Editor’s Note: “Miss Prissy’s Bear” originally ran July 9, 2013.
Prissy Roach is a 16-year-old who lives with her family in Palmer, Alaska. She doesn’t own a cell phone, the family has a computer only for educational purposes, and their house does not have cable TV. As is apparent in her writing, the lack of technology and a wealth of information through firsthand experiences, books, and human interaction has done nothing but enhance her control of the English language. Younger generations, take note.
It was noon. My family of six was enjoying the gorgeous second day of our little pleasure trip to Prince William Sound, Alaska. Really, we had come just to have fun and celebrate my dad’s birthday; our object was not necessarily to hunt, but since we were there, we would certainly keep our eyes peeled. Being the oldest child, I was to have first shot at any accessible bear we encountered.
Honestly, though, I had so far been pretty doubtful about my chances of actually taking anything home. Out on the ocean, when you can’t shoot from the boat, everything must fall perfectly into place; there are so many variables. What direction is the wind blowing? How far away is the bear? Is it worth trekking up the steep, tangled mountainside after this thing if it’s just going to disappear into the brush at any moment? And besides all that, can we even land our boat anywhere nearby? Needless to say, optimism had rather escaped me. But back to the story.
We’d decided to motor into Dad-Says-I-Can’t-Disclose-The-Name Lagoon and glass a little before going back out to pull our shrimp pots. At the moment I must have been preoccupied — I really can’t remember what I was doing as we entered the area — but at any rate, I was clueless of my surroundings when a general, though very quiet (is there such a thing?) uproar ensued. Lots of whispers. My brother, Remington, stood up, pointing frantically. I became aware of the word “bear” being repeated over and over by various members of the family.
Then I saw it on the opposite shore, eating grass on a small section of green. It looked monstrously black — there is something so stark about a black bear against the tall evergreens and bleached driftwood on the beach.
Gage, my eight-year-old brother, looked at me with his sweet little smile, and said, “I just have a feeling this is your bear, Prissy.”
My heart rate bumped up a bit as the anxiety to get on the beach welled inside me. We experienced some confusion, however, as to the direction of the wind, putting landing off for a couple of minutes as we discussed our best option. Finally, we opted for an opening devoid of large, sharp rocks about 235 yards down the beach to the right of the bear.
I unclipped the fastenings of my life vest as quietly as I could while Dad trimmed the motor (a noisy, whining thing I’m here to tell you!) as I prepared to jump out onto the shore and catch the boat. The Remington Model 700 .270 that I was going to use was behind the seat I was sharing with my sister. I pulled the rifle from its case, along with the shooting sticks and some extra bullets, handing it all to Mom so I could climb out of the boat.
Dad and I began the stalk. There was a jagged rock outcropping between us and the bear, obscuring our view, but as we slowly came around, I was relieved to see the bruin still there, unaware of our presence. We continued forward a little, hoping to get closer for a shot.
Prissy with her black bear.
But then the bear did what wild animals tend to do without rhyme or reason — it disappeared into the woods. We were incredibly disappointed. There seemed to be no reason for the bear to reemerge, as it had come to the end of the grassy spot on the beach. From there, no more food was available. Great. Yet another gorgeous bear eludes death.
We stood where we were for a while longer because, well, you just never know. My eyes were fixed on the place where we had last seen him. I was praying desperately that he would come back out, and would you know, somebody must have been listening because that’s exactly what he did.
Dad saw him first. He whispered for me to quickly get down on my knees. The bear was closer and I’ll admit, I felt something like ultra-healthy respect at the sight of that big, black ball of fur lumbering along. I rested the Remington’s barrel in the V of the shooting sticks Dad had set up before me. For a minute, I had some trouble getting a clear view through the scope. I experienced a little bit of panic, thinking he would once again escape the wrath of my lethal weapon. Finally, thankfully, as my visual became unobstructed, I put the crosshairs on his shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
The bear whirled and ran back up the hill as the ringing in my ears began to intensify. Though I had not been able to see it in the aftermath of the shot, Dad said the bear had jerked his arm up near his body. I had definitely hit it. Thank God! We both considered it a miracle that the bear had returned to the beach so soon after its departure.
So we had accomplished the first step — getting a shot. But successfully finding the bear was another obstacle in itself. Who knew how long it would run, how bad it was hit, or how long it would take to die? I know several people who have stalked and made good shots on black bears in Prince William Sound, but never found them. In short, I would be very blessed indeed to have a bear hide in the dry bag when we got back to Whittier Harbor later that evening.
Well, Dad and I headed back to the boat and what was sure to be a group anxious for the verdict. We told them what we knew to be true: that I had certainly hit the bear, hopefully through both lungs … if the shot was steady. Other than that, the rest would remain to be seen.
Giving the bear time to die, we left the lagoon and pulled our shrimp pots, which, for having rested in 400 feet of water during the past 23 hours, gave us a disappointing yield. Oh well. An hour had elapsed, so we went back to the beach to begin our search.
