Old Scar Hip actually climbed the ladder to my stand. I sat inches away from his nose, contorted so that drawing the bow was impossible. That ladder was behind me. How this boar had collected his grisly name was uncertain. Perhaps an errant arrow while still in his youth. Perhaps some rumbling altercation with another of his species. Regardless, he was known as Scar Hip. I could see his insignia from my precarious perch.
This was my first hunt for bears.
Maine. The first of what eventually became many. I had been enamored of these creatures since childhood and hunting them was apparently some primal urge that failed to slacken its established allurement as the years grew. Just one bear, one hunt I surmised would be adequate. And there I was bear hunting—a bear close, perhaps too close, the opportunity I had hoped for. But Old Scar Hip boke protocol. He launched an investigation.
Kinton took this bear in 2019 on a Vermont hound hunt. He used his Ruger No. 1 in 9.3X62 with handloads casting 250-grain Barnes bullets. He says he is now retired from bear hunting.
The drama happened so suddenly that it allowed little time to access its gravity. Initial notification of the bear’s presence was a deep sniffing I had grown up knowing well, but my acquaintance with such sniffing was that of a docile milk cow at the feed trough on a poor-dirt farm. That was never unnerving. But this, this hollow and somewhat ominous sniff was another matter. I tried to wriggle into shooting position. Failure reigned.
And then Scar Hip apparently lost interest and eased back down, the situation becoming less portentous. He walked around the tree I occupied and began a swaggering waddle away and quartering to the left. I stood, this accomplished gingerly. The bow was up; the shot presented. And with more trembling than I recognized, I managed to unseat the aluminum shaft from its rest. The result was a metallic clank, a clank that surely could be heard all the way to Bangor. Curiosity satiated, Scar Hip evidenced his agility. A black blur entered nearby tangles, and this bear was out of my life forever. I know not whether relief or remorse ruled my emotions. Both were abundant.
Years later, quite a few in fact—after Montana and New Mexico and British Columbia and New Brunswick—I found myself in Alberta, a particularly fine locale for black bears. Even the odd grizzly was spotted from time to time there. Whether more or fewer sightings are registered now than back then I can’t verify. Regardless, this place showed great promise from the beginning. The only disparagement I found were those hordes of spring misquotes and the unwise choice of travel to our jumping-off place.
For reasons lacking any form of logic or scrutiny, I booked three of us to Edmonton; we overnighted. A shuttle could be arranged from there we were told. And it was. However, this shuttle business consumed almost a full day, a day of arduous driving and riding and, toward the end, navigating ragged roads. That test of endurance took us across rivers: Athabasca, Peace, Hay. It wended not far from Lesser Slave Lake, passed through High Level. The Northwest Territories a stone’s throw. As I later learned, High Level had a viable airport I had somehow failed to notice. Somewhere north or west from there during our bumpy passage, we passed the last power pole. But I have already noted that this was a particularly fine locale for black bears. All was well at camp.
And that camp was exceptional. Wall tents scattered about with intent and purpose; wood stoves puffing lazy streams of silent smoke to counteract spring chill; spacious cooking/dining quarters complete with a butane range that gave up soups and stews and fresh-baked breads; a chest freezer powered by the infrequent hum of generator; a shower with hot water from a propane heater, the flow accomplished by battery-powered pump; a prodigious supply of firewood that was constantly replenished. Even two outhouses stationed properly away, one dedicated to the kind lady who worked her cooking magic. She had her own tent as well. A purely grand setup if ever there were one. And it was in the wild.
That meadow housing the camp was decorated with wildflowers in spring bloom and encircled by aspens with their new green. A hide rack, essential for any successful bear camp, lay off to one side. Even during those few hours when it was in its hazy, phantasmic stage, daylight was near constant, coming early and staying late. Wolves howled from the timber.
Six of us filled the hunter roles.
Three South Carolinians, three Mississippians. There was also the outfitter, three guides, the cook and one camp handyman who saw to it that wood was stacked, tents were swept and stoves of each domicile were comfortably stoked at bedtime. He, as it turned out, became a favorable contributor to our fireside consortium, a pipe pulled from his pocket each evening after settling around the flames, this instrument giving off a homey, sweet aroma that I recalled from time spent with my granddad.
Bears over bait are typically hunted from afternoon stations. That day, the first hunt day, found us gathering gear, discussing where we would go and eventually crawling into three pickups, the driver/guide and two hunters in each, and then embarking to various sites set miles apart. So far were these sites that some required significant travel before getting to wooden platforms overlooking small clearings and bear-hunting locations. All pickups hauled a three-wheeler. This was before the days of side-by-side units. Ensconced in respective stands, six hunters sat back to see what would happen that evening, the two hunters on extreme ends of the line perhaps more than 30 miles separated.
