with the arching sun. We had finally had enough. We’d shot every segment of TV we could think of while waiting and not a single bear was seen. It was time for a change of plans. Just what, we hadn’t yet decided.
Bart made an observation while we contemplated our next step. It was when he saw one of the outfitter boats cruising the shoreline looking for bears. They had just flown in, but they were hunting a few hours later. A guide stood at the helm with the motor barely idling, while he glassed the shoreline. In the bow was a big old boy glassing along with him. Not sure how they planned to get the big old boy up on shore if they saw a bear, but that was not my problem.
I know AK has some strange rules about what outfitters can do versus what self-guided hunters can do. As a self-guided hunter, I know I cannot hunt the same day I fly on a charter transport plane. If it is a regularly scheduled commercial air carrier, I can hunt. Given these guys were hunting within a couple hours of flying in, I can only surmise that AK has some exception to the same day flying rule for guided black bear hunters. Maybe they just took the hunters out to do some scouting.
It was worrisome that they were buzzing the same bay where I screwed up my chance the night before. They have the same right to hunt that bay as we do, but the fact they went in there with the wind at their back did not seem to be helpful to our cause. A bear's nose is not going to let him down. Our best hope was that their scent/sound to the north of where the bear was hanging would push the bear further south to the bay we were set up on.
We sat for a while longer, but no bear appeared. Tyler wanted some more boat scenes, so we decided we would motor out to the middle of the channel and go to where we could glass into the bay the bear was in last night and simultaneously glass the bay to the south. A nice north breeze would move us down the shore and be an aid to our effort.
A prelude to the scene of the incident. Don't let those tree pics fool you; it's jungle-thick once a bear gets off the beach.
That nice pic you see in Post #31 is the channel we decided to motor out in and bob around as the wind would push us. Almost too nice of a day to be disrupted with shooting a bear. As the waves rocked us back and forth, I saw guys occasionally doing “the head bob” as they struggled to stay awake.
Old stories were told. Bart and Tyler were high school buddies, so listening to some of their crazy hunting escapades was rather entertaining. Good thing someone was watching over them at times, as they seemed to do things that eventually catch up to you when repeated in wild country. Their excitement in re-telling the stories was enough to keep me attentive and laughing.
About 5pm, I happen to look over at the rock point we had spent the day on, trying to estimate what the tide might allow us to do. In doing so, I noticed a big black blob in the green grass a few hundred yards from where we were just an hour and a half ago. Bart and Tyler confirmed it to be a good bear. I turned the boat out further into the channel to make sure our noise and wind did not mess up what might be a rare opportunity. I tacked south, making a big fish hook that brought us back east, then northeast, all the while watching over my shoulder in the event an outfitter boat would reappear from the bays further north.
It was almost a half hour later when the boat was beached and we were moving forward with rifles in hand. We brought a spotter, just to make sure the bear was what Bart wanted. Two big rocks we had sat next to earlier in the day served as both cover for our approach and if it turned out to be a boar Bart wanted, would serve as almost bench rest shooting positions.
In the binos, Bart concluded he wanted to shoot the bear. I ranged it at 265 yards and moving our way. In the spotter, you could see a big scar above his right eye. The same boar I had so stupidly passed on last night was now grazing in the mid-day sun, a few hundred yards from where we had just spent hours waiting. This is too good to be true. With the luck of this trip, I silently worried that something was going to fall apart before we capitalized.
Bart and I eased up to the rocks and laid our packs across them. I wedged my rifle in the seam of my pack and it was rock solid. I looked over to Bart and he was settling in. Tyler was giving commands of what footage he had and what shot angles would be good for him. The bear was slowly grazing, almost meandering our direction. A little while longer and he would be paralleling, from left to right, the other side of this bay formed by a rising tide.
If the bear knew of our presence, he gave no indication. He was as confident, maybe as dumb, as he was last night when he went on full display. I followed the bear in the crosshairs, knowing with the CDS dial set, Bart could easily place the 140 grain bullet in the right place from this distance.
