TSY recently shared an awesome adventure. When it hit the Facebook bunch it received a lot of attention, some of which was very favorable, and some that came in the form of an ugly attack.
I’ve heard a phrase come up many times in and around the surfing community. “Only a surfer knows the feeling.” This phrase is a bit abstract. It is a bit inviting and sends several messages.
After reading Leigh’s bear hunting article, I see the phrase in a new way. For most of surfing’s life, it was frowned upon. Surfing was thought to be a waste of time and simply not productive. Only a surfer knows, was sent to the folks judging and berating. It was a message that said, “Hey, you ever surfed?” It asked “Could you, even if you tried?” It said, “If you made the commitment that I made to do this thing, your perspective would not be what it is.”
When I spent more time with it, it echoes other sentiments found in the Indian’s Prayer. Do not judge your neighbor until you have walked a mile in their moccasins. It is says judge not, lest ye be judged.
These simple ways of respecting one another have a common thread that seems to be lost in our cyber space. I’m certain the cyber bullying would diminish if it were not cyber. In a one-on-one session, cowardice would silence this hate. With no accountability, some folks simply can’t behave or don’t understand how to control themselves.
We don’t all agree on everything and that’s good. The world is a lovely melting pot of ideas and pursuits. That’s beautiful, until ugly hate is allowed to creep in. This is the stuff that perpetuates ill will, and we can control it. If you can’t say anything nice, zip it.
It’s very simple. If you are not able to apply some empathy, learn.
Only a surfer knows the feeling is not exclusive to surfing. Only a Yogi… Only a Vegan…. Only a Woman… Only a Hunter… Only a whatever…don’t be ugly to one another. One more interesting point, and please fact check this, if you look at the hate-filled childish comments, they seem to come from a crowd that touts inclusion when it’s trendy. Interesting to see who says what. Enjoy what you do, and let’s all just be little sweeties. If you can’t find sweet, then just zip it up.
This is part three of our bear hunt in Alaska. If you missed part two you can get caught up in a hurry here.Also, a heads up for our readers: This post contains photos of field care, so there is blood. It’s part of life and certainly part of hunting, but we felt it was worth letting you know before you scroll down.
When I pulled the trigger, I lost sight of the bear in my scope.
“Dead bear,” came the immediate assessment from Edgar. He’d watched the boar crumple to the ground.
But seconds later, the bear got to his feet and was rushing to the tree line. I had chambered another round, but Edgar was faster, and followed up with another shot. He walked toward the trees and motioned for me to stay back. Minutes later I heard another shot, and then Edgar waved me forward.
“It’s a big bear.”
When we walked up on the bear, I was in awe. This was a huge black bear, much bigger than I expected. I felt so many emotions all at once. I felt a little sad, but also in shock. I had thought about this hunt for so long, and had taken a long time to determine that I wanted to shoot a bear. I also knew I might cry when I did, or feel intense regret. But I didn’t. It’s hard to put into words everything I was feeling. But the best way to describe it is, I loved this bear. I know how that sounds. I just put him down, but he was an incredible animal and I loved him.
We dragged him into a clearing and got to work. It was nearing ten o’clock at night, but we still had light for another hour, and needed to make the best of it. We dressed him out there in the field, being careful to take all the meat that would be good to eat, and cutting the hide away.
With the bear dissected in front of us, we could see that my first shot went into his neck, traveled diagonally through his body and exited out the opposite thigh. It would have killed him, but big bears don’t die easily, and I didn’t want him to suffer, so I’m glad Edgar was there with the follow up.
It took three hours to get the meat into bags and pack the bear to the boat. Captain Scott and first mate Dave had been anchored off a short distance away, and watched all the action, but they couldn’t tell how the land dipped so they were puzzled as to why we didn’t shoot the bear from that first downed tree. We told the story and stayed up a little while, walking them through it. Then we tied the meat bags to the railing on the stern, had seconds on fish dinner, and climbed into bed.
