Bear hunting. I like it. I think I would especially liked it in Mississippi nearly 150 years ago before the railroad companies penetrated the virgin deciduous hardwood forests, as described by Faulkner, that rivaled the Amazonian rain forest. Early Delta settler, Bobo, reputedly shot more than 300 bears during a single season back in those days, and his dogs went on to become the most legendary lion dogs in Africa. I've got the manuscript about a gentleman, as written by his grand nieces, whose father never kept count of the deer and bears killed near Tutwiler, but knew for fact he'd killed 19 panthers over the years. Holt Collier, of Teddy Roosevelt bear-guide fame, was an expert bear hunter that ironically made an above-average living selling bear meat to the rail road to feed their labor. Bear was more profitable than venison because bears weigh more than deer.
I'll tell you a bear story many haven't heard. My dad, who never really had much, called me as I was nearing college graduation, and offered to throw in on a hunt if there was one to be had. I booked a Saskatchewan bear hunt. Had always wanted to hunt one and it's a comparably cheap big game hunt.
I traveled way, way up into northwestern Saskatchewan, deep into the boreal forest.
There was a primitive cabin about 15 x 15 or so built by squatter-hunters on Crown Land and, because it's illegal, later rented to the outfitter. The outhouse and shower, which had to be refilled from the lake and heated with sunlight, were located to the rear of the building. Getting there was an adventure for a first-time traveler: pavement ceded to gravel then dirt; forged a river, water coming over hood of truck, and when the road narrowed to a trail we mounted 4 wheelers and continued for another hour or so. Wilderness: wolves howling, loons yodeling, ruffed grouse drumming, and a lake slap full of pike. I was in Heaven.
Besides the 2 guides, there were 2 other men in camp. One was a quiet but friendly reader. The other was singularly the most obnoxious, pompous been-there-more, done-that-better type person I'd ever met. You know the type. While the one read, the other talked to the cabin walls because by day two the minute he opened his mouth everyone disappeared.
We bear hunted from about 5 pm until dark, which was nearly 10 pm as I recall. I spent the days pulling on oars steering a small boat into the wind until I'd gotten to the other side and, with the wind pushing me over the grass beds where I casted to lurking pike and brained with a bat when landed. I had spinner bait with a gold willow-leaf blade as big as your hand. I'd had it since I was a kid and it had never caught a fish. The bass back home were scared to death of it. It rode just under the surface and through a wake you could surf on. Ended up using all the spinners I had replacing swivels and hooks on that spinner. The pike loved it like no other but on day 4 the then skirtless, paintless bait was rendered useless when the last fish of the week demolished it. We ate smoked pike the remainder of the week, but somewhere on the bottom of that lake lays a gold spinner blade as big as your hand.
I was scared to death I'd shoot a small bear. The outfitter told me not to shoot a bear that was acting skittish like deer. Said look for one that came in like he owned the place; that all the subordinate bears would approach carefully, fearfully, to avoid running afoul of the dominate bear. One day the head guide asked if I minded a longer than normal ride. Said the others had complained about long ATV rides. Said there was a helluva bear hitting the bait but it was nearly 2 hours away.
The blind consisted of a platform built into a Christmas tree looking conifer overlooking a muskeg. It was about 7 feet off the ground on one side, and too high for falling out on the other. I sat in a folding chair and read a book, a barrel of donut grease and grain down the hill about 60 yards away. A lot of lesser bears came in throughout the afternoon. They'd sit across the way, literally sit like a dog or sometimes with their rear feet poking forward like a toddler, and watch for a long time before scampering down to the barrel and availing themselves of its rancid contents. Like a kid snooping in Dad's sock drawer, they were skittish and would startle at any sound, scared to death they'd get caught.
I'd lift my facemask, take a bite of giant Snickers candy bar, place the candy back on the floor and just let the chocolate melt in my mouth. Repeat. Some big hunter, I remember thinking while watching bears through the afternoon. Come clear across the country to shoot a bear and now I'm having doubts. Didn't seem right. Didn't feel right. Like watching bears at the zoo. The one time my poor dad pitches in on something like and here I am having moral misgivings about hunting. Never had experienced feelings like that before.
The following is the truth and nothing but so help me God.
The little bear suddenly bolted from the barrel like he'd been shot from cannon. I didn't understand. The wind was good. I'd not made a sound nor so much as blinked. I looked in the opposite direction and there he was. Looked like John Wayne swaggering into a saloon. Not a care in the world that he alone ruled. Big Bear coming right this way. I placed my hand on my rifle and sat petrified. He's walking under the blind. It's taking him forever he's so long. Shoot him when he comes out other side and starts down the hill. Moments seemed like eternities. Where's he at?
I heard scratching. Then a sniffing sound, like a lab rooting cracker crumbs out of the sofa. Looking to my right I saw 5-inch bear claws on the deck, a coca-cola can-sized nose, flared nostrils, sniffing that damned candy bar. Ears 16 inches apart between the tips. Teeth.
The instant passed as quickly as a light beam slicing pitch darkness. I jumped and yelled all manner of real and contrived obscenities; the chair flew down the hill. The bear woofed and exited stage left. Not fast like a circus bear. With claws raking deeply into the soil he ran as fast as a house cat in a thunderstorm. He'd made it 15 yards before bird hunting instincts overrode reality. He piled up 20 yards away at the clap of thunder. An hour later he hadn't moved so I finally walked over and took a look. When the guide pulled up at dark his exclamations said it all: good bear.
