My intentions were to bear hunt. I use the word “intentions” because I was genuinely intent on hunting for a bear, but at times, the act of bear hunting can feel more like a slow methodical hike, or an exercise in patience sitting behind a spotting scope, with a dose of luck thrown in should a bear present itself. I was happy to be in the woods, and as I clicked on my headlamp and strode away from the truck in the gray pre-dawn hours on May 5th, 2018, I felt, like I always do, cautiously optimistic about the day ahead.
Bear hunting has always held a strong appeal to me, for reasons obvious and vague alike. The primary appeal comes from the wild and rugged places bears call home, as well as the apparent randomness of their existence, compared to that of the more predictable elk or deer. I have found them high on insanely steep and rocky slopes, grazing like cattle on new grass in the spring, walking the edges of river bottoms, and cruising logging roads a mile from busy campgrounds. From jet black to blonde to “that has to be a grizzly” brown, they are the epitome of a unique game animal in Montana. Male black bears routinely have home ranges in excess of 20 miles or more, yet their ability to recall prime food sources along those travels is uncanny; lush meadows and chutes are a prime place to find bears season after season. Being omnivorous, the bulk of their diet consists primarily of plants, and the rest made up of whatever animal protein they can kill, scavenge or dig up — running down a fawn, digging through a winter-killed elk, flipping logs for grubs, voles — you name it, they will likely eat it. Perhaps we are not that dissimilar in that regard; my pack carried jerky, a Snickers bar, trail mix and dried fruit. Bears and humans definitely have a voracious approach to food.
Another reason I enjoy bear hunting in Montana is it is a spot and stalk only proposition here; you have to rely on your senses and hike and glass relentlessly. I know many hunters who are consistently successful spending tons of time behind binos or a spotter, and I applaud them for their patience. I get antsy and tend to hike and cover ground far more than I sit and glass. I think it has to do with the newly greened up meadows and avalanche chutes, the longer days and ability to cover ground that was, up until recently, shin-deep in wet snow that keeps me on the move. I truly love to see what is around the next ridge, treeline or meadow and when there is a bear tag in your pocket, that desire is tenfold.
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The morning rolled on from a calm sunrise, evolving into a bluebird day. My routine became just that — hike to a high vantage point, break out the optics, glass every opening, grassy patch, black stump, rock or log, and repeat. Move to gain a different angle, repeat. While being perched up high in a mountain basin glassing piles of country is nice, after a few hours of it one becomes very ready for some action, or a nap in the sunshine. I opted for the latter.
Fast forward after grabbing some food, packing up and heading out after the midday snooze, I was dropping down into the timber to gain another vantage on the opposite ridge. The lodgepole stands were sparse, and visibility good as I picked my way through, finding fresh scat here and there, and spooking several mule deer from the brush.
And as it so often does, when it happened, it happened fast. Slowly walking and scanning the timber in front of me, I caught a shape out of my periphery, a large brown form a hundred yards away. Stopping in my tracks, the bear lowered his head slightly, trying to make out what was just moving a second ago. Easing the rifle up and finding him the scope, I scanned left and right, making sure I wasn’t being duped by the apparent size of the bear and the chance that it may be a sow with cubs nearby. The bear raised his head, sniffing, trying to work out the details of whatever scent he was picking up. The wind was in my favor. He didn’t bolt. He turned, and eased to his left. The moment his massive side opened up, I squeezed the trigger. The telltale whump of the hit, and watching him explode through the timber told me the shot was good. Just like that, I was closing the book on this hunt in one way, and opening it in another.
Approaching a bear is different than walking up on a deer or elk. You know damn well the business end of a bear is built to take down animals, rip apart logs and flip boulders. Those last few feet always give me a bit of an adrenaline boost as I slowly extend my arm and rifle, barely touching the end of the barrel to the bear’s eye…..no blink. He’s done.
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My watch reads just after noon; I have plenty of time, and the weather is perfect. But, a bit too perfect — a warm spring day is not my best ally when trying to break down a 300 pound bear covered in fat and one very effective fur coat. Tick-tock.
Being solo, wrestling the bear is real work. Where he lay was thankfully rather flat, so I was not fighting a steep hillside or a pile of windblown timber. The next few hours ticked by as I skinned him, laying the heavy hide out in the shade, trimming fat where I missed it. Once I had him quartered up and bagged, I loaded up a few quarters, cinched everything down and wrestled the heavy pack on and got to my feet. The first load was the heaviest, as I was toting my rifle, gear, optics and three quarters, backstraps and loins. The truck was about three-quarters of a mile away. Mostly downhill. It was a good day. One more trip in, and I had the last quarter and hide hitching a ride out in my pack.
Shrugging off the pack on the tailgate, I organized all of the meat into the coolers, kicked off my boots and hit the road. There is something so satisfying about that moment you are back to the truck, the pack is off your back, and one hell of an adventure is behind you. An adventure that you will never forget, and one you can’t wait to chase again.
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THE BACKCOUNTRY HUNTER 