In the morning, after coffee and a quick breakfast, it was Edgar’s turn to find a big boar, and he had one in mind. We hopped in the skiff and zoomed over to the beach where we’d spotted the cinnamon bear the day before. We got out quietly and crept over to the clearing. The cinnamon bear wasn’t around, but another bear was. From that distance we could tell he was a shooter… big and furry, and not looking in our direction.
We moved in a little closer and paused behind some tree cover. Still there. We closed in a little more, and I put my fingers in my ears as Edgar took aim. One shot and the bear was down.
He was beautiful… all black with a brown heart on his chest. He was already in a clearing so we got to work, dressing out our second bear in less than twelve hours. This time it took two hours to pack up meat bags and skin the hide. Then we let Captain Scott know we were ready for pick up.
On the way back to Seward we stopped for a little more fishing. I brought up my first ever halibut, and Edgar caught some beautiful yelloweye rockfish.
We also caught a lingcod that matched perfectly with my outfit, but he was not a size we could keep.
Back in Anchorage, we went shopping for a grinder, vacuum sealer and smaller freezer bags and got to work in Edgar’s garage. (We figured getting all those supplies beforehand would be presumptuous.) Edgar cut the bear meat into strips, and I worked the grinder, mixing the lean bear with some pork sausage, then bagging it and marking it for the freezer.
How much meat do you get from two Alaskan black bears? We processed meat for 17 hours.
I’m writing this recap a couple weeks after the hunt, and I’m realizing how the hunt isn’t over when the trip ends. I’ve brought meat home… meat that I’ve harvested myself. My freezer is full, and so are my neighbors. They came over for bear chili and asked for seconds. My coworkers all asked to try some, and they’re organizing a potluck where we all bring in something we’ve cooked with the meat. I’ve told the story of the bear, and I’ve shared photos. I’ve thought a lot about this bear’s legacy, and I don’t take any of it lightly. I will forever be thankful for this trip, the Alaskan wilderness and my bear.
This is the second part of a story about my adventure hunting black bears in Alaska. If you missed part one you can get caught up here.
Captain Scott zoomed on over to get us, and he’d used his time wisely, cooking up a great dish with the fish we’d caught earlier. It was nice to have a warm meal as we recounted our efforts to track the cinnamon bear. When Edgar followed the path in the woods, he’d discovered there was another path the bear could have easily ducked into without our knowing, and we chatted about how he’d probably successfully avoided hunters this way before.
Our stomachs full, we were ready to get back to work. We loaded into the skiff and the captain took us over to another cove. We didn’t see anything as we neared the beach, but there were lots of dips and trees for a bear to hide and lots of grass to enjoy for a just-out-of-hibernation snack. Captain Scott dropped us off and quietly motored back toward the Viking.
Captain Scott is next to my right eye, slipping away to the big boat.
The previous beach showed signs of bear, but at first glance this one did not. We glassed, walked, listened and glassed some more. No footprints. No scat. No bear. We took our time, making our way down the beach and enjoying the extra hours of daylight. A while into our venture, Edgar happened to look across the water, at a narrow beach clearing on the opposite side. A bear was having a beach day, scratching on trees and turning over rocks. There was nothing to hide us, but he hadn’t noticed us and was quite a distance away. We spotted a big rock cropping that jutted out almost into the water, and quickly made a plan to have the captain drop us off on the other side of that. The thought was that the bear wouldn’t make the effort to go up and over the ridge, and we could sneak around it for a good shot.
We radioed the captain and caught a ride over. He dropped us as planned. Right away we saw bear scat and began to tip toe our way toward the ridge. We’d traveled about 100 yards when Edgar saw movement and swung his rifle. We just caught sight of the bear bounding away. He’d climbed the ridge we didn’t think he’d be motivated to do, and was racing off into the woods.
