My First Bear

On May 30, 2008, I stepped off the narrow trail and gazed for miles. A glacier flowed between mountains, pointing to a lake feeding a winding river. I leaned the borrowed .30-06 rifle against my leg, and meticulously marked the spot on my GPS.

A slight thump snapped my head up. Eight yards away, a black bear had materialized on my trail ambling obliviously away. My heart choked my throat and suddenly I viewed him through the riflescope. I’d been advised to not shoot the first bear I saw because there’d be plenty. But, we had seen one bear when two buddies and I arrived by boat four hours earlier.
I lowered the rifle. Would I find a larger one?

Now fifteen yards distant, the lumbering animal and would soon be out of sight! The rifle came into position. I aimed below the head and pulled the trigger.

BOOM!

All chattering of internal questions ceased with the explosion. The bear rolled from sight. I remained frozen. I had just fulfilled a dream!

But what if he wasn’t dead? I felt silly with the unloaded gun in my hands. I quickly chambered another round, but terror already gripped me. I took a few tentative steps, far enough to see a furry black body blocking the trail. How long does one wait to check out an animal bowled over by a bullet?

Twenty minutes passed before I bolstered a wobbly form of courage.

I moved slowly to within a few yards of the beast, but could not force myself closer. I saw no trace of the wound. I waited for him to leap up, shake off the stunning blow, and shred me. The rifle felt way too long—surely he’d just bat it aside. I set it down and pulled out my hand-cannon, a .454 revolver.

I kicked the body and nearly fired when it jiggled.

Finally convinced of his demise, I reached down, but there was no way I could move what seemed to be a 300-pound beast. And I knew little of gutting big animals. I left to find my friends.

We spent the rest of the day gutting, skinning, butchering, and hauling. We tossed the bones in the woods.

I arrived home to discover I was required to not only pack out the meat and hide, but also the skull. I groaned. Without it, I would face a hefty fine (amount determined by a judge).

Six days passed before I scrounged up a ride across the bay. I hiked in alone and went directly to the site of the bones. Nothing remained. Another bear (as evidenced by ample bear scat in the area) had feasted on them.

I prayed and searched. After twenty minutes of tedious eye-straining, I found one leg bone. I called Martina and she and others prayed.

A solid hour of crawling and circling melted my determination. The brush and thorns and trees kept me from any semblance of a methodical search and I simply wandered. I prayed again and looked left. There sat the cranial treasure. I scrambled to it and clutched it as though it might vanish.

The next morning, as I was about to pack up and start the hike to the trailhead for my scheduled pickup, my cell phone rang. A gruff State Park official asked if I’d killed a bear. My answer precipitated the firing of a dozen questions. My gut-pile, he informed me, was left too close to a trail.

Would this adventure never end?

Later, I received a $225 citation. But, I happily learned, I could go to court and probably get the fine reduced to community service.

When I showed the hide and skull to Fish and Game for the mandatory documentation, the biologist measured the length and width of the skull, totaling it to nineteen inches.

“Anything,” he said, “over eighteen inches is classified as a large bear.”

I shot my first big game animal—in the butt! The bullet traveled through his body and out his shoulder. I shall try to tan the hide myself.