by Boone
Photo from B&C Archives
Grizzly Bear, Scoring 27-2/16 Points, Taken by Roger J. Pentecost near the Dean River in British Columbia, in 1982 (pictured with his son, Jason).
World’s Record Grizzly
By Roger J. Pentecost
19th Big Game Awards Program
JASON, MY SON, WAS THEN 12 YEARS OLD; THIS WAS TO BE OUR FIRST “REAL” HUNT. HE HAD HUNTED SINCE HE WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD, AROUND OUR RANCH IN SOUTHERN BRITISH COLUMBIA. WE HAD DECIDED ON GRIZZLY. I HAD ALWAYS WANTED A TROPHY GRIZZLY. I HAD RANCHED SOME YEARS BEFORE IN THE ANAHIM LAKE AREA. WE HAD FRIENDS THERE, AND WE KNEW THERE WERE LARGE BEARS IN THE AREA.
With weeks set-aside, we packed our guns. Jason chose a single-shot Savage Model 219L in .30-30 caliber, with a four-power Weaver scope. I chose my .270 caliber Husqvarna with a 2.5-8 power Bausch & Lomb scope.
After arriving in the Anahim Lake area, we spent a few days visiting and talking about bears, and hunting moose. We contacted Wayne Escott, who had worked for me in the early 70s and was now a commercial bush pilot for Dean River Air. We made a deal to rent the floatplane from Monday, October 11th until the 16th. We had heard the stories of big bear down on the Bella Coola River, but some of the Indians talked of “good bear” along the nearly inaccessible Dean River mouth where it meets the Dean Channel.
On Monday morning, we left Nimpo Lake and flew southwest over Charlotte Lake, then heading west to Lonesome Lake, circling to take photos of the very impressive Hunlen Falls that drops straight down about 1,000 feet and flows into the Atnarko river. I had wanted to see these falls for a long time.
We then headed north, stopping for lunch so Jason could fish at Squiness Lake, named after an old-time Indian family of the area.
We arrived late that afternoon in the Dean Channel. Pulling up on a sandbar at the river mouth, we unloaded the plane and made camp right there. We had already found tracks, so our excitement was starting to build. The next day we moved the plane along the river bank about 300 yards and on the south side, so as to be next to our camp. Starting out, we crossed the river and worked our way up the shoreline. Wayne knew Felix, an 80-year old Swedish recluse, who had been living in near isolation for many years there.
We took Felix a moose meat roast as a gift, and got into a long conversation with him about life, bears, etc. He told of mushroom hunters landing there by plane and picking up to $1,000 per trip, each, with the mushrooms being sold in Japan. We scouted that area quite a bit, finding sign of bear but not seeing any of the real thing.
The next morning Jason and I left early, ready for bear. We went south, down the channel, finding sign again, but no bear. The banks along this channel were steep and made the going really tough. We saw seal out in the water, and a lot of eagles, but no bear. We worked our way back inland, arriving about a half-mile upriver from camp, where we found really promising sign and country, but that was all.
Thursday the 14th was cold and damp, but not yet freezing. We had made up our minds that we would go up river on the south side. Wayne, our pilot, was going to come along, having fiddled enough with the plane the day before. The going was really slow and tough. It seemed that for every 10 feet forward, we would also go 10 feet sideways, first down into the river edge, which was usually covered with masses of tangled logs, then up along the very steep banks above the river. There we were, climbing over dead trees and inching our way along. The thought never really occurred to me as to how I would get back with a bear, if we got “lucky.”
About mid-morning, we stopped to snack. Jason had found a simply enormous bear track in a sandy bay area tucked into the river edge, and we speculated over lunch at the size of the bear that made that track. It was surely a “good bear.” We could not see up or down the river more than 100 yards.
About then, we heard a Super Cub drifting low and slow, as they are so good at. For a brief moment, it flashed in front of us, coming downstream and passing out toward where our plane sat. I cursed under my breath, thinking that I had come all this way to have any bear spooked right out of the area by people when we were 100 miles from a village and even farther from a town.
With a little more uncertainty, but still the same enthusiasm, we started off, crossing a small side channel and soaking ourselves for at least the tenth time (or so it seemed). After a while, I decided to move away from the river’s main course. Soon we were walking in a succession of semi-clearings, under some enormous cedar trees that shut out most of the direct sunlight. The flickering shadows across the leafy carpet gave a shady, peaceful look to the area.