The bear was getting close. Now nearing 220 yards. He came around a rock and turned as though he might be heading to bed in the alders. He went from broadside to quartering to/away, depending upon where he found grass to his liking. He turned slightly our direction to navigate an obstacle in his path.
Boom!
Whop!
And the bear took off like he was electrocuted. Having tracked and lost a bear in this brush a few years ago, I shot as he dodged off the beach, but I knew it was a waste, as my sight picture was compromised when I flinched at the crack of Bart’s rifle. Bart's shot was a solid hit, for sure. Where, would be the question.
We went to whisper mode, hoping the bear would not travel far before laying down for his last nap. Bart look visibly excited, shook, and stunned that it happened this fast. It is hard to tell where a bear is hit at impact, so we withdrew to a different spot and looked at the footage on the small viewfinder. I did not realize the bear was quartering to us as sharply as it was when Bart fired. Neither did Bart.
It was hard to tell exactly where it was hit, but it looked to be a bit further back than desired, which with a quartering animal can happen with even a couple inches left or right of point of aim. We guessed it may have clipped the near lung, probably the liver, and with any luck, exited in front of the opposite hind quarter.
We decided to give it an hour before taking the trail. A long hour. Bart was beating himself up pretty hard for not dumping the bear in his tracks. Anyone who hunts bears knows they seldom die right in their tracks. And if you have ever hunted the brush of SE AK, you know that if they get off the beach you will have your work cut out for you.
Note - The airline is calling us for boarding to Bozeman. I will try to wrap up the story while on the flight and post the final part when I get home late tonight. It gets pretty good from here.
Old stories were told. Bart and Tyler were high school buddies, so listening to some of their crazy hunting escapades was rather entertaining. Good thing someone was watching over them at times, as they seemed to do things that eventually catch up to you when repeated in wild country. Their excitement in re-telling the stories was enough to keep me attentive and laughing.
About 5pm, I happen to look over at the rock point we had spent the day on, trying to estimate what the tide might allow us to do. In doing so, I noticed a big black blob in the green grass a few hundred yards from where we were just an hour and a half ago. Bart and Tyler confirmed it to be a good bear. I turned the boat out further into the channel to make sure our noise and wind did not mess up what might be a rare opportunity. I tacked south, making a big fish hook that brought us back east, then northeast, all the while watching over my shoulder in the event an outfitter boat would reappear from the bays further north.
It was almost a half hour later when the boat was beached and we were moving forward with rifles in hand. We brought a spotter, just to make sure the bear was what Bart wanted. Two big rocks we had sat next to earlier in the day served as both cover for our approach and if it turned out to be a boar Bart wanted, would serve as almost bench rest shooting positions.
In the binos, Bart concluded he wanted to shoot the bear. I ranged it at 265 yards and moving our way. In the spotter, you could see a big scar above his right eye. The same boar I had so stupidly passed on last night was now grazing in the mid-day sun, a few hundred yards from where we had just spent hours waiting. This is too good to be true. With the luck of this trip, I silently worried that something was going to fall apart before we capitalized.
Bart and I eased up to the rocks and laid our packs across them. I wedged my rifle in the seam of my pack and it was rock solid. I looked over to Bart and he was settling in. Tyler was giving commands of what footage he had and what shot angles would be good for him. The bear was slowly grazing, almost meandering our direction. A little while longer and he would be paralleling, from left to right, the other side of this bay formed by a rising tide.
If the bear knew of our presence, he gave no indication. He was as confident, maybe as dumb, as he was last night when he went on full display. I followed the bear in the crosshairs, knowing with the CDS dial set, Bart could easily place the 140 grain bullet in the right place from this distance.
The bear was getting close. Now nearing 220 yards. He came around a rock and turned as though he might be heading to bed in the alders. He went from broadside to quartering to/away, depending upon where he found grass to his liking. He turned slightly our direction to navigate an obstacle in his path.
