Fair Chase in North America

by Boddington, Craig

  The situation is actually very similar with interior grizzlies, except that the silvertip coloration that gives the grizzly its name is somewhat more prevalent.

  Hunters may set out with the thought that a honey-blonde bear would make a lovely rug, but size—and an unrubbed hide of any color—is what most brown bear hunters are looking for. The rub comes not from the hide, if you’ll pardon the pun. It comes from determining what’s big and what isn’t. That’s very difficult on the hoof—er, pad—and almost equally when the bear is down.

  In terms of trophy judgement, I’ll fall back on Jack O’Connor’s famous line, “The big ones look big.” Big bears have big bodies and seemingly short legs, while young bears are leggy and more slender. Big bears walk with a roll and a swagger—but field judgement is very hard, and in this regard it’s probably a good thing that brown bear hunters must be accompanied by a guide. Understanding what actually constitutes a shootable brown bear isn’t a great deal easier.

  Many years ago Boone and Crockett determined that skull measurement was the one unrefutable, unalterable means of accepting bears into the record book. I agree with this totally. A big skull, measured by length and width added, totally into the high 20s or more, is proof positive of a great bear. But skull dimensions are almost impossible to see on a bear, let alone judge. Hunters speak of hide dimensions—and nothing is so easily stretched, if you’ll pardon another pun.

  With hides, we talk of squared measurements. This means a green skin, laid out flat, no stretching, measured nose to tail and front paw to front paw, the sum of those measurements divided by two.

  The Holy Grail is a bear “squaring” 10 feet. I have seen it written that bears squaring 10 feet by honest measurement don’t exist. They do, but they’re rare. Bears squaring 11 feet also exist, but they’re rarer still. And I suspect bears have been taken that square 12 feet and more. On the other hand, it’s awfully easy to stretch any 8 1/2-foot bear and turn him into a 10-footer. Some Alaskan outfitters are famous for a little stretching (at least among their peers), but the most blatant example I know of occurred when Russia opened her coastal bears a few seasons ago.

  It seemed that all the bears taken were 10-footers, or so the advertisements said—but somehow almost none of the field trophy photos quite measured up to experienced eyes. Russia’s coastal bears are also fish-fed and grow large, but the climate there is more harsh, and even at their largest Russian bears probably don’t get quite as big as Alaska’s best bears.

  Stretching the hides a bit is quite harmless, since only skull measurements count—but the danger is that hunters start to expect 10-foot bears. Or reactionaries, aware of all the stretching, claim there’s no such thing. Ten-foot bears do exist, just like seven-foot people—but they’re uncommon. In truth, they’re just as uncommon in the famed areas of Kodiak Island and the Peninsula as they are in Southeast Alaska. The game department’s statistics show the average for both Kodiak Island and the Alaskan Peninsula is about the same at plus or minus 7 1/2 feet.

  With a good, unrubbed hide, an honest 7 1/2-foot bear (which can easily be stretched into a nine-footer if you must) should be considered a very acceptable trophy. An eight-footer is a very nice bear, and an honest nine-footer is big. Make no mistake, a nine-foot bear by honest measurement will weigh half a ton. Bigger bears weigh more—perhaps much more.

  Back in 1981 I was fortunate to take a very big bear on the Alaskan Peninsula with the late Don Johnson and his son, Warren. By honest measurement, laid out on a gravel bar, it measured 10’8” by 11’2”, for a square of 10 feet ll inches if my math is correct. I have no idea what it weighed, but it was one of the biggest things I’ve ever seen. I’ve shot many Cape buffalo, and I know a Cape buffalo bull weighs from 1500 pounds upwards to, rarely, close to a ton. That bear was as heavy as any Cape buffalo I’ve personally shot—and I know the skin, less skull, weighed over 150 pounds. My guide, “Slim” Gale, was young and tough. I was much younger and stronger myself. All we could do was 100 steps each, then stop and switch packs.