Suddenly, off to our left, about 70 feet away and partly obscured by a cedar, something started to move slowly up out of the ground. It was a massive head in profile, followed by an enormous shoulder bump. We froze. Here was what we had come all this way for — a good bear. But really, I never wanted it quite so close. As I readied my Husqvarna, I heard Jason close his gun.
For what seemed to be a long time, I had an excellent side shot. I squeezed the shot off. But, the bear, instead of falling over dead, rose up out of the hollow in the ground and turned towards us. Here it was, coming right at us. I aimed at his shoulder, still hardly believing he wasn’t down. This next shot hit his side, I had gut shot him. This turned him, and he plunged off sideways into a really thick area of alders, windfalls, and devils club. As he was going in, I placed a third shot.
All hell seemed to break loose in that small wooded area. It was too thick to see what was happening, but boy, could we hear the bear snorting, growling, grunting, and gasping. It was a simply enormous and rather frightening sound. I looked back at Jason and Wayne. They looked as apprehensive as I felt. I knew a grizzly could explode out of that cover like an express train, with none of the bush slowing him down at all, and leap 15 feet in a bound.
I indicated to the others that I was going to circle around, hoping I could get to a point for a fatal shot. Using some of the larger trees as cover, I circled from tree to tree in the best John Wayne style, but without his air of confidence. Jason and Wayne were following me. All of us were feeling very vulnerable, only knowing where the bear was by that noise. At last, I could see part of the bear’s rear.
At this point, I swapped guns with Jason for the final shot as I had used three of my five bullets. He still had all six that he carried. I was finally about 20 feet away from the bear, feeling, to be honest, quite scared, before I could place the fatal shot into his neck with Jason’s .30-30. As it lay dead, I could see that we had a very good bear indeed. But why had my first shot not killed it?
When I skinned it out later, I could see the bullet hole in the exact spot I had aimed, but the Nosler bullet had shattered before getting deep enough in such a large bear. I also found a tight, leather radio collar around his neck. It was well into his fur, and had rubbed sore marks on either side of his neck. I felt bad now, knowing that the bear I had shot was part of a study. But, what was it doing here, 50 miles from any closed area? Thinking back on this, I did not see the collar, even when close to the bear. Plus, with us walking up on him, I don’t know if the bear would have given us the choice of letting him, or us, walk away.
We started the task of skinning, still in awe of this great trophy bear. The skinning went slowly, and we were only about half-finished when Wayne pointed out that it was about an hour before sunset. So, with great apprehension, we left the partially finished bear. With some knowledge of the best route back, we made it to camp just at darkness. We had nervously picked our way, expecting to meet another bear at every turn.
That night, I had many mixed thoughts. Some were good and some terrible. I’d really shot a good bear, but there was the matter of the number of shots, the collar, and worst of all, leaving him there. What if a coyote, fox, wolf, wolverine, eagle, etc. got to him? All these “what ifs” kept coming back to me. We consoled ourselves that at least another grizzly would not eat it.
That night, we had entertainment of a nature that we didn’t need. It started with some
splashing and grunts that sounded all too close. Were they just trying to find salmon carcasses, or were they looking for us? We built the fire up high, and in the light of it, pulled in some more of the washed-up logs scattered around real close. Supper was welcome, but the food seemed to dry out and stick as it went down my throat. Even Jason noticed the tension. Normally, good food and sleep would be the only thing on his mind by now, but that night he was making sure he could sleep in the middle of the tent.
It seemed that all through the night, the bears were getting closer. Wayne and I agreed that we would take turns to keeping fire going. Morning drifted in, as a cold, damp blanket of mist, leaving everything dripping. Jason walked toward the river, about 20 feet from the tent area where we were preparing breakfast and coffee. His face told us that he had seen something.
“Look! Quick, over there in the river are three more bears, not 200 yards from our camp,” he said.
They were poking around in the river, looking for their breakfast. We could have shot any one of them, with one looking as big as ours, right in camp!
We didn’t discuss it, but I was feeling worried as to what would await us back at the bear site. Soon, we had the pack board, rope, and some lunch ready, and we were off. Wayne felt he should carry his .30-30 Winchester — just in case. We set out up the river, with the three bears noted earlier no where to be seen. We tried to make quite a bit of noise and took our path out in the open as much as possible. Things had taken a 180-degree turn from yesterday. I really hoped that our furry friends would stay away today.