Boom!
Whop!
And the bear took off like he was electrocuted. Having tracked and lost a bear in this brush a few years ago, I shot as he dodged off the beach, but I knew it was a waste, as my sight picture was compromised when I flinched at the crack of Bart’s rifle. Bart's shot was a solid hit, for sure. Where, would be the question.
We went to whisper mode, hoping the bear would not travel far before laying down for his last nap. Bart look visibly excited, shook, and stunned that it happened this fast. It is hard to tell where a bear is hit at impact, so we withdrew to a different spot and looked at the footage on the small viewfinder. I did not realize the bear was quartering to us as sharply as it was when Bart fired. Neither did Bart.
It was hard to tell exactly where it was hit, but it looked to be a bit further back than desired, which with a quartering animal can happen with even a couple inches left or right of point of aim. We guessed it may have clipped the near lung, probably the liver, and with any luck, exited in front of the opposite hind quarter.
We decided to give it an hour before taking the trail. A long hour. Bart was beating himself up pretty hard for not dumping the bear in his tracks. Anyone who hunts bears knows they seldom die right in their tracks. And if you have ever hunted the brush of SE AK, you know that if they get off the beach you will have your work cut out for you.
Note - The airline is calling us for boarding to Bozeman. I will try to wrap up the story while on the flight and post the final part when I get home late tonight. It gets pretty good from here.
Joe Hulburt
Well-known member
Great read so far!
I appreciate the quote from your late uncle...
“Randy, don’t confuse breathin’ with livin’. There’s a big difference between the two and don’t forget it.”
I tend to get too caught up in the little dramas of everyday life sometimes and need to be reminded of what is important. Thanks.
I appreciate the quote from your late uncle...
“Randy, don’t confuse breathin’ with livin’. There’s a big difference between the two and don’t forget it.”
I tend to get too caught up in the little dramas of everyday life sometimes and need to be reminded of what is important. Thanks.
Slight boarding delay, so I cranked out this bit. Now being called for our seats.
We jumped in the boat and motored over the short distance to the beach where the bear was hit, getting there about 1:15 after the shot. It’s now close to 7 pm, which with the long days in AK is not a big worry. We secure the boat for the now reversing tide. We will have to push it off into deeper water so as not to be left high and dry when we return. I take care of that detail while Bart and Tyler review the footage to know exactly where the bear dove into the brush and what vector he took.
When I caught up to them, they were scouring the spot of the hit in hopes of some blood on rocks or grass. Nothing; no hair, no blood, and too rocky for any prints. Not a good start to the situation.
Bart is really beating himself up by this time. We follow the path the bear took when heading for cover. It is a natural path of least resistance. At least until you get about ten feet into the alders, at which time it looks like the rest of the mess that this place is known for. The grass is taller here and the bear would have to rub against some alders. We inspect with all we have, but find nothing that resembles blood or hair. A worsening situation.
We continue searching the area of approach until we realize there is no blood here. We must follow into the Devil’s Club and Skunk Cabbage, hoping he leaves some blood drops as he heads deeper to the woods. Bart turns to me and says, “In this mess, it will be a miracle to find anything.” I encourage him that we will surely find the bear, though inside I know our odds are very slim.
The bear had headed in a southeast vector when he left the beach. Following that direction into the jungle takes one into the more open areas of this forest, though in relative terms the “more open” area is still impenetrable. I am having a deja vous moment. This is exactly how it unfolded four years ago and three miles north of here, but at least then we had some blood to follow from the beginning. This was not just bad, this was terrible.
Bart and Tyler followed the direction the bear had headed. I climbed atop a big root ball that allowed me to stick my head above the canopy and see what it looked like in all directions. The thickest of thick was off to my left. Nasty blow down, root balls, skunk cabbage swamps, Devil’s Club, and some form of tagalder that kept tearing my audio cables off. Screw it, we were in recovery mode, not filming mode, so I tucked them in my pocket.
