Treacherous is the only word to describe what I was about to attempt. I stepped out onto the steep slope and began climbing toward the den. As I moved higher, the pitch increased ever more sharply until I was stomping in my footholds – ten, twenty times each – as though that extra effort could buy me some insurance. Below, black jagged rocks pierced the snow, and I knew if I slipped and went skidding, the result wouldn’t be pretty. But each time I wrestled with turning around, I would think of the huge Kodiak hiding less than eighty feet away and refocus my resolve. So close.
I reached a rock ledge where I broke off several crumbling pieces and lobbed them into the hole. Nothing. I sang So Lonesome I Could Cry and Kansas City and got silence in return. Desperation drove me. In fits and starts I climbed higher and higher until I was perched twenty feet directly above the den. The hole extended down into the snow at least eight or ten feet, so from my angle I couldn’t see or hear anything.
I said, “You better come out bear. It’s time.” As I stood there making the occasional inane statement, rational thought returned inch by agonizing inch. Looking down, it occurred to me that one slip and I’d fall right into the bear’s den. I imagined his mood to be surly. Then I had the uneasy thought that should he come boiling out and I had to fire my .375, the recoil might jar me loose and I’d either tumble into the den or slide past it to be gutted on the sharp rocks below.
Oh, the possibilities!
When I looked back to where Dave was hunkered down behind his rifle, I noticed that I was uncomfortably close to his line of fire should the bear come out. That’s when it finally dawned on me: This has got to be one of the more idiotic decisions I’ve ever made. Along with that came the realization the bear wasn’t going to be panicked into making a dumb move.
Slowly, and with great care, I started back down my trail, thankful to be in one piece. Thirty minutes later, as I slipped back onto our rocky perch, Dave shook his head and said, “Man, you went way beyond the call of duty up there . . . waayyyy beyond. I wanted to call out to you to come back.”
“Yeah, I finally realized that I was playing the idiot. That dang bear … he ain’t coming out of there until tonight.”
We discussed what to do next. At this point no plan seemed appealing. Faced with so much uncertainty, we decided to “siwash” (an old mountain man term for a makeshift camp without bedding, food and, usually, sleep) in the faint hope that the bear would make his move before dark.
We situated ourselves about fifty feet apart, so we each had a slightly different view of the den. At 11 p.m. 1 looked through my scope to see if there was enough shooting light. It was dark down in the valley, but I could still see my crosshairs against the snow. I figured we had about twenty more minutes of shooting light.
Shivering from the night’s cold, I had just dropped down to knock off some pushups when I heard the loud roar of Dave’s .338 Winchester.
“Criminy!” I jumped up, heard a second shot and saw the bear sliding down the snow with his head up. Dave fired again as the bear passed out of my line of sight behind some boulders between us. I heard a fourth shot and then the mountain went dark and silent.
Quickly I came around to Dave’s side of the outcrop. “I was doing pushups to get warm when I heard your rifle go off!”
“He came out fast. . . backing down,” said Dave, his voice piercing the dark. “I got off four shots. He looked pretty limp when he slid out of sight.”
This was an excerpt from the book Horned Moons & Savage Santas. Click Here to buy now or visit www.sportingclassicsstore.com for other great books!