A couple of ravens flew up as we approached the bear, but no eagles were in evidence. A quick examination showed the hide to be perfect, so we got down to work. Only then did the size of this bear really impact on me. Just lifting his paws and looking around at the havoc he had wrought, made me even more respectful of the grizzly’s massive power.
I had skinned out many moose while I was guiding, and also cows on the ranch, but trying to turn over and move 1,000 pounds of grizzly is tough. We pushed, pulled, shoved, and did just about everything we could think of to turn him over. Boy, what a job. I had cut the skull off at the neck joint, and the paws at the wrist bones, thinking that I would do the rest in Anahim Lake the next day. We rolled up the skin, with the feet, paws, and head inside, and proceeded to rope it onto the pack board. Then I tried to lift it and get it on my back. That didn’t work. Wayne and I carried the pack board over to a large cedar, lifted it up to shoulder height, and with Wayne’s help, I swung it on. Hell, it just about swung me down with it. I tightened the waist belt, and with Jason carrying my .270, we started back.
Things went well, until we came to the first downed tree. As I tried to get over, the pack and bear skin pulled me backward. It was no use, I couldn’t hike out with this massive weight. I decided the only way was to skin the head and paws out, and generally flesh-out the hide. Two hours later, we were ready to continue. We had lost at least 50 pounds from the load, and when re-packed, I felt that I could at least manage it. Boy, what a journey back to camp. I was glad we were only three miles in.
After a quick lunch, we broke camp and loaded the plane. This is when our next excitement began. The tide in the inlet was down; consequently, the river level at the mouth had fallen. It was too shallow for take-off with all the weight, so we unloaded the plane. I waded out into the river, holding the plane straight up stream as I stumbled around in the icy water. With the plane as light as possible and the motor warm, Wayne gave it full throttle. My heart was in my mouth as Wayne, in his expert manner, bounced the plane up the river, until first one and then the other float lifted, and he disappeared round the bend. Moments later, we were pleased to see the plane lift up above the trees, as it wheeled round grabbing for height to get over the trees. It was then I realized my legs were damned cold; I was still standing out in the cold, rushing water.
Wayne landed out in the channel, then taxied in to the sand-bar that we had started this hunt from. Packing our equipment on the plane went well, as I thought of warm baths and scotch whiskey that was waiting at Anahim Lake. A half-hour later, we were skimming over the lake infested timber. We landed at Nimpo Lake. We were soon at Darcy Christensen’s village store, where we related the story for the first of many times.
Darcy, our host, had a country butchers shop out back, and a 500-pound scale with a meat hook hung high. Two of us hoisted up my grizzly and watched as the needle pointed to 148 pounds. Next, we weighed the undressed skull; it was 45 pounds, so we assumed that with the paws, etc., the hide had weighed over 200 pounds. No wonder it was so impossible to pack any distance over that rough going.
We got to work, spreading out the bear and then working coarse salt into the hide. From the measurements we took, we determined the bear stood over 10 feet, 6 inches high and could have reached over 13 feet. The rug has a 9-foot, 6-inch spread, with claws longer than my fingers.
This was far more of a grizzly than I had ever dreamed of getting. As we retired that night, we went over bear stories such as the Anahim Lake rancher and neighbor, Cony King, who had been attacked by a grizzly sow and now sports a blank eye socket and massive scars from this near fatal encounter.
It was April 1983 when I got an excited phone call from Helmut Schold, a young German émigré taxidermist who had impressed me with his skill and artistic ability. He had been so shocked by the finished size of the skull that he had taken it to Helmut Cofmeister, a Government Wildlife Technician. They had measured a skull length of 17 inches and a skull width of 10 5/16 inches, giving a total score of 27-5/16, putting it well over the existing World’s Record. On June 21, 1983, Jack Graham a Boone and Crockett Official Measurers, met with grizzly and me for an official measuring.
Jason and I have reflected on this hunt on several occasions, still only half believing that his first major hunt could end this way. For us, it simply remains “our grizzly hunt.”
Image from B&C Archives
Original score chart for Roger J. Pentecost’s World’s Record grizzly bear, which scores 27-2/16 points.
