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.
I have been meaning to contribute to this site for a long time, and had not gotten it accomplished! I, like many of you, tend to travel around a bit and see great new things. There are many stories to tell, but when I first found this site, I knew immediately that this is the story I wanted to tell.
I have traveled a lot in the Western US and seen much of this country and many others. One of many places I hadn’t been was the Caribbean. It seemed to be one of the most glorious places on the planet.
It had been a rough year, and when my friend and old high school buddy called and said, “Hey, want to go sailing in the BVI’s and Caribbean with me?” I vividly remember saying yes! I needed a change in my life, and this was WAY outside my comfort zone. Seven people on a 40-foot sailing catamaran in a place I had never been before…I wondered about personal space, (I tend towards introvert), and how it would all work out. After a 20-minute conversation with my buddy, who would soon become the captain on our vessel, I was caught up in the idea enough to say, “How about a second week?” He only paused only for a moment before saying, “That is a great idea!” Now I was in deep.
When the appointed time in February finally came around, I flew from Montana, to Salt Lake, to Atlanta, to San Juan PR, and finally to a small airport on St. John, USVI’s. Our small crew all met at the charter company and checked out our Bareboat (term for captaining and crewing the boat, as well as getting provisions and cooking for yourselves). It might remind you of a hunting drop camp in other cool places.
We boarded our vessel and living quarters for the next week and went through the rigors of pre-cast off and sailing, which included a sailing briefing by the charter company and a big ole grocery and ice run to get us started. We stored our gear, got the food on ice, and headed out.
My friend Ty was serving as the Captain of the vessel, under the command of his dad, whom we will call the Conductor. They had sailed together for a number of years before I got involved, It takes a lot of training to become a Captain and the position is very important to your survival on the ocean. I had sailed previously with Edgar, and Ty, and was confidant in my sailing skills, but the ocean needs respect, and a Captain with plenty of skill and knowledge.
Our crew was rounded out by the Conductor’s wife, and two couples that had sailed with Ty and the Conductor years previously, one of whom was the first mate. That role belongs to the person second in charge, and he or she keeps a “weathered eye” on everything and anything that’s needed.
We were also very interested in deep-sea fishing, and the First Mate was very knowledgeable. We caught fish…..
I now will make a confession. The first fish we caught was a Big Eyed Jack. I was so excited that I took my brand new Spyderco Salt knife and started to fillet the fish. Alas a brand new knife is very sharp, and I was eager to eat my first saltwater catch. I took a chunk of my finger off in my haste, and fish dinner was put on hold.
We saw so much of the USVI’s and the Caribbean, and caught more fish. That trip turned me into a Caribbean sailor, and the rest of the story is yet to come.
In our next chapter…. I earn my rank as 1St mate, and a shark meets the dinghy. Stay tuned…..
Kate has told you what happened back at camp on day 8 of our trip to Prince of Whales island, but I thought it might be fun to also give you the perspective from the field.
We got up early, packed our usual snacks of trail mix, pb&j and snickers, and headed out in the borrowed truck. We wanted to finally see some bucks, and our new friend we’d run into the day before said he knew where they were hiding. Sam didn’t just tell us; he showed us. He had multiple pictures and videos on his phone from game cameras and drones. This guy was like the sitka deer whisperer, and we were grateful for his guidance.
Sam told us about his spot because we were visitors, but he also let us know it wasn’t going to be an easy trek, even for locals. The walk in would take a couple hours, and it was slippery and dense. He warned us to keep track of the time so we didn’t face walking out in the dark.
Off we went, layered up with Gortex top and bottom, so the rain didn’t dampen our limbs or our spirits. We spotted a couple of does out in the open as we approached the tree line. We were hoping their boyfriends were somewhere in the green forest beyond.
The journey was tough, but enjoyable. We stayed quiet and focused on tracks, chewed leaves, bedded down weeds…anything that might clue us in to where the bucks were. We saw lots of those signs, but walked for hours without seeing a buck.
We eventually reached a creek and a wall of rock on either side. It looked like going up higher and crossing over the water was a possibility, but we were also conscious of the time. When we made the deal to borrow our neighbors’ truck, we did so promising to pick them up from the docks at 4:30, when they finished their fishing trip. If we went up higher, we’d add more time to the push in and the climb out, and we might miss them. We were feeling like it was time to go.
Just as we’d finished this whispered conversation, I turned my head and saw a beautiful big buck. At first I thought I was kidding myself, and it was just some sticks/leaves/stump combo. Then it moved. It definitely was a buck, with a rack bigger than anything we’d seen. I was afraid to move or make noise, but Edgar was facing the other direction. I slowly reached out and tugged on the bottom of his coat. He turned. “Buck!” I mouthed, eyes big and fingers up by my ears to communicate the size. He followed my gaze and his eyes went big too. I squatted down put fingers in both ears, bracing for the shot I knew was coming.
BOOM. The 7mm vibrated in the forest, and our deer was hit. Edgar saw it stumble as the bullet made contact, and then the big buck took off. We paused a moment to breathe and then made our way over to where we thought we’d find him. No deer. We did see a small piece of bone and blood, confirming the shot, but needed more to follow the trail. The first option was to check the buck’s backtrack – wounded deer will often spin around and go back to the assumed safety of where they’ve already traveled. We traced that path as far as we could, looking for traces of blood and finding nothing. Back to the original spot, we selected another possible path, this time downhill. After taking it down to the valley below, we backtracked again. Sideways. The other way. Uphill, in the unlikely event the buck tried to find a way up and out. Nothing.
The rain was still coming down, and we were slipping and sliding quite a bit. I had mud covering my pants… but the gear was doing its job and I was still dry underneath. A check of the time confirmed we needed to do the two-hour hike out and get to the gas station. We were flying out early the next morning, as were the neighbors, and the borrowed truck needed a full tank before then. The only gas station on the island closed at 5pm.
We downed our last snickers and made a hasty retreat to the truck. Even after wearing our legs out on the search, we actually made good time getting out of the forest, up the hill, through the flat (avoiding the dangers of the muskeg ponds) and up the downed timber to the truck. There was no time to celebrate, and we sure didn’t feel like celebrating. We knew there was a wounded deer out there, and we were losing the light to find him.
It took a few miles through the gravel roads to get to town, and then to the gas station. We filled up quickly, and made the decision both of us had already made to ourselves. We were going back to find our deer.
Back on the logging road, we found the spot, parked the truck, shook out our layers, climbed down the clear cut, skirted the muskeg ponds, scrambled over and under trees and across streams, and back to the last place we saw the deer. Where to now? We hit the backtrack again, taking it farther than before. We ran into a flatter area with lots of deer droppings and trampled down beds… this was likely home for him, and he was no where to be found. Back to the start. Another path. Nothing. The ground was sopping by now, and the continuous rain was rinsing away tracks. We tried to hold onto hope that our deer was just around the next stump, the next big rock, just around that bend… but he was gone. Vanished.
We had to leave before dark, and we pushed it right to the limit. We had just enough light to find the truck and climb inside. As you read in Kate’s recap, our friend Sam went back out and made another effort to find our buck, but never did. Back home, a test fire of the 7mm confirmed it was off. The jostle around in the truck when it slid off the road must have done it, and we didn’t think to sight it back in.
But we are still thinking about that buck, and planning for another journey to Prince of Whales.
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