Waiting for the bear to emerge from the dense Canadian cover, I welcomed the shaking of my legs as an old friend. The bruin had slipped through my shooting lane in a flash, but I knew it was still there. A telltale crunch of foot steps defied the beast. My heart raced, my fingers tightened; my senses were alert like never before. The moment of truth was taking place, and a young man’s lifetime worth of waiting was coming to an end.
The dream of embarking on a far off hunting adventure dominated my thoughts throughout my early twenties. The glorification of distant destinations has been embedded in my hunter’s heart through the reading of countless books and articles by those fortunate enough to take to the highway in search of far off places and pursuits. These many accounts of adventure made me long for experiences of game I had never hunted before and campfire camaraderie with strangers bound by a hunting heritage.
Of course, at this stage in life, time and money can be a bump in the road. Reaching the plains of Africa, the mountains of Alaska, and the deserts of Mexico will have to wait. So when my uncle devised a way to realize the lifelong dream of the young hunters he has brought to the fold, we all jumped at the chance.
Through his neighbor, my Uncle Tom learned of a highly successful, semi-guided, archery hunt for black bear in Northern Ontario. Upon further investigation, Tom determined the trip was exactly what we had been waiting for all these years. The cost of the hunt fit our budget and the destination was within driving distance. After little debate, Tom, his son Derek, nephew Jimmy, and I, prepared the paper work and mailed our deposits.
As September drew near, time began to drag on, and on. But as it will, the greatly anticipated date finally arrived. Our departure for the great north woods was significant enough to gather the entire family at Tom’s house for a farewell feast. My grandfather, who in his time experienced numerous hunting adventures, had a longing look in his eye of a desire to join us.
Across the dinner table, I asked him, `Grandpa, why don’t you come along?”
To this question, he simply responded, “No.”
I suppose a hunter knows when he has unstrung his bow or hung up his rifle for the last time.
We crammed our gear into Tom’s truck and attached a trailer carrying four ATV’s. Although our trip would be but 10 days, our over abundance of gear could have supported a permanent move to the wild. With great a due, we waved goodbye and pulled out of the drive. Over a year of planning, waiting, and finally leaving, settled in as we accelerated down the road. The excitement faded quickly though, as our triumphant departure came to an abrupt halt. Thankfully, Jimmy had looked back and noticed the tires on the right side of the trailer were smoking. After pulling over and examining the problem, we quickly determined the tires were bowed inward and rubbing against the wheel well. We began to consider ideas of being towed to seek repairs, but this would significantly set us back. Then an outstanding idea emerged. Jimmy retrieved the jack from our gear and removed both of the trailer’s right side tires. With all my might, I proceeded in a spurt of aggressive manhood to beat the wheel well unmercifully with a sledge hammer. I don’t know why we packed a sledge hammer, but it was a good thing we did. After quickly reinstalling the tires, we checked for clearance. Adequately sufficed, we began our long journey north.
Crossing into Canada wasn’t much of a problem. We paid an import tax on our beer, and were forced to hand over our potatoes. I’m not sure why you can’t take potatoes across the boarder, but I figured it was a small price to pay for a weeks worth of enjoyment in this beautiful and bountiful land of the north. In order to add a little Americana to our drive across Canada, Derek and I swung through a late night McDonald’s, while Tom and Jimmy slept in the back. My first international fast food was just as unsatisfying as it is in the good old US of A. Once we passed through Toronto, the feeling of adventure really began to sink in. We were headed to a land none of us had ever experienced, to hunt an animal none us had ever seen in the wild. Personally, I began to feel a sense of accomplishment before we even reached our destination. To finally be on a “hunting trip”, was enough to set my spirit free, and I knew none of us wanted to rush a moment.
We arrived at our destination just as the first rays of sunlight began to peak over the eastern horizon. The camp was actually a fishing resort nestled on the shore of a beautiful lake. The accommodations were far from fancy, but inviting to a group of adventure bound sportsmen. After stretching for a brief moment we made our way to the camp office where we met with our host and purchased licenses. Soon after, we were going through bear hunting orientation. Our host explained the routine that would comprise our next seven days. Numerous bait stations had been being worked for the past few weeks by camp hands. It would now be our responsibility to take over the baits assigned to us. Each morning, all the camp’s hunters would need to make a trip into the forest to bait their stations. The final step before being cut loose to hunt was to draw our stand locations. Tom drew first and came away with a stand called “Swack”, then Derek drew “Moose Meadow”, Jimmy “Lost”, and I, “Rocky Top”. Being a bluegrass fan, I figured this to be a fitting sign of good luck. Yet, I couldn’t help but hear one set of eerie lyrics in my mind, “Strangers ain’t come down from Rocky Top; Reckon they never will…”
Once things had settled, I took my bow, a 64# Robertson recurve, to the camp archery target. As I plugged my cedar arrows, one after another into the dilapidated old bear, other hunters began to circle around. Questions of my equipment were posed and answered as I quickly realized I would be the only traditionalist in camp. I know many may find bear hunting over bait, while riding a 4-wheeler to and from stand, far from traditional, but in comparison to the firearms and compound hunters, I was the epitome of traditional in this camp.