Photo from B&C Archives
Grizzly Bear, Scoring 26-7/16 Points, Taken by Jon D. Seifert near Lone Mt., Alaska, in 2000.
Perfect Hunt
By Jon D. Seifert
24th Big Game Awards Program
ALL HUNTING TRIPS ARE SPECIAL – SOME FOR THE QUALITY, OR QUANTITY OF GAME TAKEN. SOME FOR THE GRANDEUR OF THE SCENERY OR THE CAMARADERIE; FRIENDSHIPS MADE OR STRENGTHENED. STILL OTHERS FOR THE HARDSHIPS ENCOUNTERED AND ENDURED. MOST OFTEN, HUNTS ARE A MIXTURE OF THESE ELEMENTS. EXPERIENCED HUNTERS DON’T EXPECT PERFECTION. THE PIECES OF THE PUZZLE ARE TOO NUMEROUS AND THE OPPORTUNITY FOR POOR WEATHER, MISHAP, OR JUST PLAIN BAD LUCK TOO GREAT. SO IT IS THE RAREST OF TIMES WHEN EVERYTHING FALLS NEATLY INTO PLACE CULMINATING IN THE “PERFECT HUNT.” I WAS FORTUNATE ENOUGH TO HAVE SUCH AN EXPERIENCE — THE RESULT OF WHICH WAS THE HARVEST OF ONE OF THE LARGEST GRIZZLY BEARS EVER TAKEN.
For 15 years my friends and hunting companions, Tim Crombie, Troy Auth, and I had dreamed about hunting Alaska. Troy’s first cousin, Rod Schuh, is one of the proprietors of R&R Guide Service operating out of Anchorage. Rod had encouraged Troy to bring his buddies up for a hunt for years, but school, work, and family had always won out. Finally, in the fall of 1998, the three of us decided the time was right and we booked a hunt for September 2000. We would be hunting bear and moose. The months passed slowly as we read books about the game we would be hunting. We watched videos, reviewed gear lists, and spent long hours at the range. Unfortunately, a few months before the trip, one of Troy’s sons was diagnosed with a medical condition that required his attention. Troy’s hunt would have to wait a season or two. My wife Tracey and daughter Rachel escorted me from our home in Pepin, Wisconsin, to the airport in Minneapolis. Tim and I boarded a flight bound for Anchorage on September 9, 2000.
I’ve always considered myself to be pretty lucky. Whether it’s hunting whitetails, bear, or turkeys back home in Wisconsin or meeting my lovely
wife, things always seem to work out. But the next few days would be more than even a lucky man could expect. Skies were clear and at 30,000 feet we had a panoramic view of the Rockies from British Columbia over the Yukon and into Alaska. Once on the ground, Tim remembered that an old friend of his had moved to Anchorage ten years earlier — the last time Tim had seen him. His friend’s name is John Hanson, and Tim decided that, since we had a day before leaving for base camp, he’d give his friend a call. Turns out that John lived two blocks from our hotel. Better yet, he had the next day off and wanted nothing more than to give us a guided tour of the city. We video taped moose in the woods along the airport, and saw salmon and huge rainbow trout running in Ship Creek in downtown Anchorage. We picked up last minute supplies and made mental notes of all the hot spots to tour upon our return. John even invited us to his cabin north of Anchorage for a float-fishing trip if we had time after the hunt. So far so good; things would only get better.
The next morning the hotel shuttle dropped us off at R&R’s hangar. The weather was poor — low ceiling, overcast, and raining. Rob Jones, the other “R” in R&R Guide Service, was flying in from base camp this morning to pick us up. By mid-morning Rob had fought his way through the clouds and made it to Anchorage. Before the whine of the 206’s engine had died, Rob leapt from the Cessna and greeted Tim and me. He was a man on a mission. There was no time for pleasantries or long conversation about our trip. The weather was bad. We had supplies to round up, a plane to load, and clouds to beat before they shut down the passes. Time is always precious to men who make their living during the short months of hunting season, but there was another reason for urgency. The day before, a moose-hunting client had spotted a big grizzly guarding a wolf-killed cow moose. If we could get through the Alaska Range (you don’t go “over” the Alaska Range in a 206 Cessna) in time he might still be on the kill. Part of Rob’s rush — I would be the only hunter in camp booked for grizzly.
