From the 2014 Nov./Dec. issue of Sporting Classics.
Even though it happened more than 20 years ago, I’ve just now mustered the courage to tell the tale. My proffered excuse for being mum is that I didn’t want to be thought a liar, even though what follows is solid to the last letter. Besides, the great black skin hanging on the wall has finally goaded me into submission.
A fellow of loose acquaintance lived for running hounds, and it didn’t seem to matter what they were chasing. Summer nights were dedicated to ’coons, snow meant cats, and the gentler seasons were for bears. He didn’t give a damn about shooting whatever his dogs chased up a tree or crowded against a deadfall, but held firm that it would most certainly get shot. Pulling dogs, he believed, would lead to their ruin. He resolved to drag someone along who carried a license to collect the intended game. They would do the shooting and maybe pack something extra in their lunch sack in exchange. Volunteers were not in short supply, me being one of them.
“I’ve never pulled my dogs before yesterday and I’ve already decided I’ll never do it again.”
I knew it was the houndsman calling with my invite before his first word ’cause I could hear his hounds barking in the background.
“It’s me,” he said flatly. “There’s a good bear track just over the border and I want to run it tomorrow. If you drive all night you’ll get here in time. Meet me at the little store an hour before daylight so you can get your license.”
I beat him to the pot-holed excuse for a parking lot. We drove quickly to the spot where he’d discovered the track and put a strike dog on a carpeted board bolted to the truck’s hood. Not just for our viewing pleasure, but so the dog’s nose could find where a bear crossed if we missed it. The dog peed on the hood twice, then redeemed herself by striking scent in less than an hour.
The great track was just hours old so we released the dogs without ceremony. Two hours later they were chopping hard at a tree, near the top of which perched a bear of maybe 60 pounds. I was heartsick, knowing what was to come.
“I know you’ve been hoping for a big one, and I really want to catch the bear that made those tracks. Boo-Boo here just got in the way. Let’s leave him and try again tomorrow.”
Not believing what I’d heard, I immediately offered to stand a steak dinner that night.
The next morning was a repeat. Same hood ornament and finally the big track. Off went the dogs. When the tracking antenna pointed to where they’d stopped, some of the wind came out of my sail. It was a long way down and no roads were there to make it easier.
The scramble to the tree took a very long time, and I didn’t have to look up to know what the dogs had caught. The dejected look on the houndman’s face told it all.
“He’ll only go about a hundred pounds, but you gotta take this one. I’ve never pulled my dogs before yesterday and I’ve already decided I’ll never do it again.”
I understood and got ready to take the shot.
Back then I mostly hunted with a Freedom Arms pistol in .454 Casull. This particular pistol had received some extra attention at the factory, including a carefully tuned trigger that broke at the slightest caress. After finding a clear shooting lane through the branches, I sighted on the bear’s chest and was just beginning to touch the trigger when I heard “Stop!”
Moments later a hound puppy I’d never seen ran up to the tree and began telling the world that he was about to kill his first bear.
“That’s my friend’s pup,” the houndsman offered. “He isn’t supposed to be up here today, but now that he is, that means there’s a guy with him who wants a bear more than anything in the world. If you wouldn’t mind holding off, he can take this one.”
I didn’t mind and told him so by way of quaint expression. The other hunters showed up, down came the bear, and we climbed out of that hole together.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when the dogs told us they smelled something good. Pressed into the dust once again was the bear’s huge track. Hoping this third time would be charming, we collared the dogs and pointed them in the right direction. Eventually we heard them treeing far below.
As before, when I slid under the tree I didn’t have to look up to know. The grin spreading across the houndsman’s face was an easy read.
“My God, what a bear.”
Working my way to where I could see clearly through the pine boughs, I found myself stunned by the bear’s enormous size. He was perched on a big limb with his massive front legs wrapped around tree and with his head and neck, which seemed almost ridiculously small in proportion to his huge body, curled around the back side of the trunk.
We corded up the hounds, found a shooting lane and after taking plenty of time, I fired two shots. On the houndsman’s direction, a third came after the bear had crashed to the ground.
“That’s some bear,” he kept repeating. “My God, what a bear.”
We wrestled the monster out of a hole and stretched him along the top for pictures. My camera managed one, then died forever. It’s a lousy picture, with me backed up from the bear because of the hole, but it will have to do.
The bear tied the handgun world record and held that position for quite a few years. It’s since moved down a couple of notches, and I’m fine about that. My story isn’t likely to be beat.
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