For the past ten hours, rain drops the size of moose droppings had pelted our small bush tent. The narrow brook initially ten yards from our tent flap was now creeping ever closer. Another eighteen inches and my cameraman/field producer Blake Barnett and I would have to move our tents farther up slope. Welcome to Alaska.
The two of us had alternately napped, read paperbacks and solved and created world problems, all punctuated with a wee bit of complaining about the rain and the dismal affairs of two men confined in a tent!
Finally cabin fever got the best of me. “I’m going outside. I may get drenched to the skin, but it will be worth it!” Blake rolled over on his cot, mumbled something and then got really quiet once again.
I raised the tent flap and peered out. I could see fifty yards at best, beyond which was a wall of rain and fog. We probably would not be heading to our lookout this afternoon unless conditions changed drastically.
What to do? It had been raining for nearly two days. Yesterday we had sat in the rain glassing a bushy hillside for a grand total of an hour. Falling rain drops were the only thing we saw moving! Looking around our small two tent camp, I spotted my spinning rig, made certain I had a barbless hook lure tied on, and headed for the swollen stream only a very short distance away. Colors of red and green flashed in the gin clear water. Salmon were headed upstream.
On my fifth cast I hooked into a dog salmon. Although he had been swimming against current for quite a few miles he was tenacious with no desire or tendency to tire. Fast running water added to the fight which lasted about ten minutes. When he got close enough I grabbed his tail, hoisted him high, admired him, then slid the hook out of his mouth before releasing him to his destiny.
Rain fell hard. I continued to fish. Thank goodness we were camped next to a stream filled with red and dog salmon, plus a few delicious Dolly Varden. Yesterday I had caught all three species, released the salmon and kept two nearly eighteen-inch Dollys. Those two I cleaned and we pan fried for supper. Absolutely delicious!
A few casts later I hooked into my largest red of the trip, now in the seventh of nine days. Miraculously the rain slowed when I hooked the green-headed, brilliant crimson-bodied male. He fought with gusto. I looked toward our tent and saw Blake emerging. I had an audience. Roland Ceehorne, our guide, crawled out of his tent to watch as I fought and then finally landed the 38-inch beauty. After quick photos I released the fish.
“Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes,” Roland said. “Let’s go to where we saw the sow and cub a few days ago. We’ll set up there and glass the river bottom and the hills.”
Fishing gear stowed I grabbed my Ruger Guide Rifle in .375 Ruger, a hand full of Hornady 300-grain DGX ammo and my shooting sticks. Everything else was in my pack, including an extra set of rain gear. Moments later Blake emerged, camera in hand. Our goal for the trip was not only to take a grizzly or brown bear – we were right on the line that officially separates the two – but also to video the adventure for an episode of our “DSC’s Trailing the Hunter’s Moon.”
“Wind is still wrong for the creek,” Roland thought aloud. “I want to hunt just west of camp. Got a feeling there are some bears there, but the wind has been wrong every day. Don’t want to blow our scent up the creek.”
I felt the same – hopefully the wind direction would change before our hunt was over.
Just before dark it started raining once again. As we crawled into our respective sleeping bags I began singing “Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain” followed by “Rain drops keep falling on my head.”
“Will you be quiet!” came a voice from across the tent! Laughter erupted from the other tent only a short distance away.
It was still raining when we awoke. Last day of our hunt. Wind was still wrong to approach the one creek bottom we hoped to hunt before we left.
Morning slid to mid-day then fell farther to afternoon. “Let’s go set up again where we were last night,” said my guide. Blake and I nodded.
We headed to our log which provided some protection from the wind and rain and began our vigil. Time was quickly slipping away. Less than an hour remained in our hunt.
“Did you feel that? Wind just changed!” I said out loud.
“Grab your gear let’s go,” urged Roland. “With the wind in our face we can walk into the creek bottom.”
We took off at a fast trot. There might not be much time remaining, but at least now I felt like I indeed might get a shot at a big bear.
We had barely made it into the narrow bottom when I heard rocks grinding. “Gotta be a bear!” I whispered loudly. Words had scarcely escaped my lips than I spotted a big bear about twenty-five yards away, moving back and forth on a gravel bar. Immediately I set up shooting sticks. Behind me I heard Roland say, “Shooter!”
I watched the bear move back and forth, then turn toward us. There was no fear in his eyes! He started walking toward us. Behind me I heard Blake say, “Got him!”
I moved the Ruger’s safety to fire, locked crosshairs on a shoulder and squeezed the shot. The bear went down immediately and did not move a single muscle. Even so I immediately bolted in a fresh round and watched for any movement. There was none.
We moved to the old boar’s side. He was truly handsome! Hearty congratulations, a prayer of thanks, tag attached, followed by many photos.
I knelt to start skinning my bear. I noticed Roland feeling in his pockets, then looking through his pack. “I must have left my flashlight in camp,” he said. “We’ll need it shortly when it gets dark. And it will be dark before we finish skinning.”
“If you want to, walk back to camp to get a light,” I replied. “I’ll have the skinning job done by the time you return.” I assured Roland I knew how to skin bears and considered it part of being a true hunter.
“I’ll be back before it’s truly dark!” said he, walking away briskly.
Roland had been gone about ten minutes when I heard gravel being crunched once again. I looked in the direction of the sound. It was a big bear walking our way with a waddling swagger. The wind had again switched and was blowing our scent and the scent of bear blood toward the incoming bear.
“Blake you might want to grab my rifle,” I cautioned. “Got a feeling that bear is headed our way!”
“If he does come, should I shoot him?” queried Blake.
“No! You can’t shoot him unless he bites me. We don’t have a second license. If he comes and you do shoot him, we’ll be in trouble and be spending months upon months trying to explain. You can shoot him only if he’s chewing on me.” I glanced down at the 4-inch blade I held, my only weapon.
I looked up from my skinning job ten seconds later. The bear was still coming toward us, now about 30 yards away.
“I can’t shoot him?” queried Blake, when the bear showed no signs of stopping.
“No! Shoot him only if he’s chewing on me!” I responded.
“What should I do if he comes closer and closer?” asked Blake.
“If he comes, shoot right in front of him. Try to blow gravel all over his front. Hopefully that will stop him!’
The bear strode closer, at which point I stood up and shouted at the top of my voice. When I did, the bear charged full out. “He’s coming!” I yelled.
I braced myself for what I assumed would feel like being hit by a runaway freight train. The bear was coming, coming fast.
I heard Blake’s shot and watched in amazement as the charging bear came to an abrupt stop about twenty feet away. There he stood moving his head back and forth, ears laid back tightly against his neck.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” I shouted to Blake. “Don’t move either!”
The bear intently watched us. He looked behind him, and, quickly back at us. I really felt the bear was going to complete the charge! The bear kept watching us. The stand-off seemed like an hour, though it was likely only fifteen to twenty seconds. I don’t remember breathing.
Finally, with one look aside and then quickly back at us, the bear took a step back, turned and walked away…
When he did, I turned to look at Blake, whose eyes were huge and his skin pale. “Might want to check to see if there’s a round in the chamber,” I said. “Think I might have only loaded two!”
For a moment I thought Blake was going to use the rifle as a club….on me!