Soon I found a path which led me over a deep gouge in a log. I realized, this was a bear path! I’d followed deer trails, but never had I walked a path used only by bears.
Roland Burrows turned his boat out to sea and said, “I’ll be back tonight at ten.” At mid-morning, I had a day of bear hunting before me. Up a rocky bank some twenty feet above high tide, fully aware of being alone, I watched him motor out of sight, then turned and studied my location. Southeast Alaska’s mountain-top islands look pretty much the same at shoreline and this cove must be remembered.
I looked into a fairyland. Like jackstraws, giant trees lay strewn on the ground and across each other. Sitka spruce, which can live up to 700 years and grow to a thickness of 14 feet, formed a dense canopy high overhead. Moss and knee-high ferns covered the forest floor, but no low branches or undergrowth blocked my view. The place seemed spacious and clean, yet cluttered by the ancient tree trunks.
I was alone because at the last moment a photographer friend had joined the two of us on a bear hunt we’d planned for a year. We only had two guides, so when my photo buddy surprised us by bringing his own rifle and buying a license, that left one of us to hunt alone. Since I was the most experienced, I drew a solo hunt this day. It was twenty years ago.
I stepped onto land untrod by humans. Everywhere green, it looked pristine. The ferns, like those imprinted in rock, and the wood were the organic stuff that made oil and gas. I felt as if I were in another age. Primeval. Straight-up, coarse-barked pillars held the vaulted ceiling of foliage and, it seemed, heavy clouds. In dim light I saw the forest as a medieval cathedral, but far more magnificent.
To mark my starting point, I used my knife to wedge the end of some orange tape into a tree. I walked around the tree and tied-off the ribbon. Then, after pinning a compass to my sweater for easy reference, I began walking inland.
If my boots made sounds, I couldn’t hear them. No wind, bird sound or squirrel chatter broke the silence.
Soon I found a path which led me over a deep gouge in a log. I realized, this was a bear path! Grizzlies had clawed halfway through the tree. They owned this island, perhaps since the thaw of the last ice age. The oceans filled, covering the valleys, and the bears retreated to the mountain tops, now islands in what is called the Archipelago of Alexander. I followed the path through ferns and over giant logs.
Gradually, my fascination with this strange setting was replaced by the sobering thought that a bear could be behind any of these trees and I wouldn’t be able to see it. In this graveyard of trees which would not rot because of the cold, I inched my way, aware of the blind spots.
Suspicions of grizzlies lurking just out of sight began to wear on me. The distance factor was unnerving. I wanted a bear, but not too close. Alone with the primordial animals in a land of pre-history, I decided to sit and let the bears do the moving. I rationalized my fear that by sitting, I wouldn’t lose track of my way in over the maze of trails.
On a slight elevation I sat against an especially large tree. My blind side protected, I looked out over a couple of hundred yards of forest, ferns and several notched logs. I’d followed deer trails, but never had I walked a path used only by bears. How long, I wondered, did it take for the lumbering giants to abrade several feet deep into the fallen trees. Where did the paths lead? I’d seen no grass. If the trees didn’t rot, were there worms and insects for the bears? What did they eat, and where?
A roar shattered my tranquil thoughts. Then another. Weird! Nothing lived in this forest that roared. Intently, I listened and heard it again — a brief, far-off roaring sound . . . the only sound I’d heard on the island. My fairyland was becoming surreal. Had I heard a mastodon echoing down through some sort of time-warp? I spent another hour listening to the silence . . . and wondering.
For a few minutes, sunshine penetrated the clouds and canopy. Shafts of light seemed to hang in the air, slashing the tree trunks and turning the forest floor into a velvety green carpet. It looked like a place for elves and butterflies.
The tranquility and beauty eased my fear. After eating an apple and sandwich, I decided to walk some more. The bears might be moving now that evening approached, and I’d sooner see one while walking than stumble upon one lying down. But why would they wait for dusk? The island was theirs, had been for an eon.
My bear trail intersected another, then another and my mind busied remembering my choices. That ended when I suddenly noticed movement far out, left, something dark.
Rigid, I watched. Fallen trees blocked my view, but it had to have been a bear. My path led away, so I cut through the ferns. The soft fronds barely rustled against my wool pants.
At the root-end of a fallen tree, I climbed the upheaved earth for a better look. Soon, the dark back of a bear showed, moving behind an 8-foot-thick log. I estimated a point of interception and hurried.
Up another tree stump, I saw the grizzly, its hump so big there was no mistaking. Later, I learned no black bears could survive on this island; the browns will kill any they see. I stood exposed, but still. Bears see poorly but, of course, they pick up motion. I’d not shoulder my rifle until he came closer. He never did, but she did, followed by two cubs. They passed forty yards away, not seeing me, not smelling me. I decided to follow, figuring she might lead me to a feeding area. It was 4 o’clock, plenty of hunting time left.
Following without being seen was easy. I had been feeling the air drift into my face, but now a slight cooling on the back of my neck concerned me. Bears have a superb sense of smell. Walking maybe a hundred yards ahead, they disappeared behind a rise. I edged over to the spot and saw a meadow filled with sedge grass. She had led me to their feeding place!