The bugs were overwhelming. The heat created by climbing and brush fighting in these waders had me sweating profusely. I caught up with Bart and Tyler and told them I was going to back track and crawl through the worst stuff I could find. It was a bleak hope, but at this point, we needed to cover as many possibilities as we could.
I headed straight north back to where I had stood on the root ball. I was able to tightrope walk across a series of blown down Sitka Spruce, allowing me to make better progress than I had expected. Until you ran out of trees and had to climb down into the briars, at which time it was easier to go on hands and knees.
We had now been at this for over an hour. Hope had become forlorn, but having been in Bart’s shoes, I was not going to give up until he did. I kept looking. Off in the distance, I could hear Bart and Tyler talk as they coordinated their sweeps through the continuous patch of debris. I kept moving forward, however slow going it was, climbing up on the moss-laden downfall whenever opportunity afforded.
I was now out of hearing distance of Bart and Tyler. I stopped to catch my breath, wipe some sweat off my face, and itch some seriously big skeeter welts. Holy crap, this was bad. Real bad. Until you have went through this kind of junk in SE AK, no amount of words or video can properly convey what it entails and how bleak the prospects. Those of you who have done it are nodding your heads at this time.
I do my best highwire act further down this huge downfallen tree and stop to assess my options. I look about ten feet away and in a small opening of the brush the mosaic of green hues in the moss is disrupted by a reddish brown color. I think it is just a dead batch of moss and think about continuing my path down this tree, rather than jump down and fight the junk.
Well, glad I followed the hunch. I shimmy off this mammoth tree, get on my hands and knees and crawl over to the opening where I saw a change in moss color. It looks like blood, but is dried and dark making it look as much like the color of dead moss. I lick my finger to see if it will take the reddish brown color off the moss. Yup. I now have remoistened and sticky blood where I rubbed my wet fingers across the moss.
Amazed, but still doubtful, I spit on this eight inch circle of color and rub my palm across it. A streak of blood leaves the moss and sticks to my hand. I set my rifle down and climb back on the log to whistle to Bart and Tyler. No response. I start to talk out loud at the risk of scaring a bear bedded nearby. Still no response. I now yell for them. They yell back. When they hear my calls of dried blood, they start swimming my direction. It takes them a while. Bart is a mere ten yards away and though he can hear me, he cannot see me. Finally, he dives through the barrier that forms the wall of this four foot opening I am occupying. Tyler is right on his heels.
We jumped in the boat and motored over the short distance to the beach where the bear was hit, getting there about 1:15 after the shot. It’s now close to 7 pm, which with the long days in AK is not a big worry. We secure the boat for the now reversing tide. We will have to push it off into deeper water so as not to be left high and dry when we return. I take care of that detail while Bart and Tyler review the footage to know exactly where the bear dove into the brush and what vector he took.
When I caught up to them, they were scouring the spot of the hit in hopes of some blood on rocks or grass. Nothing; no hair, no blood, and too rocky for any prints. Not a good start to the situation.
Bart is really beating himself up by this time. We follow the path the bear took when heading for cover. It is a natural path of least resistance. At least until you get about ten feet into the alders, at which time it looks like the rest of the mess that this place is known for. The grass is taller here and the bear would have to rub against some alders. We inspect with all we have, but find nothing that resembles blood or hair. A worsening situation.
We continue searching the area of approach until we realize there is no blood here. We must follow into the Devil’s Club and Skunk Cabbage, hoping he leaves some blood drops as he heads deeper to the woods. Bart turns to me and says, “In this mess, it will be a miracle to find anything.” I encourage him that we will surely find the bear, though inside I know our odds are very slim.
The bear had headed in a southeast vector when he left the beach. Following that direction into the jungle takes one into the more open areas of this forest, though in relative terms the “more open” area is still impenetrable. I am having a deja vous moment. This is exactly how it unfolded four years ago and three miles north of here, but at least then we had some blood to follow from the beginning. This was not just bad, this was terrible.