  Skull size is the only irrefutable measurement available, but skull size doesn’t always follow body size. A bear as big as that (and as old; it was aged at 27 years) might have had a 30-inch skull—but it didn’t. By contrast, bears in the nine-foot class might carry record book skulls. Sometimes you can see that a bear has a clearly outsized head, and that’s a good sign—but unlike horned and antlered game, there is no surefire way to field-judge for “book” or near-book proportions. Better to not worry about it, and look instead for a well-furred, fully mature bear.

  My buddy Randy Brooks, owner of Barnes Bullets, admits now that he was one of the guys who had a “thing” for a 10-foot bear. He made numerous trips and passed a great many superb trophies—some that he now realizes probably reached his goal. He never got a 10-footer, but the bear he finally shot was in the upper nines and is a fabulous trophy. Now that his four years of waiting have expired, he’s going bear hunting again—but he maintains that his “10-foot fever” has left him. He’ll look for a very big, very mature, well-furred bear—but he’s done counting inches on an animal like that that virtually defies precise judgement.

  Back when I lucked onto that monster I thought brown bear hunting was pretty simple, except for the packing job. I just didn’t know, or appreciate, how truly lucky I’d been. I know better today. In my hunting career to date I’ve been successful on two of four brown bear hunts, while I’ve scored on two of three interior grizzly hunts. I can absolutely write the brown bear failures off to my own pickiness, slowness, poor shooting, or all three. But even so, that career average is about the reverse of what it should be. Nothing is certain on big bears. Fickle weather, more fickle bears, early winters, late thaws (or the reverse), and plenty of tough country preclude sure things. Even so, a good outfitter should come close to 75 percent or better for coastal brown bears, while 50 percent is a very good average for interior bears due to the bears’ more nomadic nature.

  Conventional wisdom has it that Kodiak Island and the Alaskan Peninsula are the hotspots, but I no longer believe that to be true. They’re good—very good—but not necessarily better than Southeast, Prince William Sound, the ABC Islands, or wherever. Big brown bears exist throughout the range, and big bears are simply where you find them. Some of these areas are more difficult to hunt, but are hunted much more lightly and may actually hold more older and larger bears.

  In recent years I hunted moose on the Peninsula and never saw a bear except from the air. Likewise, I hunted Sitka blacktails on Kodiak, and while we saw a couple of bears from the boat, I only saw one on the ground. Mind you, I wasn’t hunting bears—but in bear country you’re always looking for bears, if only so you can stay away from them!

  The bear I saw on Kodiak was a wonderful creature, bucket-headed with wind blowing his long winter fur. He came like a cowboy to the chuckwagon bell when he heard me shoot a buck—but was gentleman enough to sit patiently on a ridge above us while we—very hurriedly—boned the meat and made up our packs. As we moved off he swaggered in for his share.

  Kodiak and the Peninsula are very, very good—but their reputations and limited permits or seasons carry a premium price tag. The last couple of springs I’ve been hunting Southeast Alaska with Jim Keeline’s See Alaska outfit. It’s a good, honest foot hunt in tough country, but the coastal mountains are beautiful and there are plenty of bears—and big bears. There are also numerous wolves and black bear—and, around Yakutat, the long-odds chance for a glacier bear, the rare blue color phase of black bear. I’ve seen three glacier bears on this hunt, an unheard-of number.

  The salted hide of the largest of the three is at Jim’s base camp now. That undoubtedly used up my luck for this hunt—and that will be okay, because it means I won’t have to wait four years to follow those great tracks along the gravel bars and glass the big-headed, hump-backed bears on the hillsides one more time.

  Ankle-fit hip boots are the only sensible footgear for brown bear hu
nting. The terrain isn’t all that soggy in most places, but you’re constantly wading through rivers and streams.

  Brown bear hunting is primarily a game of painstaking glassing — often for days on end. It’s a pleasant way to hunt provided the weather cooperates.

  Tracks along the river are some of the most visible signs of bears—far more visible than the bears themselves. These tracks were made within in the hour.