Dad and I hopped ashore, this time with Remington in tow. Mom, Gage, and my sister, Autumn, stayed to watch the boat. Upon entering the woods, we found no blood. Conveniently, there were still patches of snow here and there that enabled us to see his tracks. After hiking only about 30 yards up the steep, mossy hillside, we paused for a moment and surveyed our surroundings for any sign of black fur when Dad suddenly spotted the bear. And might I say he was way too close for comfort?
“Prissy, there he is!” I turned in the direction Dad was pointing. I was shocked to see the bear only ten yards away, staring right at us. Apparently, he had been lying down. Being mortally wounded he had not fled far and our presence had spooked us both! (Here I must note that as we searched for the bear, Dad carried a .45-70 rifle with open sights, and Remington carried a .41 pistol.) Dad thrust the rifle into my arms and half yelled, “Shoot the thing now!”
I brought the stock to my shoulder before I had time to think the shot through, knowing that if I didn’t finish the bear right then and there, he could be on top of us in three seconds flat. In the same instant the rifle touched my shoulder, I sighted down the barrel, both eyes open the way you shoot a shotgun, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil nearly knocked me off my feet and down the mountain.
It was the first time I’d ever shot the .45-70. Everything had happened so fast and in the confusion I simply shot from instinct. I recalled the quick series of events as I felt myself starting to fall, the whole while thinking, Whoa, that thing kicks. As I teetered backwards, about to tumble down the mountain, Dad was able to react in time before the gun and I disappeared down the incline.
He grabbed my arm with one hand and then rifle with the other, saving us both from some pretty nasty scrapes and bruises. Meanwhile, the bear was loping away from us fairly slow. I would learn later that I had hit him through the lungs again, a mere two inches from my first bullet. But despite bleeding profusely, he continued on.
As soon as I regained my footing, Dad had the gun and was popping off another shot at the retreating bear. Understand, it’s rainforest in Prince William Sound — lush, green, and beautiful, but also very thick, knotted, and gnarled. Needless to say, visibility is a problem. Dad had no clear shot; he was just aiming in the general directions of a black, moving object.
We didn’t know whether Dad’s shots had hit true, but the bear kept up his pace, disappearing from view altogether. At the time, I didn’t even know I had hit it. I figured surely we had only driven it deeper into the forest, never to be found.
All three of us were jittery as adrenaline surged through our systems. Actually, I was terrified. Being in such close quarters with a wounded black bear, known to have a more vicious and aggressive attack than even grizzlies, will do the job satisfactorily. So we stood there for a few moments, breathing heavy, formulating a plan with what coherent thoughts we could muster.
“All right guys, you stay right here for now. I’m going to the top of that little ridge to see if I can spot him from there,” Dad said. “If he comes back and goes after you, you have the pistol. If he comes back and doesn’t come after you, let him go, the girls have a gun down at the boat.”
Wonderful, I thought.
From left: Silvia, Autumn, Remington, Prissy and Gage Roach (Photo by: Josh Roach, aka “Dad”)
Dad went trekking up the hill, and I eyed my brother, wondering if I should take the gun from him. Could I trust him with our lives should the need to protect them arise? Was he a good enough shot? Then I considered myself trying to kill a fast-approaching bear with a handgun and concluded that I’d let him have the job.
We waited, Remington and I, anxious and antsy, imagining every shadow and distant stump to be the bear. I tracked Dad’s progress through the trees, hopeful. Maybe the bear was hurt badly enough, or perhaps he’d already expired and we just couldn’t see him.
My heart nearly stopped when Dad raised the rifle and shot. Working the lever, he fired again, pivoting with the bear as it moved beyond the ridge. For a moment, all was quiet — eerily quiet. Remington and I held our breath. Nothing stirred around us.
Finally, Dad beckoned us up the hill. We hurriedly scrambled over rotted and fallen logs, traversed slippery patches of ice, and pushed our way through brambles and branches that seemed to be jutting out from everywhere. When we reached the snow slide where Dad was standing, he pointed to a big, beautiful bear laying still under a fallen tree.
I couldn’t believe that after all the excitement, my bear was finally there, completely lifeless and waiting for the dry bag. We all just stood there looking, each of us smiling a little stupidly, I imagine.
The other half of the family was still waiting with the boat so we quite literally slipped back down the wet, squishy hillside. As you can imagine, they were dying to know what had transpired, why they had heard four more shots, and the status of the bear. Dad, Remington, and I told the story rapidly, the three of us talking over each other and adding details as they were recalled.
We had our arms full of cameras, knives, and other assorted hunting essentials, just about ready to go back for the bear, when a beat-up and archaic-looking Zodiac pulled up next to us, piloted by an Alaskan State Trooper. I had never seen the Troopers, or even Fish and Game for that matter, patrolling in the Sound, so it was an interesting coincidence that they should happen upon us right after we had harvested a bear. My hunting license and tag were duly checked out, I got a picture, and they were off again to ensure all was above-board in Prince William Sound.
And that was that! We had a crazy adventure of a day, and I felt extraordinarily blessed to have taken such a nice bear (it squared six feet, seven inches) at only 16 years of age. Everything had played out perfectly. That is, except for the little shoot-and-run episode in the woods. But hey, what exactly is ever tame or boring in the Last Frontier?