It wouldn't fit on the ATV, we dead headed back for help, and for a trailer, and we finally made it back to camp about 2 that morning. They broke out a pop bottle full of clear liquid that tasted vaguely of peach-infused rocket fuel to celebrate. Good guides that they were, they also kept the campfire burning - I'd passed smooth out watching the northern lights and looking for the star formation Ursa Major. We ate bear steaks the next night and I've had worse.
I guess I'd carpet my house in bear hides if the wife would allow. But she lets me get away with plenty so I don't push it much.
Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com
I'll tell you a bear story many haven't heard. My dad, who never really had much, called me as I was nearing college graduation, and offered to throw in on a hunt if there was one to be had. I booked a Saskatchewan bear hunt. Had always wanted to hunt one and it's a comparably cheap big game hunt.
I traveled way, way up into northwestern Saskatchewan, deep into the boreal forest.
There was a primitive cabin about 15 x 15 or so built by squatter-hunters on Crown Land and, because it's illegal, later rented to the outfitter. The outhouse and shower, which had to be refilled from the lake and heated with sunlight, were located to the rear of the building. Getting there was an adventure for a first-time traveler: pavement ceded to gravel then dirt; forged a river, water coming over hood of truck, and when the road narrowed to a trail we mounted 4 wheelers and continued for another hour or so. Wilderness: wolves howling, loons yodeling, ruffed grouse drumming, and a lake slap full of pike. I was in Heaven.
Besides the 2 guides, there were 2 other men in camp. One was a quiet but friendly reader. The other was singularly the most obnoxious, pompous been-there-more, done-that-better type person I'd ever met. You know the type. While the one read, the other talked to the cabin walls because by day two the minute he opened his mouth everyone disappeared.
We bear hunted from about 5 pm until dark, which was nearly 10 pm as I recall. I spent the days pulling on oars steering a small boat into the wind until I'd gotten to the other side and, with the wind pushing me over the grass beds where I casted to lurking pike and brained with a bat when landed. I had spinner bait with a gold willow-leaf blade as big as your hand. I'd had it since I was a kid and it had never caught a fish. The bass back home were scared to death of it. It rode just under the surface and through a wake you could surf on. Ended up using all the spinners I had replacing swivels and hooks on that spinner. The pike loved it like no other but on day 4 the then skirtless, paintless bait was rendered useless when the last fish of the week demolished it. We ate smoked pike the remainder of the week, but somewhere on the bottom of that lake lays a gold spinner blade as big as your hand.
I was scared to death I'd shoot a small bear. The outfitter told me not to shoot a bear that was acting skittish like deer. Said look for one that came in like he owned the place; that all the subordinate bears would approach carefully, fearfully, to avoid running afoul of the dominate bear. One day the head guide asked if I minded a longer than normal ride. Said the others had complained about long ATV rides. Said there was a helluva bear hitting the bait but it was nearly 2 hours away.
The blind consisted of a platform built into a Christmas tree looking conifer overlooking a muskeg. It was about 7 feet off the ground on one side, and too high for falling out on the other. I sat in a folding chair and read a book, a barrel of donut grease and grain down the hill about 60 yards away. A lot of lesser bears came in throughout the afternoon. They'd sit across the way, literally sit like a dog or sometimes with their rear feet poking forward like a toddler, and watch for a long time before scampering down to the barrel and availing themselves of its rancid contents. Like a kid snooping in Dad's sock drawer, they were skittish and would startle at any sound, scared to death they'd get caught.
I'd lift my facemask, take a bite of giant Snickers candy bar, place the candy back on the floor and just let the chocolate melt in my mouth. Repeat. Some big hunter, I remember thinking while watching bears through the afternoon. Come clear across the country to shoot a bear and now I'm having doubts. Didn't seem right. Didn't feel right. Like watching bears at the zoo. The one time my poor dad pitches in on something like and here I am having moral misgivings about hunting. Never had experienced feelings like that before.
The following is the truth and nothing but so help me God.
The little bear suddenly bolted from the barrel like he'd been shot from cannon. I didn't understand. The wind was good. I'd not made a sound nor so much as blinked. I looked in the opposite direction and there he was. Looked like John Wayne swaggering into a saloon. Not a care in the world that he alone ruled. Big Bear coming right this way. I placed my hand on my rifle and sat petrified. He's walking under the blind. It's taking him forever he's so long. Shoot him when he comes out other side and starts down the hill. Moments seemed like eternities. Where's he at?
I heard scratching. Then a sniffing sound, like a lab rooting cracker crumbs out of the sofa. Looking to my right I saw 5-inch bear claws on the deck, a coca-cola can-sized nose, flared nostrils, sniffing that damned candy bar. Ears 16 inches apart between the tips. Teeth.
It wouldn't fit on the ATV, we dead headed back for help, and for a trailer, and we finally made it back to camp about 2 that morning. They broke out a pop bottle full of clear liquid that tasted vaguely of peach-infused rocket fuel to celebrate. Good guides that they were, they also kept the campfire burning - I'd passed smooth out watching the northern lights and looking for the star formation Ursa Major. We ate bear steaks the next night and I've had worse.
I guess I'd carpet my house in bear hides if the wife would allow. But she lets me get away with plenty so I don't push it much.
Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com
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