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It’s strange the things you learn from the situations you put yourself in. For only a few years now, I have been a self-proclaimed hunter. My repertoire, however, is quite limited; grouse, deer and gophers.
For quite a while, I had been daydreaming about hunting a bear; it always looked like fun and I am fond of bearskin rugs. This winter, I decided that a spring bear hunt would be worked into my schedule, possibly spurred along by working in a hunting store and having too much time to daydream.
Over the winter, I had purchased a new bow and thought it would be a good tool for the job. I could picture it now: me in a tree stand at full draw, waiting for a big bear to turn just right... and thunk! This is what I wanted. So I asked my co-workers with known experience with bears. I got the basic information—set up a tree stand and bait near a swampy area with trees, chain the bait barrel to the tree, cut holes in it just too small for a paw to fit in it. This seemed reasonable and I was looking forward to the set up, which I planned to do near my father’s house.
As time went by, school and work continually got in the way, as they tend to do. Finally, after three weeks into hunting season, I still had no bait out. I took two days off and these were, as far as I was concerned, for hunting. I bought my wildlife certificate, my bear licence and tags, but if I wanted to afford the gas to get there and back, I couldn’t buy the bow licence. I wasn’t quite competent enough with a bow anyway, following an angry wounded bear into the woods because of a poor arrow shot is certainly on my list of nightmares. I guess this hunt was my old Marlin 30-30’s chance to shine.
Unfortunately, my father’s schedule did not match mine; instead, I went to a friend’s house. Troy is his name and we have been friends for years. When it comes to wildlife, his land always seems to have it.
I arrived at Troy’s on Monday, the first of my days off and we began the day by going for a quad ride to find bait. I was told beaver makes excellent bait and that they cause problems in the area. The plan was to go shoot a beaver. So there we were, me with my 30-30 and him with a more task-appropriate .22 magnum staring at a sizeable beaver dam and lodge. The whole time all I could do was question the morality, and a little the legality, of shooting an animal simply to use as bait for another animal. On the other hand, I was told they are a pest.
After some time sitting quietly and with no action, a plan was made. “I’ll pull apart the dam, he’ll come out, and we’ll get a shot at him. Hold my gun,” said Troy, and he was off to the middle of the dam, pulling logs and tossing them aside. My moral question got a little bigger, we are now wrecking the beaver’s hard work to lure him out and all I could picture was two hooligans pulling siding off my house to lure me out to be shot. Luckily for me, my moral qualms weren’t answered that day, as it was still spring and that beaver dam was frozen solid after the first few inches. That plan was scrapped and my dreams of shooting a bear seemed to shrink a bit more.
We went back to the house to formulate a new plan and have a bite to eat. After a few delays, such as dinner and my distraction by Troy’s newest additions to the gun safe, I figured our best bet for bait that we had on hand were cans of tuna; plenty of fishy smelling juice, what’s not to like?
It was now dark outside but being determined, I made my “guide” take me to where his tree stand was already set. Looking around the area, I thought it was perfect, a nice slope along a cutline with some brush piles and a swamp, what more could a bear want? I was told the tree stand was on the other side of the small swamp about 50 to 70 yards away from where we had nailed two tuna cans to fence posts, and the third to a tree. All I had to do now was come back in the morning and carefully cross the supposedly small and shallow swamp to the nearby tree stand and wait.
After lying sleepless and uncomfortable for a few hours on a leather couch slightly too small for me, the morning finally came. I fired up my truck and drove off alone toward the hunting spot. I left my tuck just outside the entrance to the cutline only a few hundred yards up hill from the “bait”.
Upon my arrival, a few things came to my attention; 1. It had rained that night so that nice fish smell likely didn’t go far, 2. The swamp was much larger and deeper looking than I had been led to believe and there was no easy way around it, and 3. I have never been accused of being a good judge of distance but that 70-yards-away tree stand was closer to 200, much farther than I can push that 30-30. My doubts increased but I was already there so I decided to make myself comfortable—kind of—on a small brush pile between the “bait” and the swamp. I had a good view of the make shift bait but to see the swamp, I had to look over my shoulder, several logs and willow trees.
I sat for a few hours, questioning most of my life’s choices, most notably my poor planning skills in regards to hunting. I occasionally checked the clouds moving in; it was chilly, overcast, and rain looked imminent. There I sat on a miserable day staring at a tuna can nailed to a post for hours on end, slowly losing faith in myself as a hunter. Suddenly, over my left shoulder I heard a splash. A quick look confirmed it was a bear coming right towards me and my bait. It’s beautiful, graceful, majestic, walking towards me… WALKING TOWARDS ME! My heart it pounding, it’s a bear, 20 yards away and ground level, eye-to-eye. It doesn’t see me but I’m sure it smells me, or at least my fear. I can taste my fear, that unmistakable metallic taste that screams, “YOU’RE ALIVE! RUN! FIGHT! DO SOMETHING FAST!”
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| The bear didn’t go very far before collapsing. |
The only thing protecting me from a mangled death on a brush pile is some logs and my old Marlin. I take aim behind the shoulder like I know I should, it’s him or me, BANG! My old gun never sounded so loud, the bear yelps, curls, rolls and runs into the bush with a crash, bang and crack, that sound that only breaking trees can make I can barely hear it over my pounding heart. I immediately run the action on my gun; for all I know, the bear is injured, mad and knows where I am.
I wait five minutes motionless... listening. I hear nothing but my heart, a good sign I hope. I dig through my pack, hands shaking, looking for my phone... no signal. I slowly get up and walk along the cutline to my truck, all the while watching the woods for movement and doing the best to stop my heart from coming out of my chest. I reach the truck, still no service on my phone. I wanted someone else if I was going into the woods after that thing.
I jumped up on the toolbox of my truck, finally, some service. I call Troy three times but get no answer. I decide to send him a text: “Shot a bear. Get here quick. Bring a gun.”
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| Tyson Sommerville's first bear. |
I load another bullet into the tube magazine of my gun and start walking back. I’m no more than a dozen steps in when I hear the soothing sound of a diesel engine—this hunt just got slightly safer.
We begin again and Troy immediately spots a trail of water and blood, as I had shot the bear in a shallow swamp. Fifty yards in, we find the bear, dead. It’s a male and he sure looks smaller now that he isn’t walking towards me. I am not comforted by the fact that based on his final run, had he wanted to, he could have easily made it to me before expiring from his wounds, which I might add were perfectly placed through his chest.
I understand now why people hunt dangerous game. I have never felt as alive as when I looked down those iron sights, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears, taking a deep breath to steady and squeezing that trigger, hoping my shot is true because at this point, it is all that can save me. But I think for the sake of my mother and my girlfriend, in the future, I’ll use a tree stand. ■
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