Excitement levels were soaring as we prepared for our first hunt. The logging road leading back to our hunting area was a long and dusty dirt track cut through a pristine wilderness. One by one, we cut off the main trail to head to our secluded spots. Rocky Top earned its name because it sits high on a rocky bluff overlooking a swamp. The place was picture perfect; just as I had always imagined a bear hunting location would look. I settled in and began to let the experience take control of me. Years of dreaming had finally led me to this moment. I relished it, as the song continued to refrain in my head, “corn won’t grow at all on Rocky Top…”.
That evening, we met back at the cabin about a half hour after dark. Tom and Derek had each seen a bear, but couldn’t get shots within bow range. Jimmy and I were skunked on the first night. To hear Tom tell the story of how intense it was to have a bear in such close proximity incited a flurry of anticipation on my part. When I arrived the next morning at Rocky Top to bait my barrel, I was excited to find it had been worked sometime during the night. I now knew a bear was frequenting the bait. With great anticipation, I settled in for another evening vigil amongst the symphonic sounds of birds I had never before heard.
That evening, I found out what Tom meant about the way a bear can make hair stand up on the back of your neck. I’ll never forget the mixed emotions of excitement and nervousness when I spotted that first bear coming into my stand. I was amazed at how silent these creatures could be and how cautious they were in their approach. I stood up in my stand to prepare for a shot. But as the bear crept closer, I realized it was a little too small. I decided to let this one walk.
Derek was the first to get his bear. We were all thrilled when he arrived in camp to spread the news of his success. He figured it was the same bear he had seen the night before. Only this time it made the fatal mistake of offering Derek a quartering away, twenty yard shot. The owner of the camp told us to leave the bear overnight and retrieve it in the morning. We agreed that going out into the wolf and bear filled woods at night with only bows wasn’t the best idea. We waited till morning and found the bear with ease.
Day three belonged to Tom. He was invited to move to a different stand location vacated by another hunter who had been seeing a lot of bear, but not the giant he was looking for. Tom took him up on the offer and it paid off. The majority of the bears in the area don’t move until right before dark, but this location must have been hot because early in the afternoon a good sized bear came right to Tom’s stand. One quick arrow later, and our hunting party was down to two.
With Tom and Derek established as fisherman for the remaining days of our trip, Jimmy and I were left with free reign of the stands we had drawn as a group. The next two days Jimmy and I didn’t even catch a glimpse of a bear. On day six, I finally decided to give up on Rocky Top and move to Swack. I’m sure glad I did. The first bear to come in was a sow with two cubs in tow. I reveled in amazement at these beautiful beasts as the mother turned over the barrel and let her young ones climb in for dinner. It wasn’t long before a larger bear showed up and pushed the sow and her cubs off the bait. I was preparing for a shot at this bear when a stick snapped behind me. The bear at the bait took one look in the direction of the noise and high-tailed it out of the clearing. A few seconds later, I knew why. A stout bear came in slowly and cautiously. I caught only a glimpse as it passed through the brush behind my barrel. The enormity of the situation took hold as my mind raced through the checklist of shot preparation. Pick a spot, breath slowly, don’t rush it… Soon enough, the bear made its fatal mistake.
Emerging from directly behind my position, the bruin presented me with a five-yard, broadside shot. In one swift motion, I sent a stick to put an end to my quest for a black bear. After watching the fletchings of my arrow bury behind the bruins shoulder, I knew instantly that I had killed my first bear. With four other bears in the area, I have to admit I was a little nervous getting down from my tree as darkness enclosed the forest. I may have even run a little ways towards my four wheeler. Bear hunting will do that to you. It doesn’t take long to understand the difference in hunting animals below you and animals above you on the food chain.
In the end, three of the four of us killed bears. Our trip a huge success for countless reasons, and I know I may speak for each member of our party when I say none of us will ever forget it. To be able to experience the thrill of hunting bears in the great north woods while sharing the company of my uncle and cousins made the trip even that much more special. We’re not sure what our next adventure will be, but we are certain that there will be another. Lounging around camp until it was time to head out and hunt was as relaxing of an experience as I think I’ve ever had. I truly enjoyed meeting the camp’s other hunters and listening to them trade stories about past bear hunts in the area. Most of the guys in camp had been coming there for years and had plenty of advice for us neophytes. I believe my traditional equipment incited a sense of appeal in at least a few of the hunters I got to know that week. One major payoff of my traditional shooting; Derek, my lifelong hunting partner is now stretching the string of a longbow.
I realize the debate on hunting bears over bait is one which will linger on for years to come. I make no apologies for the experience. The bear in this region are numerous and the hunters in our camp were some of the finest guys I have ever had the privilege of sharing a fire with. Will I hunt bears over bait again? I don’t know. It’s been a few years since this trip and I have yet to feel a desire to return. It’s something I have done and with so many hunts on the horizon it just isn’t as exciting as the unknown. I do know; I hold no issue with the practice or those who pursue bears in this fashion. Stalking a bear on the costal flats of Alaska is near the top of my list for future adventures. Once I live that dream, I doubt I will ever be interested in hunting bears over bait again, but if the right group of guys gather, then maybe.
As a hunter, I have found enjoyment in the progression to further disadvantage myself in the pursuit of game. I suppose that’s why I took up traditional archery in the first place. The journey is what it is all about. Not only the physical journey, but mental travels we take as we evolve and grow. I have enjoyed each step I have taken and I yearn to enjoy the journey till the end; knowing that each sunrise, each foot print, is a new beginning.