  This is a very big bear, taken on the Alaskan Peninsula. Aged at 27 years, this one is a very genuine 10-footer—with no stretching and quite a lot to spare.

  ELK — The Golden Age of Elk Hunting

  The Magnificent Wapiti — with Numbers Reaching All-time Highs the Golden Age of Elk Hunting is Now!

  My first elk came on Thanksgiving day in 1972. It was in the Pioneer Mountains of southwest Montana with the late John Ward—always good-humored, good company, and a great elk hunter. We picked up two bull tracks in the bottom and followed them clear to the top of the mountain—only to see two yellow rumps sail over a deadfall just as we reached the top. Those elk were gone—except that John knew a big clearcut covered the far slope. We ran like maniacs up to the top and down through the timber, dodging trees and leaping over obstacles. When we reached the edge of the timber both bulls were about 200 yards out into the clearcut, and we shot them there.

  John Ward loved hunting elk on those timbered Montana slopes. Over the course of several autumns I learned many things from him—one of which was that his was some of the most difficult hunting I’ve seen before or since! John’s preference was to go into the black timber after them—following tracks if there was snow, still-hunting into the wind if there wasn’t. He was a magician at getting into the middle of an elk herd—even without cow-talking, which was an unknown technique at the time. We—especially John—did pretty well with “any elk” tags, common in those days. We did much more poorly trying to sort out bulls!

  In those days, in that country, there wasn’t much choice but to go into the timber after the elk. There was lots of timber, relatively few openings, and not a whole bunch of elk. But we hunted late, when there was plenty of snow, so we had the advantage of tracks and relatively quiet woods. Still, it was very difficult, and what we mostly saw were fresh beds and deep-cut running tracks! One of the great lessons I still carry from those early days is this: Don’t still-hunt elk in black timber if you can figure out any other option!

  The timber is ideal bedding cover, but there isn’t a whole lot for them to eat in there. Typically elk will feed out into clearings in the late afternoon, and will stay out feeding, secure in the darkness, until sometime after daylight. Then they’ll repair to the heavy timber and bed through the day, repeating the process in the afternoon. In the morning they may stay out for a couple of hours, or they may start moving at daybreak. Either way you don’t have a whole lot of time, especially if you’ve spotted them from some distance away. Usually you have less time in the evening. Sometimes they’ll start start to move and feed several hours before dark, but more often they’ll come out of the timber just at twilight. In the morning you can catch them out feeding, or you can intercept them on the way into the timber. If you miss them there’s a strong temptation to go into the timber after them, but in there all the advantage falls to the elk. I’ve learned that it’s better to wait them out, because if they aren’t disturbed in their bedding ground there’s a strong likelihood that they’ll come right back out and feed in the general area. So in the evening you can get the wind right and have a very chance at ambushing them.

  A couple of years ago I was hunting at the NRA Whittington Center in New Mexico with my old friend Mike Ballew, Whittington’s Director. We had seen a good bull that morning from one ridge to the next, but he’d given us the slip. We backed off, and in the evening started down a long timbered ridge to look into some sagebrush pockets on the lower slopes. We hadn’t gone more than a quarter mile when we stepped right in the middle of two bedded bulls. There was soft snow and we’d been moving slowly and quietly, and the wind was in our favor. Even so, I’m surprised those two bulls didn’t instantly crash down through the timber. They didn’t. They jumped up and stood, and the bigger of the two was pretty darned good. I got my rifle off my shoulder, stepped in front of Mike, and just as the bull bunched to take off I shot him in the center of the shoulder. He showed no reaction other than to run, but we found him stone dead about 75 yards down the slope.

  This incident is remarkable only because, despite all my early efforts with John Ward, this is one of very few times that I’ve ever gotten the drop on a mature bull in heavy timber! It’s different when they’re bugling. Then you have a chance. Maybe the bull will come to you, but even if he won’t his bugle gives you a good idea where he is and the game changes. Too, a rutting elk doesn’t have his full concentration on staying alive!

