Bowhunt America

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After blowing a predator call on and off for nearly 15 minutes, I was beginning to question my sanity. Not that I have anything against predator calls, but producing some tunes from one of them usually means you’re looking for trouble. When I caught movement out of the corner of my eye a few minutes later, I knew I had found it or, better yet, it had found me. I strained my eyes to the side to confirm my suspicions—it was a bear. His coal-black hide glistened in the pool of September light as he stood motionless trying to find the easy meal. I just hoped he wouldn’t mistake me for one.

It’s hard to say just how long I was crouched on the forest floor in the cluster of young pines waiting for him to turn his attention in another direction. Let’s just say my legs were falling asleep, giving me little chance to make a quick move up a tree if he decided to focus on me. After several minutes he finally took a few steps, giving me the opportunity to turn my head and size him up.

I’m no bear expert. In fact, at the time of this encounter I had never drawn back on one. So I really wasn’t being too picky. However, at 20 steps he looked as though he had some years on him, his body was plump and his head was fat. He was more than enough bear for me. All I had to do now was adjust my body, draw my bow and burn my top pin into his chest. Needless to say, that’s easier said than done when you’re only spittin’ distance away.

I swear I didn’t make a sound, but as soon as I started to move his head jerked in my direction. In an instant his black eyes locked on mine, and I could feel icy fingertips trace the entire length of my spine. I really didn’t know what to do having never been eye-to-eye with a bear like this. Let’s just say being in the close presence of a bear was enough to dampen the illusion that man is in complete command of his environment.

Just as it seemed a standoff was beginning, I felt something was missing. After a few moments I realized that something was the cool breeze that was once touching my face. The bear’s head instantly tilted up and got a snout-full of the thin mountain air. Before I could do anything, the sound of snapping branches broke the silence as he tore through the black timber. All that was left was my own thumping heart and trembling hands.

Since that time I’ve had numerous close calls with bears, both in the Lower 48 and Canada, and no matter how many times I experience these encounters, my perception of the world those bears live in and my place in it changes some. Frankly, there’s just something special about getting close to dangerous game with only a bow and arrow in hand.

To be honest, my bowhunting success for bears has come slowly. It’s not that I haven’t come close, it’s just that Mother Nature, hunter error and some wise bruins have sent me home with yet another unfilled tag. It was on my second trip to British Columbia that I finally connected, and although he wasn’t the biggest bear in camp that season, he put a smile on my face.

Because I was heading to the British Columbia bush, I needed to use a guide, so I enlisted the help of Wade Derby of Crosshair Consulting. He assured me that an outfitter he worked with up there could put bears in my lap, so needless to say I was eager to pack my truck and point it north once May rolled around.

The camp was nestled just west of the Canadian Rockies near Golden, British Columbia, and it didn’t take long to realize that it was loaded with black bears, and a few grizzlies too. Because baiting is not allowed in British Columbia, spot-and-stalk is pretty much the name of the game, so the best place to find the bears is along old logging roads as they vacuum up the fresh green shoots and clover found along the edges. Almost every day brought with it at least one opportunity and numerous encounters, but it wasn’t until day four that my dreams of a rug finally materialized.

As we drove off the mountain for the evening, bears seemed to be coming out of the woodwork. Nearly every bend in the road held a potential promise, and as we passed an intersection logging road, I noticed a black form about 200 yards down that paid little attention to our passing truck.

After parking the truck several hundred yards down the road, I jumped out and hustled in his direction. Failing light told me that the meter was running out so I needed to save every possible second. As I got near the intersecting road, I slowed to a snail’s pace and began crawling on all fours. Every few feet I eased my head higher in an attempt to find his dark form. I was just starting to think that I had once again been outwitted when all of a sudden I saw black padding in my direction.

Sixty yards quickly faded into 25 before he turned his raven-black side to me, and with the drop of the string I had him bounding away into the jungle. This time, however, the bear’s disappearance was followed up with a distinctive death moan. His ebony coat was perfect. And although it took me many tries to finally bring one home, my chunk of British Columbia coal was well worth the wait.

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