We were hunting just west of the line that divides Alaska’s coastal brown bears from inland grizzlies on a broad river where both grizzlies and black bear lived along with a few red and dog salmon as well as delicious Dolly Varden trout. With me was my guide, Blake Barnett and Roland Ceehorn, who also served as cameraman for my then DSC’s Trailing the Hunter’s Moon television show.
Grizzly bear tracks were everywhere! No doubt, days before our arrival there must have been a grizzly convention along the drainage. But now, based on our last few days in camp, very few bears remained.
We were camped along a narrow creek that flowed between two steep mountains, an area we really wanted to hunt. But every day, the wind would blow directly into the canyon. We feared that if we walked in, we would send our scent to areas where there might still be a grizzly.
The week dragged by. We spent time glassing distant and near slopes, fishing or secreted in our tents when it poured rain, which it did quite often. It was beginning to look like my grizzly hunt was going to be a camping and fishing trip, although a fun one.
On the last afternoon of my hunt, we were watching a wide expanse of river bottom. Rain began falling, but we stayed where we were. More rain and wind. Then, with 30 minutes of the hunt remaining, the wind finally changed direction and it quit raining. Without saying a word, Roland and I jumped up and started running to the creek bottom we had been wanting to hunt, knowing the wind would finally be in our face rather than at our back. We had hardly walked 50 steps into the canyon when we spotted a bear on the opposite creek bank. Immediately, I set up my shooting sticks and readied my .375 Ruger loaded with Hornady’s 300-grain DGX Dangerous Game.
The bear walked toward us. At 30 paces, he stopped and stared in our direction, then swaggered ever closer. I was unsure if the grizzly was going to charge or turn and walk away. At 20 paces, he stopped and turned slightly, exposing his vitals. I pulled the trigger and the big bear dropped in his tracks! I bolted in a fresh round and kept my rifle on the downed bear. He was so close I could see he had quit breathing. After hearty congratulations, we quickly filmed “cutaways” to go with the live-action the that Roland had recorded.
I marveled at how big and handsome he was. A gorgeous bear! After several more photos, we had finished what we needed to complete the show.
“It’s gonna be dark before we finish skinning and I forgot my flashlight back in camp,” said Roland.
“If you want, go to camp to get it. By the time you get back, I will have the bear skinned,” I suggested to Roland, who gathered up his gear and started back to camp.
While Blake did some more filming, I begun skinning the bear. Just then, I heard what sounded like footsteps coming from upstream. Out of the willows strode another grizzly, every bit as big as the one I was skinning. I felt the breeze switch, now at our backs, blowing the scent of fresh blood and our scent toward the oncoming bear.
I fully expected the bear to turn and run. But he did not! He continued walking toward us, the swagger of a big mature bear, afraid of nothing.
“Put the camera down and grab my .375!” I instructed my cameraman.
“Do you want me to shoot him?” Blake asked, as he quickly picked up my rifle while I held gripped my six-inch long hunting knife.
“No! No! You can’t shoot him unless he attacks me! You don’t have a grizzly tag. If you do shoot him, we’ll both likely end up in jail or at the least, spend months doing paperwork to prove you had to shoot him!”
“What do you want me to do?” Blake responded in a quivering voice.
“If he comes, shoot right in front of him. Try to blow gravel in his face! Hopefully, that will stop or turn him,” I said.
With that, I looked down at the puny knife in my hand. Again, I exclaimed: “Shoot in front of him! If he comes!”
The bear did indeed keep coming, now only 25 steps away, and there was no sign of him stopping. At that point, I jumped up to look as big as possible and screamed at the top of my voice!
Immediately the bear charged! What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion. I heard the rifle blast and saw gravel explode right in front of the charging bear, throwing rock shards into his face.
The grizzly slid to a stop ten steps away. He glared at us, evil intent in his small pig-like eyes, his ears laid back in a menacing manner. He began “popping” his jaws and I truly felt at that moment he was going to complete his charge. Suddenly, he looked away, then immediately turned to again stare at us. He did this at least four or five times. Each time he looked at us, I feared he was going to charge.
Finally, after what had seemed like an eternity, the bear turned and walked away.
The bear gone, I turned to Blake to thank him for firing the bullet in front of the charging bear and stopping him. He was wide-eyed and shaking, staring at the rifle in his hand. I asked if he was okay . . . no response.
After my third query about his well-being, he screamed, “How can you be so calm? The only shell in the rifle was the one I bolted into the barrel. You’re (numerous expletives) crazy!”
“Well, you done good and it worked! Load another couple rounds into the magazine in case he comes back . . . something I thought you had done when I told you to grab my rifle. There are three more shells in the Hornady cheek pad. Once you’ve done that, come over here and hold this leg so I can finish skinning!”
A few minutes later, Roland ran onto the scene, questioning what had happened.
“We had a bear charge us and I told Blake to shoot in front of him to hopefully throw gravel in his face. The bear charged hard, but Blake did an admirable job of stopping him in his tracks. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the bear turned and walked away.”
Before Roland could say anything, I said: “Help me roll up the skin. I’m going to leave the skull and paws intact until we get back to camp. We can take care of the meat in the morning.”
Roland shook his head and laughed, “Just that simple, eh?”
“Yep!” I responded. “Let’s get back to camp and toast Alaska, its last-minute grizzly bears and Hornady ammo. I’ve got the better part of a bottle of safe water left in my stash!”
My wide-eyed cameraman followed without a comment, carrying his camera and tightly gripping my .375 Ruger!
Later that night around an open campfire, Blake asked, “How could you remain so calm when all that was happening?”
“There wasn’t much I could do but stay calm,” I said. “Had either you or I turned to run, that grizzly would have chewed on both of us. Had he completed his charge, the best I could have done with my knife was deliver several quick jabs and then hope you could shoot him. By then, I would have had a few scratches and bite-marks to show the Game Department that it had been a serious charge.”