On the slim chance that wasn’t the bear we saw, or on the chance he’d relax in the woods and venture back out for another beach visit, we made our way to the planned spot anyway, and hunkered down on the rocks. We got still. Waited. Quietly. I watched that beach so hard, willing the bear to appear. Nothing. A foot behind me, Edgar softly laughed. I turned to see why. He had his binoculars trained across the water, on the beach where we just were. I copied him. Sure enough, a big black bear was wondering the grassy area where we just were, having a nice snack.
“Hey there, Scott.” A call on the radio, and our captain was back, sneaking us over the water again, but this time, to the far end of the peninsula. It was a mile or more from where the bear was, but he was headed that way, so we planned to use the trees for cover and slowly make our way to him.
We moved and glassed. Moved and glassed. The ground was pretty soft so we weren’t making much noise, and the wind was decent, but we didn’t see the bear. Move and glass. Move and glass.
When we reached the area where we thought the bear was headed, he didn’t pop out of the tree line. We wondered how we’d missed him, and decided to climb a little ridge to see if we could spot him at a higher elevation. At the top of the ridge we looked right and… there he was.
I guess I should say, there he was for Edgar. I’m a little more vertically challenged, and I could just barely see the top of the bear’s back, just an inch or two of black fluffy shoulders to rump. We tried to lightly tread on the rocks to make our way to a dead tree lying on the beach. We ducked below it, eased up, and looked again. This time I did see more of the bear, but it was facing away from us, pawing at the rotted roots of old tree stump. We waited. The bear scratched, sniffed, pawed and just generally had a marvelous time with this stump. We waited. I was hoping the bear would turn broadside to us, but he was determined not to give me a good shot. We spent nearly an hour on the beach, watching this bear, but always either out of my sight completely, or in sight but with his rump to me.
In one of the moments when I couldn’t see the bear at all, Edgar said he was headed down the beach and out of our lives. “We gotta go.”
We started up the ridge in a strange walk/run with packs and rifles and a poor attempt at silence. The rocks were large and loose and kept crumbling and rattling under my boots. We topped the ridge and rushed down another 150 yards to another downed tree. I was winded from the weird sprint and my adrenaline had kicked in hard. I could feel my heart thumping as we arrived at the dead tree. There was the bear, right in front of us, but leaving. Edgar made a deer bleat and the bear stopped and came back a few feet, putting him about 25 yards away.
“Shoot him” Edgar whispered.
I could only see his head at that moment, and was aiming from a standing position, admittedly not my strongest stance. I got down, my hand under the rifle and on the downed tree. I could see the bear’s head. I didn’t want to shoot him in the head. I wanted to shoot him broadside, like the videos I’d seen, like the articles I’d read. I wanted to aim at the heart/lungs and I had no view of heart/lungs anywhere in my scope.
“Shoot him.”
The bear picked up his head and turned. I saw something other than just his head. I saw his neck. I squeezed the trigger.
It was time to return to the wild… another rolling suitcase packed with essentials…another multi-leg trip with little sleep… another adventure waiting to begin.
“Who is the one with the firearm?” an airline attendant asks.
That would be me.
I had practiced for weeks, set up in my backyard with a target, several layers of backstop and a pellet gun. I walked off 25 yards and shot an entire container. My neighbors wondered what I was doing. Sometimes I wasn’t so sure myself. The pellet gun was necessary, as the ammo shortage didn’t allow me to practice with an actual rifle. The goal was to get more comfortable with the scope, the aim, the trigger. Shoulder pocket. Cheek weld. Find the crosshairs. Squeeze.
I’ve been on a lot of hunting trips. Some of them have been cataloged on this site. I’ve hunted wild hogs in Texas, elk in Idaho, antelope in Wyoming and caribou in the arctic circle. But I’ve never pulled the trigger. I’ve never made that decision. But for some reason I wanted to hunt a bear. The thought would come to me, and I’d toss it out, but it always made its way back around. I couldn’t explain why, but I wanted a bear.