Midnight threatened before we all gathered back at camp, hot potato soup welcoming on the stove, a contented fire in the pit. We sat in a ring, that grayish tint of sky seeming to vacillate in its decision between daylight and dark. We could feel the fatigue of a long day yet could walk about camp minus a flashlight. Talk, for the most part, was jovial. All had seen bears—that is all but me. One South Carolina archer had brought a bear in, lashed to the rear rack of a three-wheeler. I eased off and hung a handsome recurve from the ridge pole of my tent. We sat a while longer, the handyman’s pipe offering its peaceful aroma. Bedtime was coming.
The bait-station regimen of bear hunting is rather demanding, with daily doings generally required. Add to the basics a need for multiple stands scattered for miles and most in deep woods that have to be accessed by foot, and things can get complex. Such was the proposition of this Alberta outfit. That going in and checking/replenishing bait intrigued one of my Mississippi three, H. L.—a lifelong hunter, an ardent observer, strong, ready to help, a perfect companion. He elected, after asking permission, to go with one of the guides on that second-day trek, and they came back with an interesting tale.
Guide and H. L. had not even made it to the stand site when a bear stepped from concealment and into a cluttered trail, that trail immediately morphing into a stage now hosting a dramatic performance, curtains opened and lights flooding, the stage holding in full view and astonishment a hunter, a guide and a bear, all standing upright and contemplating the conundrum. Lagniappe I suppose. A mature bear for certain, but scant seconds to render a decision otherwise. The bear swayed, front legs looking strangely similar to the arms of a human. H. L. had never hunted bears, and this was a two-bear-limit area. The ought-six, in a commanding soliloquy, spoke its lines with authority when crosshairs touched that chest blaze. This bear, like that one the evening before, came to camp on a three-wheeler. And a handsome bear it was.
Three-wheelers, the primary off-road machine in the days of this hunt, worked well for transport of hunters and retrieval of bears.
That afternoon—or the afternoon following, I don’t recall—another archer had a similar experience as I that day of Old Scar Hip. A bear climbed. But unlike my whirlwind of anxious euphoria, this hunter’s stand had the ladder situated in front, this affording him a full visual of what was happening three feet off his bootlaces. He poked a menacing toe at the bear’s nose. Two steps downward, and the bear then had his hind paws on terra firma, the front still on the ladder. This hunter leaned forward, drew his bow and calmly placed an efficacious arrow beneath the bear’s chin. That bruin simply toppled backward and lay still, 10 feet, maybe 12, from the archer who sent that arrow. Another good bear. And another hunt on which I saw nothing.
I mentioned earlier in this writing that I hung my recurve from the tent ridgepole, and that proclamation accurately suggests that I was hunting with a bow. My beginning as a bowhunter was with a recurve, but at some point I had strayed, my indiscretions getting the better of me. Wheels and cables were in my hands for a short period, that period during which Old Scar Hip intruded, but something was missing while employing those elements, the je ne sais quoi gone. On this Alberta adventure I had thought better of the situation and had again embraced my first love. It was with a custom recurve I would take my bear. The bow or nothing I concluded, but such thinking can become troublesome, can prove to one that it is at times difficult to hold tightly to our promises, to maintain the ties that bind.
Harold’s second bear was the biggest collected during this hunt. Harold used a 444 Marlin with handloads to take his bears.
Time was diminishing when I finally unstrung the recurve and abandoned previous leanings. Harold, one of my Mississippi comrades had, the afternoon prior to my choice changing, come in with what would be the biggest bear taken. A hefty boar that was collected quite handily with a lever rig chambered to the 444 Marlin. I had even boosted Harold’s and his rifle’s authority by handloading some stiff fodder designed for this purpose, 265-grain Hornadys if I recall.
On said afternoon, Harold had been treated to several minutes of an intriguingly audible demonstration of grumbling and growling and teeth snapping from bears locked in a serious disagreement somewhere back in the tangles. The din abated, this boar came triumphantly into the clearing, swashbuckling along a log, muscles rippling and coat shining in late-day sunshine. Things settled immediately when the rifle popped.
And now, there I was. The last day at hand. Nary a bear sighted. One last chance facing me. I collected my own rifle, not so much because I determined a rifle would change my fortune when it came to seeing bears, but because it would realistically add a measure of range in the event a bear, miraculously at this stage it seemed, did present. The one I had was a Marlin lever in 45-70. This, when loaded, would contain a generous reserve of Garrett Cartridges’ 420-grain Hammerheads. Ruark admonished hunters to use enough gun. Perhaps I overdid it, but certainly I had enough gun. Paul and I left for a last stand.
