Watching as my good friend and hunting partner Jim Berry sauntered from the trailhead, I couldn’t help thinking to myself, “what am I getting into?” Fully loaded with 80-plus pounds of bear meat and gear, he resembled the walking dead. I was surprised when the first thing he asked was, “have you been glassing the hillside?” I hadn’t of course; because the mosquitoes were so thick I had to seek refuge in my truck. Grabbing my Leopold spotting scope, I quickly glassed up five bear in the fading August evening before heading into my camping destination.
Our chosen area was rugged, seemingly untouched by humans because of the difficulty to reach the remote ridgeline in the distance. Having been one of many alpine areas we had scouted throughout the summer, I knew we made the right choice; tomorrow was going to be a good day.
Fueling up on oatmeal and folgers singles, I rolled out of my tent. The hike in to our hillside was a nasty one, despite being only 2.5 miles as the crow flies, it seems like a walk in the park on a topographical map, until you took into account the 2,100 feet of elevation gain. Side-hilling through avalanche shoots and alpine blueberry fields and, of course, the all too present alder thicket so thick you fear you’ll never get free are the norm. Needless to say, one wrong step anywhere up there and you are in for a long roll down.
Bushbeating my way up the ridge to the peak, I was making good time, arriving to the alpine blueberry fields, at around 10:30 a.m., I worked my way toward the summit. Having glassed up two bear on my way through an avalanche shoot, I had high hopes, despite the fact that Jim had tagged not one but two bears in consecutive days with his rifle.
Once on top of the ridge I failed to glass up the bear I had seen on the approach. The west facing edge of the ridge allowed for a chance to glass berry fields for a quarter mile in either direction. The backside of the hill was another story; it was a sheer drop, where the only trails were made by the local mountain goats, and despite being August, the alpine bowls still held plenty of snow.
Being midday I figure the bear were holed up for a quick nap, so I decided to take lunch on a rock outcropping that stuck out from the hillside like a diving board. Halfway through an outstanding alpine lunch of tuna and crackers, my attention was quickly grabbed by a beautiful cinnamon color bear as it emerged 120 yards downhill from my position.
Quickly rolling off the backside of my perch, I put my pack on, preparing for the stalk. The stalk would not be a long one, but with little cover in the shin-high blueberry field and the insane angle of the hill, it promised to prove interesting.
Using the few bushes I had for cover, I slowly began a butt-sliding maneuver downhill toward the bear. At 40 yards, I nocked an arrow, while the bear gorged itself on the prevalent berries, oblivious to my approach from above. As I eased in closer, bringing the bear level with me on the hillside, I prepared for the shot opportunity to come.
Stalking a predator like a bear is an amazing experience; whether it’s your first hunt of the season or in my case the ninth opportunity, your heart races to its maximum. The first thing you realize about a predator is their general lack of worry, as they know that they are biggest, meanest animal in the land.
As the bear entered a car-sized patch of brush, I moved ever closer, and as it emerged I was presented with a quartering away, 22-yard shot.
Coming to draw, I anchored in, relying on the hours and hours of practice to take over. On the release I knew something was horribly wrong, as I watched through my sight housing as the arrow cartwheeled, sailing harmlessly over the bears back by an inch! Startled, it ran downhill, pausing to look back at what had made the strange noise. Nocking another arrow, I determined the bear to be at 30 yards and, as if on autopilot I drew back, releasing a perfect shot.
My PSE X-force propelled the arrow at 302 feet per second, covering the distance in a heartbeat and connecting with the bear, as it let out a deep roar. The bear wheeled around, traveling only 20 yards before expiring, but unfortunately gravity kicked in and sent it rolling downhill another 200 yards, where it came to rest on a small rock bench on the cliff face.
The feeling of approaching an animal you have worked so hard for, in my eyes, has no equal. Sitting on the rock bench, the cinnamon colored bear next to me, I looked out over the crystal clear lake a mile below, and was hit with a feeling of pride that only comes with the realization of a true self-accomplishment.
The pack out was everything I thought I would be, as Jim had warned me to watch for approaching bear as I cleaned my harvest. This rang true as I put the final game bag of meat into my internal frame pack and was surprised by rocks falling from the cliff face above me, signaling me to the approach of another bear to the kill site. Quickly assessing my situation, I shouldered my pack, diving straight down the treacherous shale slope for the “safety” of the alders below, as more rocks rained down on the kill site from above.
The descent was the equivalent of walking down a ladder facing forward, heels digging in every step. Despite adding some distance to the trek, and the 75-plus pounds of bear meat, the descent went off without a hitch and several hours later I was jamming down the miles of dirt road leading from the trailhead, my first high alpine bear safely on its way to the freeze and with a memory that will last a lifetime!
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