Bart and Tyler followed the direction the bear had headed. I climbed atop a big root ball that allowed me to stick my head above the canopy and see what it looked like in all directions. The thickest of thick was off to my left. Nasty blow down, root balls, skunk cabbage swamps, Devil’s Club, and some form of tagalder that kept tearing my audio cables off. Screw it, we were in recovery mode, not filming mode, so I tucked them in my pocket.
The bugs were overwhelming. The heat created by climbing and brush fighting in these waders had me sweating profusely. I caught up with Bart and Tyler and told them I was going to back track and crawl through the worst stuff I could find. It was a bleak hope, but at this point, we needed to cover as many possibilities as we could.
I headed straight north back to where I had stood on the root ball. I was able to tightrope walk across a series of blown down Sitka Spruce, allowing me to make better progress than I had expected. Until you ran out of trees and had to climb down into the briars, at which time it was easier to go on hands and knees.
We had now been at this for over an hour. Hope had become forlorn, but having been in Bart’s shoes, I was not going to give up until he did. I kept looking. Off in the distance, I could hear Bart and Tyler talk as they coordinated their sweeps through the continuous patch of debris. I kept moving forward, however slow going it was, climbing up on the moss-laden downfall whenever opportunity afforded.
I was now out of hearing distance of Bart and Tyler. I stopped to catch my breath, wipe some sweat off my face, and itch some seriously big skeeter welts. Holy crap, this was bad. Real bad. Until you have went through this kind of junk in SE AK, no amount of words or video can properly convey what it entails and how bleak the prospects. Those of you who have done it are nodding your heads at this time.
I do my best highwire act further down this huge downfallen tree and stop to assess my options. I look about ten feet away and in a small opening of the brush the mosaic of green hues in the moss is disrupted by a reddish brown color. I think it is just a dead batch of moss and think about continuing my path down this tree, rather than jump down and fight the junk.
Well, glad I followed the hunch. I shimmy off this mammoth tree, get on my hands and knees and crawl over to the opening where I saw a change in moss color. It looks like blood, but is dried and dark making it look as much like the color of dead moss. I lick my finger to see if it will take the reddish brown color off the moss. Yup. I now have remoistened and sticky blood where I rubbed my wet fingers across the moss.
Amazed, but still doubtful, I spit on this eight inch circle of color and rub my palm across it. A streak of blood leaves the moss and sticks to my hand. I set my rifle down and climb back on the log to whistle to Bart and Tyler. No response. I start to talk out loud at the risk of scaring a bear bedded nearby. Still no response. I now yell for them. They yell back. When they hear my calls of dried blood, they start swimming my direction. It takes them a while. Bart is a mere ten yards away and though he can hear me, he cannot see me. Finally, he dives through the barrier that forms the wall of this four foot opening I am occupying. Tyler is right on his heels.
Mica Man
Well-known member
Great story as always looking forward to the rest!
MontanaWild
New member
- Joined
- Jan 7, 2012
- Messages
- 299
Great as always Randy.
Muleyfanatic
Active member
Great story so far!
Can't wait for the next chapter!
Can't wait for the next chapter!
ashersdad
Well-known member
Fabulous story so far! Can't wait for the ending.
I point to the blood between my feet. Bart and Tyler express the same disbelief I had. Both of them do the same spit test on it and get the same result. Bart looks relieved to a degree that words don’t explain.
Now, where did he go from here? We can see no more blood. I stand there and tell the guys to circle out a few feet. Bart finds a drop of blood closer to the tree I had used as my gang plank to get here. And then another drop. The bear had went that direction.
We are now, all three, on our hands and knees, inspecting every bit of turf. Bart proclaims that it is a miracle that we have stumbled across this faint bit of blood when the bear was now a couple hundred yards north of the trail it seemed he was taking when he left the beach.
I assure him we will find the bear.