Another sow and cub showed up. The mother bears growled, rushed at each other, stood upright and pushed. It was mock battle — no biting or clawing. The cubs wandered around for several minutes while their mothers gave vent to their territorial imperatives. Then all fed.
The scene remained peaceful until a third large bear stood up thirty yards to my left and barked a loud “woof.” The sows and cubs heard the alarm, turned and stared. My alarm sounded, too; that bear was close! Now, out of sight, what was it doing? Had it seen me or just smelled me?
Steady, I told myself. Don’t panic the bears. But my thumb moved — safety off. Minutes passed. The sows and cubs resumed feeding. I slipped the safety to middle position and started backing toward another root-end pile of earth about fifty yards away.
Too many bears, too close! There, motionless, I watched and wondered where the newcomer had gone. So far, no threats from the animals. Still, my thumb never left the safety lever.
These grizzlies probably hadn’t seen a human or heard a gun. They knew no fear. I did. Though well-armed and experienced, I hadn’t expected fear. But I felt it. It heightened my excitement, but somehow it also steadied me. I waited at 200 percent alert, not long, then saw a large bear ambling head-down where I’d just walked. Was it trailing me? Was it curious, or malicious?
The chocolate-colored bear looked like the one that had barked the alarm. I kept both eyes open to be sure my crosshairs were right – he was so close! I held on his spine as he slogged toward me, big as a house. My off-hand hold was steady; this was no time for nervousness. At thirty yards the 250-grain bullet knocked him down. Immediately he stood up on his rear feet. My next shot put him down, backwards. I chambered another round in my 338 Winchester magnum, waited a minute or two, then eased over to tap his nose with my rifle. No response.
A large bear lay at my feet. His heart had stopped; mine still raced. Almost dizzy with excitement, I felt his long black claws and, being a dentist, I checked his teeth. The bite was right – over-sized teeth that came together as if machined.
My long dream was realized; I had my grizzly. Now, with rifle in reach, I would skin the nine-foot bear and learn it was not easy. How many hundred pounds he weighed I couldn’t say, but rolling him over was all I could do.
The fading light said I hadn’t time to skin the head and paws. I’d carry them and the hide, if I could. A fishing line from my emergency pack held the head against the rolled hide. My handkerchief beneath the line protected his nose. I had a load.
I’d follow my compass and work around the jackstraws to the cove where I came ashore, I hoped. It was now 9 o’clock; one hour until Roland returned. The load of bear in my arms blocked my view of the trail. Walking proved difficult.
It was probably a mossy rock; I slipped and fell with a bear in my lap. Sharp, stabbing pain shot up from my right leg. My foot moved okay, but trying to get up, stressing it, was unbearable. X-rays later would show the break just above the ankle – both bones. The sharp pain became a throbbing ache.
Leaning back on my elbows, I realized my greatest fear in years of hunting alone: a broken leg. Thousands of times I’d walked around, found safer ways, and stepped over – not on. Now, finally, the odds had caught up with me. And they got me on this remote, uninhabited island.
But I could crawl. I marked the bear hide with orange tape on a large fern, put my head and shoulder through the rifle sling – I’d not part with my protector and messenger – and started for the shore on hands and knees. Then I crawled sideways, dragging my leg. I tried hopping, using the rifle as support – no good. Often, I lay still, absorbing the pain and waiting for it to subside, and each time, I taped a fern. Pushing on for about an hour, I reached shore, but not where I’d landed. I marked the spot and started to my right, pretty sure the cove was that way.
The bank here was covered with rocks, so I moved inland a bit to ease my badly bruised knees. My pulse registered in my boot. I wondered whether to loosen it for circulation or keep it tight for splinting. Already late, hurrying wouldn’t help. I stopped and loosened my bootlaces, but the throbbing continued.
The drone of an outboard motor floated ashore. I scrambled to the bank and saw Roland’s boat headed in, a long way off. I knew he wouldn’t hear or see me, but he’d shut the motor off and then I’d shoot.
Roland’s big-bore revolver answered my three shots, and he came up the shore to me. I explained my leg, then he took my compass and went off to retrieve the bear hide, picking up my orange markers along the way.
When Roland re turned I asked, “I heard a loud roaring earlier in the day. What could it have been’?”
“Oh, probably some whales in the bay. You know how they blow that water high.” Then he brought over the boat and helped me in. My throbbing leg felt better up on the gunnel.
While crossing smooth water to our mother ship, my blood flowed with endorphins – the body’s homemade narcotic – easing the pain and enhancing appreciation. I’d had a day in fairyland. I’d heard the whales. I’d taken a big grizzly, one trailing me. And with that greater intensity that aloneness brings, I’d felt the wonder of the place, the apprehension, the excitement, the pain and self-reliance.
So I’d be on crutches a while – a small price for living such a day.
A collection of 24 stories describing Jake Jacobson’s personal experience hunting and guiding for all the species of bears in Alaska. Bear biology, hunting techniques, cabin depredations and avoidance thereof, and other aspects of bear pursuits are detailed. These are true stories except for the names of some of the hunting guests from Jake’s fifty years of living and hunting in Alaska. Buy Now