Hence, the target practice. I read articles and watched videos. I knew I would be nervous, adreneline pumping and maybe too far away to be comfortable. I studied shot placement and bear anatomy… and I kept firing off rounds in the backyard.
Travel day came and I rolled a large bag and an even larger gun case into the airport. The airline attendant was patient and checked that I had packed everything appropriately and had the keys to the gun case locks…. and then I was on my way. Three flights later, Edgar was loading everything into the back of his truck in Anchorage and we were on our way to Seward.
It was late, but it was also summer in Alaska, so the light was with us until about 11:30p. We found our lodge, which was clean, comfortable, and right down the road from where we planned to target shoot in the morning. It was a strong start, but a short sleep, and we were back at the truck bright and early, ready to see if my backyard efforts had paid off.
I’d be shooting a 7mm-08. I’d shot this rifle a couple times before, but it had been a while, and I didn’t know how it would feel compared to the pellet gun I’d lifted and fired 250 times. Turns out, it wasn’t a whole bunch different. Edgar shot it once to make sure it was on. It was. He handed it to me, and I shot two rounds that landed just outside the target circle. We looked at each other and nodded. I was feeling good, and confidence would be a big part of the process. We packed it up and headed for the docks.
We were going out with a transporter, which is different than a guide. Our captain knew the area and would take us to some good spots, but it would be up to us to find the bears and track them. He also knew where to find the fish. Once we got on board and made our introductions, the captain and his mate suggested we plan ahead. “Let’s stop on the way out and catch dinner.”
Our accomodations came in the way of a 44-foot boat called the Viking. It was custom made for hunting, fishing and surfing adventures, so we found ourselves right at home. The views on the way out of Seward were amazing, and even though it was overcast, the temperature was just fine for hanging out, sipping coffee and watching sea lions laze around on giant rocks.
Partway out we stopped in an area Captain Scott said should have some rockfish. We dropped lines and sure enough, brought a few right up. We wouldn’t be starving after all. We pulled up lines and got back on our way.
The Viking brought us close enough to a few coves to glass from the boat, but at first we weren’t seeing any bears. We’d slow down… check both sides…. make sure there was nothing there and then move on. Enough snow had melted that there were patches of green, and a few spots were looking good for grazing.
Eventually we spotted an area that was too good not to take a closer look. We didn’t see a bear, but it was worth going to shore. We loaded into the skiff with Captain Scott, and he buzzed us over to land. Just as we were about to hit the beach, Edgar said, “There’s a bear right there.” Sure enough, a large black bear with reddish brown markings on his sides was meandering along, about 1000 yards from where we were.
We unloaded as quietly as possible, and tried to stay out of the wind. Bears don’t have great eyesight, but their sense of smell is incredible, and we knew if he got a whiff of us he’d be gone in a hurry.
We made our way into some cover. The bear was still there. But the shot was still too far for me.
We covered a little more ground and found another area to stop and check. The bear was still there, but this time he was moving a little closer to the tree line, and it was still about 380 yards… too far for me to shoot. Edgar could have taken it, but he had agreed to let the rookie have the first go.
We took the long way to reach the tree line down the way from him, still hoping to be down wind. When we peeked out, the bear wasn’t where we’d last seen him. We hoped he hadn’t gone far. Maybe he’d been bumped into the woods for a quick nap, and he’d come back out to graze. We slid off our packs, got comfy and waited.
About an hour later, no sign of the bear. Edgar offered to sneak into the tree line, and scout the wide path the bear probably used for cover. I stayed put in case the bear was spooked back out into the clearing, but no such luck. After a bit more stillness with no bear, we radioed to the captain that we were ready for a pick up.
Next up: We catch a glimpse of another black bear across the water, and form what sounds like a foolproof plan.
Travel Surf Yoga is thrilled to welcome a new contributor coming to us from Kenai, Alaska, a place still clothed in white this time of year, and frequented by meandering moose.
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