As we crawl under the big blow down log I had been walking across we emerge into a small pocket of broken Skunk Cabbage. Not only are the broken stems and leafs a sign of his trail, but he has rested here and another small pool of blood stains the big cabbage leaf. He has bent the leaves in the direction of his exit.
We now find other specks of blood. Nothing more than a thumbnail size, except in the few places it looks like he has laid down. He is dragging himself over the deadfalls in some places, displacing the moss that grows atop. In other spots, he crawls under, flattening the vegetation in the tightest spots.
As soon as we find more blood, I gain confidence we will get him. His trail entered a low spot choked with alders so thick we are only a few yards apart, but we cannot see each other.
The alders spring back from his weight, closing the tunnel entrance as soon as he passes through. The reddish bark makes it nearly impossible to see any blood. We are again on a cold trail. I go back a few yards to the last speck of blood while Bart circles left and Tyler goes right.
It takes a few minutes, but Bart finds a few specks of blood on some alder leaves. Big luck there. He had hung a hard left. Had we followed the path it looked he was taking, we would have lost it completely.
He is now heading straight east, up a slight rise where the alders thin slightly and are replaced by more deadfalls, moss, and skunk cabbage. We find a very fresh bed in a nest of skunk cabbage that is growing in a root ball. The blood is not dried and wet to the touch.
We stand to try peak above the brush and project his exit path. Bart claims he heard a groan up ahead. Tyler is to my right and confirms what Bart heard. I tell Bart to move further left and I will move over toward Tyler and then on ahead, hopefully looping up near him and pushing him closer to where Bart might get a shot. Any shot here is going to be point blank. But, the brush is so thick and pull at our rifles in a way that we had thought it best to keep an empty chamber until need be. We are just too close together in this brush and we did not need an accidental discharge resulting from the brush pulling a safety or trigger. For additional safety, we keep talking to each other, as the thick brush makes it impossible to see each other, though we are less than a dozen yards apart.
I move forward about twenty yards and now my heavily compromised hearing detects a groan about ten O’clock ahead; I suspect maybe fifty yards. Bart and Tyler confirm I heard a groan. I loop ahead a few more yards in a manner I think will get me to a smaller opening, putting Tyler a couple yards to my right, though still hardly visible.
Bart claims he heard another groan, but the noise of my coat and waders ripping through alders muffles any sounds. The alders are now a little taller, allowing me to get off my hands and knees and duck crawl to the edge of a very small opening created by a few blowdowns. I lower my head and push through to the edge of this little spot where the alders and Devil’s Club yield to a smaller root ball.
As I lift my head, a bear’s face emerges from the root ball. Close. Really close. What I explain in the next paragraph happened in a few seconds, but in recall seemed like minutes.
I am now face to face with a pissed off bear who is trying to get to his feet. I raise my rifle and point.
Click!
I don’t think I even had time for expletives that I normally have in great abundance during such emergencies.
I work the action as fast as I ever have, while the bear gives off a big growl that you have to hear at six feet in order to get the full adrenaline affect. Thankfully Bart’s fist shot has him so sick he is struggling to get to all four. Yet, he has gained his footing and stepping over the dead fall to face me. As I am bringing my rifle back to my shoulder Tyler yells, “Shoot that thing!”
I don’t aim. Time and proximity do not allow. I merely point and jerk the trigger.
Boom!
The bear takes the bullet at a few feet and roars again. I have no idea where I hit, but he is staggered heavily and fighting to get out over the root ball that forms a pen that includes me and him. He whirls and heads off, quartering away. By the time I have another round chambered he is five yards off and into the thick stuff. I fire again as he fights through the brush.
I hear some thrashing ahead a few more yards. Then it is quiet. I chamber another round, ready as can be. Bart is ten yards behind, not knowing what has happened. Tyler gets the camera turned on and comes to my position. We are both flush and wide eyed; in a manner only a huge adrenaline surge can instigate.
Bart reaches our position and I explain what happened. I point to the deadfall and root ball that formed the circle where the bear emerged. Bart is shaking his head, giving thanks that the bear took the brunt of the encounter. Tyler keeps rolling as I try to collect my nerves and explain to the camera what happened in that few seconds.