At the risk of misunderstanding or chastisement or alarm or confrontation from some readers, I admit that I consider bears, in a subliminal and inexplicable fashion, spiritual, as are all created beings. Don’t hear me to say they are god-like, contenders for my worship. Never. They are creatures of creation; they are not the Creator. Still, they, to me anyway, are peculiarly spiritual. I hold bison in like sentiment. Yet, there I was hunting bears, facing dire disappointment should I fail to collect. Such emotional and mental grievances are personal. Decisions belong to the decision maker alone. I had, with struggle, decided.
Paul drove down a developed road, turned onto one much less gentle and then entered a narrow ribbon that could hardly be considered a road at all. The stand was a mile or so from where he finally pulled the truck over and unloaded the three-wheeler. We would go no more than half the remaining distance on the wheeler, that last half on foot. We did so without talking.
At the stand Paul whispered last-minute instructions: I, first of all, was not to fall out; I was to shoot well; I was not to come down from that stand until he returned. And then he was off, moving silently back toward the truck. When there, he would go see to other chores of the bear-hunting and hunter-caregiving regimen and would be back to fetch me after dark, approximately 10:00 p.m. Immediately, all was quiet save thousands of buzzing and biting mosquitoes. This quiet, however lasted only a brief spell. Without warning, I was being scrutinized by a bear.
How, I wondered, could this be? Five days with nothing. And now, five minutes, a bit more perhaps, and I had a bear standing broadside, 15 yards out. The perfect bow shot. Honestly, I gave the bear judging little thought. This was a bear—mature and accessible and available. None threatening. Not climbing up to greet me. Just standing there, head swishing left to right. I took the shot. There was a sudden dash of 20 yards and a crash, right over there in a downed treetop. And then silence again. I levered the rifle.
Before long Paul showed. Coming at a trot. He had not even made it back to the wheeler when he heard the rifle. He reasoned I had fallen and shot myself and concluded he might be facing a different kind of retrieval, somewhat unlike that of getting a bear out, but like that to a degree. “What happened?” his only salutation.
I allowed that I had taken a bear and it was tucked conveniently in a nearby brush top. He questioned my actions, figured I had lost my faculties. I assured him that was not the case. “Well, let’s go see if we can find the bear,” Paul said yet unconvinced. I persisted; he instructed me to climb down. It was only minutes after that the action took on a different complexion, grew in its intensity, gained momentum that neither he nor I anticipated. Another bear rushed in. Bouncing and woofing and looking sideways at us. We stood, petrified to a degree. “That bear could be trouble,” Paul’s observation.
And he was. This one was insistent that we vacate the premises, simply go away and do this quickly. We had not even tugged on the bear I had down. This new one, this one with an unpleasant attitude, turned away, seeming to leave as unexpectedly as he had arrived. “Could be trouble,” Paul said again. “Just remain still.” I obliged. But things failed to materialize as we hoped. I reminded Paul that I didn’t really want to shoot another bear.
I certainly was not at that time, nor am I now for that matter, schooled enough in bear manners to formulate a prognostication. The bear was holding tight about 40 yards and we were behaving, even if not leaving as the bear was surely recommending. And whether or not what the bear did next portrayed true danger or was just some testosterone-induced exercise that prompted him to flaunt his manhood, I shall never know. But he woofed a couple times more and displayed those front-paw bounces, looked with malice through tight and tiny eyes. He then put his head low and exploded in our direction from the tangle. “Shoot! Shoot!” Paul’s words were filled with command. I shot.
Kinton’s “problem bear” was collected on the last day of the hunt. He used a Marlin lever in 45-70, Garrett Cartridge 420-grain Hammerhead. It was enough gun.
A few minutes of heavy breathing followed; we said very little if anything. Over there, to the right 20 yards, lay the problem bear; over there, to the left 10 yards, lay the other. We admired and gave thanks and were quiet as the day darkened. Paul and I made two trips back to the truck that afternoon.
Later that night after I had crawled into bed, I recalled our leaving camp for the hunt to come, the hunt we had just a few hours earlier completed. As I opened the truck door before leaving pre-hunt, I looked down and saw a penny, heads up. Smiling, I retrieved it and played the game. Not one to put significant faith in good-luck charms, I was skeptical. Yet, I silently expressed hopeful sentiment for this penny’s efficacy. I thought about that penny but held no conviction that it played any part in my success. Rather, I concluded and yet maintain the posture that God simply gave me gifts from His grand creation—those bears. Gifts I had waited long to receive. The best kind in my thinking. ν