  This is partly why there are so few rifle bugle seasons these days: The elk are more vulnerable, so more hunting opportunity can be offered later in the fall, after the rut is over. I have been on several bugling elk hunts and the experience is fantastic; there is no better sound in all of nature—and certainly no better opportunity to take a good bull. But since I’m a rifle hunter most of my elk hunting experience has come a bit later in the fall, when the rut is pretty much finished. This doesn’t always mean the bugling is over.

  These days, with the autumns seeming to come later, there is often quite a lot of bugling well into October. At this time of year it’s fairly unusual to get a bull to actually come to you, but as long as you understand that you still have a huge advantage: You can stalk the bugling bull as effectively as if you’d glassed him. Over the last ten years I’ve made three elk hunts in Colorado during the first ten days of October. All three times we had a lot of bugling, and all three times those bugles led me to good bulls! Eventually the bugling is concluded, and then you can still-hunt, glass, or play the waiting game. Which is best depends somewhat on the country, but I much prefer the latter two options!

  A few years ago I hunted on Slater Creek Ranch up in northwestern Colorado. It was one of those early October hunts, when the rut was on the wane but the bulls were still with the cow herds. We left the vehicle in the dark, hiking up through big sagebrush hills that led up to timber. My host, Mike Henrickson, told me that the elk fed out into the open at night, then started working their way back to cover in the early morning. Of course he was right; we blundered into one big herd in the dark and I could just barely make out antlers on the bull as he trotted off behind his cows. After spooking that herd we waited until there was just a bit more light. Then, with several bulls bugling at the edge of the timber, we made for an open meadow above a couple of beaver ponds. Mike said that herds often held up there before moving into the timber—and of course he was right.

  We slipped out onto a brushy little knoll overlooking the meadow. The beaver dams and their ponds were right below us, and on across was an open clearcut that rose gently to meet the timber. The opening was literally full of elk, a sea of yellow and tan. I don’t know how many branch-antlered bulls were with the herd, but certainly several. We found a likely bull on the left-hand side and I shot him twice. It wasn’t seven a.m. yet, and that was the end of that elk season!

  Usually things aren’t quite that easy, but you never know what you’re getting yourself into with elk. Well, that’s not true. You know you’re going to see some big, beautiful country. That’s part of the charm of elk hunting, for in years gone by, in most of the West, the chances for really seeing and shooting elk were fairly slim. This is not the case today; right now elk herds are exploding in the West. Failing a truly catastrophic winter, we’re heading into an era of unprecedented elk hunting opportunity—at least since the West was won.

  Before the Civil War the American elk existed in untold millions all across the West from the Great Plains on through the mountains and valleys to the Pacific. By the turn of the century the few survivors had been pushed into the most remote mountai
ns, and the newly-created Yellowstone National Park held some of the last big herds. Numerous populations were wiped out altogether during the excesses of the last century, including, regrettably, the Merriam’s subspecies of the Southwest. California’s tule elk were barely saved.

  Those surviving Yellowstone elk are the ancestors of the vast majority of elk alive today. Live-trapped Yellowstone elk were reintroduced literally all over the continent—from Pennsylvania to Kentucky to Michigan to Oklahoma to Nebraska, and of course to Arizona and New Mexico—and old Mexico, too. This restocking actually began even before the wanton slaughter ended, but in most areas it took many years for the elk to rebuild. Except in the most remote wilderness areas of western Canada and along the spine of the Rockies, there was very little elk hunting from the 1920s until after World War II. Slowly, though, areas long-closed filled up with elk and hunting seasons were reopened. My uncle, Art Popham, a longtime B&C member, drew an Arizona elk tag in the late Thirties when elk hunting was first reopened on the Mogollon Rim. He and his English professor and his wife—Jack and Eleanor O’Connor—applied together, drew together, and took superb elk out of that unhunted herd.