Bart sees the bear expired a few yards ahead and slightly up slope from this pit where he had decided to make his last stand. Unnerved, I doubt Bart's findings. He assures me it is dead.
We slowly move forward and in about ten yards we come to the big black mass of fur. We shake hands and admire the boar who has fought so mightily. Bart gives a prayer of thanks, as do I.
A few pics where we dragged him up out of the brush and hacked away a bit of brush for sake of taking field photos.
Getting the loads of bear to the beach is far more challenging than most any 200 yard pack of my hunting career. The three of us get it there in one load.
We spend all of our last day in the field trimming meat, cleaning a skull, and relishing the amazing experience of the last five days. Though I have a tag in my pocket, I am fulfilled. I have no desire to spend the final day searching for another bear. My goal was to show Bart the allure this place holds for me and try to convey some of that on film. We could not improve on what we had captured, so no need to push for more.
We laugh. We smile. We give thanks for all that is afforded us as citizens of this great country where folks of common means can enjoy uncommon experiences as was our hunt for the bears of SE Alaska. It is a memorable time with great people, in one of the finest settings on all of this continent.
Thanks, Bart. Thanks Tyler. If this episode conveys even half of what it represents in my mind, it will be at the top of our list of great ones.
As I fulfilled my offer to skin the skull from the hide I occasionally looked across the bay and thought about Uncle Elt. I can only imagine he is out there smiling, looking down on us, knowing that if ever there were some guys out there following his advice and doing some “living,” this last week, it was us.
Now, where did he go from here? We can see no more blood. I stand there and tell the guys to circle out a few feet. Bart finds a drop of blood closer to the tree I had used as my gang plank to get here. And then another drop. The bear had went that direction.
We are now, all three, on our hands and knees, inspecting every bit of turf. Bart proclaims that it is a miracle that we have stumbled across this faint bit of blood when the bear was now a couple hundred yards north of the trail it seemed he was taking when he left the beach.
I assure him we will find the bear.
As we crawl under the big blow down log I had been walking across we emerge into a small pocket of broken Skunk Cabbage. Not only are the broken stems and leafs a sign of his trail, but he has rested here and another small pool of blood stains the big cabbage leaf. He has bent the leaves in the direction of his exit.
We now find other specks of blood. Nothing more than a thumbnail size, except in the few places it looks like he has laid down. He is dragging himself over the deadfalls in some places, displacing the moss that grows atop. In other spots, he crawls under, flattening the vegetation in the tightest spots.
As soon as we find more blood, I gain confidence we will get him. His trail entered a low spot choked with alders so thick we are only a few yards apart, but we cannot see each other.
The alders spring back from his weight, closing the tunnel entrance as soon as he passes through. The reddish bark makes it nearly impossible to see any blood. We are again on a cold trail. I go back a few yards to the last speck of blood while Bart circles left and Tyler goes right.
It takes a few minutes, but Bart finds a few specks of blood on some alder leaves. Big luck there. He had hung a hard left. Had we followed the path it looked he was taking, we would have lost it completely.
He is now heading straight east, up a slight rise where the alders thin slightly and are replaced by more deadfalls, moss, and skunk cabbage. We find a very fresh bed in a nest of skunk cabbage that is growing in a root ball. The blood is not dried and wet to the touch.
We stand to try peak above the brush and project his exit path. Bart claims he heard a groan up ahead. Tyler is to my right and confirms what Bart heard. I tell Bart to move further left and I will move over toward Tyler and then on ahead, hopefully looping up near him and pushing him closer to where Bart might get a shot. Any shot here is going to be point blank. But, the brush is so thick and pull at our rifles in a way that we had thought it best to keep an empty chamber until need be. We are just too close together in this brush and we did not need an accidental discharge resulting from the brush pulling a safety or trigger. For additional safety, we keep talking to each other, as the thick brush makes it impossible to see each other, though we are less than a dozen yards apart.
