A tale of nine seasons, one bear, and a lot of friends.
“Hey, come on and give me a hand. I’ve got this bear, and I could use some help getting it up the mountain,” I said.
“It’ll be a while. I’m at home,” replied Dustin.
“You went home?”
“Yeah, I thought it would take you longer.”
I guess five years is a short wait for a bear in Clark County, Idaho.
It would be a few hours until Dustin could drive up the mountain and walk down to me. The morning was still early, and as the day heated up, I took a minute to simply sit down with the bear, breathe a bit, and be grateful.
I met Dustin many years ago when I was providing emergency medical instruction to several local law enforcement offices in the area. Dustin’s team stood out for their easy-going attitude, paired with solid professionalism. We all got along, and before too long, somebody brought up hunting for black bear. As I’d never hunted black bear, Dustin invited me up the next spring to give it a try.
The following June, this old man left triple-digit Texas temps to find himself calf deep in snow. After a little more than a week of “get high and glass” as well as a bit of driving through the mountains, the only black bear I saw was a cinnamon sow, but with cubs. Little did I know that was the only black bear I’d see for the next eight seasons of hunting.
That fall, Dustin put me up in a travel trailer behind his house and introduced me to his friend Clint. Clint had hunted the area around Ashton and Island Park, Idaho, his whole life and knew right where to go to get a bear. Another 10 days of driving, glassing, and hiking slipped by. Not a black bear in sight.
There were no black bears, but plenty of mule deer, white tail deer, elk, and moose. Raptors swooped in the air and dotted the fence posts. Great white goats defied gravity. And the mountains.
That next spring would be a replay, but this time, Dustin and Clint would have multiple eyes out. We’d get a call from one of Dustin’s buddies on the force: “My brother’s roommate’s sister’s cousin said he saw a good bear up in Island Park.” Nine times out of 10, those tips put us on nothing at all, and the other time it was a grizzly.
The next fall, I brought along my childhood friend and hunting partner, Jason Carter, owner of Underground Tactical. Everybody got along great, but yet again there were no black bears. The general consensus among the townsfolk was surprise, as we weren’t seeing bears anywhere that people said there were bears everywhere.
That fall, on the way down from the mountain, we ran into some duck hunters. Seeing our plight, the good folks invited us along. So that year I got my first Canada goose and limited out on mallards. I am to ducks as Rick James was to cocaine; I closed out that season satisfied, looking forward to more.
The next spring was the only one I missed. Jason went in my stead and on the last day in the last hours of a weeklong hunt, got a gorgeous tri-phase bear with a pistol. Of course, he did.
We were both back again in the fall. No bear for me, again, but we threw more bird hunting and trout fishing into the mix. We met more great folks — people who hunted with us, fished with us, fed us, and hosted us.
At this point, my luck for the bears had become some kind of community-wide joke, as just about everyone we met had heard of “the Texan” who couldn’t find a bear in one of the most heavily bear-populated areas on the continent. It wasn’t exactly the legend I was hoping for, but along with their pity came friendship and hospitality. Heck, a couple of otherwise decent Mormon folk went out and bought a coffee maker and bags of coffee just to make some for me when I came into town. Or so they said. Something had changed.
Every year, I bought my bear tag, hiked and glassed, and sat on baits. The trip was now about coming to see my friends in the mountains and hoping for a bear. Along with a pistol or rifle for bear, I’d bring a shotgun for birds and a lightweight rod for our raft-borne fishing trips down the Snake River. Cops and carpenters, potato farmers and potheads, Texans, Idahoans, and even once some fat dude from Ohio were all hammering the browns and cutthroats.
Another year, I met Scott Chapman of Upper Valley Trapping, who took me along and showed me how to catch and relocate beavers, as well as the magic trick of using a pressure washer to flesh hides.
With each passing spring and fall, I met more great people. The restaurant on the golf course in St. Anthony makes the best breakfast sandwiches, and they’d have one ready for me the first day I arrived in town. I got to know the land and the hardy, gracious people who depend on it. Almost every single person I met shared their experiences with the wildlife and the land with me. Well, almost everyone.
One spring seemed like a lock for a bear. We’d set a bait barrel way up high in the mountains. That was hard work but worth it. The trail cameras showed a huge black bruin hitting that bait first thing in the morning, completely cleaning out the barrel every time we stocked it. Early in the afternoon, we filled it back up and set a blind in some fallen timber about 70 yards away. Everyone was anxious; years of waiting were about to be over. That night I got texts from people I didn’t know wishing me luck.
No bear showed up the next morning, and the bait remained unmolested. I sat there all day and into the night. I did the same the next day, and the next, without result. Not a single photo came in from the trail cams. The next morning, no bear showed up, but moose milled all around the area. Moose have a great sense of smell, and I figured if they didn’t smell a bear around, there wasn’t a bear around.
Indeed, there wasn’t, and inspecting the bait and trail cams showed exactly why. That very evening we stocked the barrel, a man walked up to one of the trail cams and covered it. He missed the other one. The undiscovered camera recorded him bringing dogs right up to the bait. The dogs caught the scent, and the interloper killed it a short distance away. So, I had been sitting for days waiting on a dead bear.
Word got out. The Texan got cheated — and by a local. Not only was the offender quickly identified, but the “doggers” came out in force. They were careful to stay within the bounds of the law (which are pretty strict), but I was getting calls and texts from people I had never heard of about one bear after the next.
That next fall, a conversation with a local dogger led Dustin and me to an area we’d not hunted before. Bear sign was obvious, with timber torn to shreds, claw marks up the trees, and obvious tracks on the ground. We found a spot, surrounded by trees, with mottled light and fallen timber to one side and berry bushes on the other. It had cover and food, as well as an easy route in and out of both. It was ideal. It even smelled like bear. We figured I’d sit there a few days and get to know the area.
Dustin dropped me off before sunrise the next morning, and I slinked down the mountain. When dawn came, I was staring at torn timber I was sure had been intact the day before. I sat down with my back to the berry bushes and focused my attention in that direction, getting in position to make a 100-yard chip shot with my Nosler Custom Handgun.
Something caught the corner of my eye. I have no idea when the bear arrived, where it came from, or how it got so close. It was already right there, sitting on its thick haunches, nose high in the air. Craning my head to the left, I watched as the bear licked, its pink tongue curling high as it pulled its lips back. It stood fully upright, lapped, and huffed the air.
With the bear just 16 yards away, I was facing the wrong direction. The bear’s curiosity turned to agitation, then fear. As it dropped down on all fours and turned to leave, I twisted around, pushed the single shot bolt-action pistol out, and fired. I sat still.
Ten yards from where it was struck, the bear was still too. I had watched the bear shudder when the round struck its middle, and now it was my turn. As I took deep breaths, my hands and my chest trembled — with awe, and gratitude, and joy.
Dustin’s generosity was tested again carrying that bear up the mountain. Back near town, folks came to help skin, butcher, complete the legal requirements, and prepare the hide for taxidermy. We got dinner that night at a restaurant. People I’m sure I never met congratulated me.
As we pulled into Dustin’s driveway, his wife met us outside, exclaiming “Finally!” when I got out of the truck. My face hurt from smiling.
Five years, nine seasons, and one bear. Plus, a whole lot of friends. And the mountains.
Editor’s Note: This article originally appeared in Carnivore Magazine Issue 8.