I move forward about twenty yards and now my heavily compromised hearing detects a groan about ten O’clock ahead; I suspect maybe fifty yards. Bart and Tyler confirm I heard a groan. I loop ahead a few more yards in a manner I think will get me to a smaller opening, putting Tyler a couple yards to my right, though still hardly visible.
Bart claims he heard another groan, but the noise of my coat and waders ripping through alders muffles any sounds. The alders are now a little taller, allowing me to get off my hands and knees and duck crawl to the edge of a very small opening created by a few blowdowns. I lower my head and push through to the edge of this little spot where the alders and Devil’s Club yield to a smaller root ball.
As I lift my head, a bear’s face emerges from the root ball. Close. Really close. What I explain in the next paragraph happened in a few seconds, but in recall seemed like minutes.
I am now face to face with a pissed off bear who is trying to get to his feet. I raise my rifle and point.
Click!
I don’t think I even had time for expletives that I normally have in great abundance during such emergencies.
I work the action as fast as I ever have, while the bear gives off a big growl that you have to hear at six feet in order to get the full adrenaline affect. Thankfully Bart’s fist shot has him so sick he is struggling to get to all four. Yet, he has gained his footing and stepping over the dead fall to face me. As I am bringing my rifle back to my shoulder Tyler yells, “Shoot that thing!”
I don’t aim. Time and proximity do not allow. I merely point and jerk the trigger.
Boom!
The bear takes the bullet at a few feet and roars again. I have no idea where I hit, but he is staggered heavily and fighting to get out over the root ball that forms a pen that includes me and him. He whirls and heads off, quartering away. By the time I have another round chambered he is five yards off and into the thick stuff. I fire again as he fights through the brush.
I hear some thrashing ahead a few more yards. Then it is quiet. I chamber another round, ready as can be. Bart is ten yards behind, not knowing what has happened. Tyler gets the camera turned on and comes to my position. We are both flush and wide eyed; in a manner only a huge adrenaline surge can instigate.
Bart reaches our position and I explain what happened. I point to the deadfall and root ball that formed the circle where the bear emerged. Bart is shaking his head, giving thanks that the bear took the brunt of the encounter. Tyler keeps rolling as I try to collect my nerves and explain to the camera what happened in that few seconds.
Bart sees the bear expired a few yards ahead and slightly up slope from this pit where he had decided to make his last stand. Unnerved, I doubt Bart's findings. He assures me it is dead.
We slowly move forward and in about ten yards we come to the big black mass of fur. We shake hands and admire the boar who has fought so mightily. Bart gives a prayer of thanks, as do I.
A few pics where we dragged him up out of the brush and hacked away a bit of brush for sake of taking field photos.
Getting the loads of bear to the beach is far more challenging than most any 200 yard pack of my hunting career. The three of us get it there in one load.
We spend all of our last day in the field trimming meat, cleaning a skull, and relishing the amazing experience of the last five days. Though I have a tag in my pocket, I am fulfilled. I have no desire to spend the final day searching for another bear. My goal was to show Bart the allure this place holds for me and try to convey some of that on film. We could not improve on what we had captured, so no need to push for more.
We laugh. We smile. We give thanks for all that is afforded us as citizens of this great country where folks of common means can enjoy uncommon experiences as was our hunt for the bears of SE Alaska. It is a memorable time with great people, in one of the finest settings on all of this continent.
Thanks, Bart. Thanks Tyler. If this episode conveys even half of what it represents in my mind, it will be at the top of our list of great ones.
As I fulfilled my offer to skin the skull from the hide I occasionally looked across the bay and thought about Uncle Elt. I can only imagine he is out there smiling, looking down on us, knowing that if ever there were some guys out there following his advice and doing some “living,” this last week, it was us.
WapitiBob
Well-known member
Thanks for bringing us along on the trip. I always enjoy your hunts with Bart. Congrats guys.
