Legendary Hunts

by Boone

  The two other cabins were small 7’x7’ wooden structures. Each contained a set of bunks, two shelves, and a small heater. Tonya and I would house in one cabin for the next several weeks. Jim and Angie would house in the other. For some odd reason, Tonya was not buying my “it doesn’t get any better than this” story.

  After unpacking our gear, I proceeded to check the accuracy of my rifle one last time. Several shots later, I was confident that my rifle would perform if and when it was summoned to do so. On this particular hunt I was using my .30-378 Weatherby, equipped with a 3.5-14x 52mm Leupold scope, and shooting my favorite bullet, the 180-grain Barnes X. As always, my rifle was set to shoot dead-on at 300 yards. This setting is one that had proven to be deadly accurate in the past, and one that would ultimately have the chance to prove itself again.

  Word was that Tom Kirstein ran a good bear camp, especially with the assistance of folks like professional hunting guide Jeff Poor. Tom was very outspoken and there was no doubt that he knew most all there was to know about bear hunting. On the other hand, Jeff was very quiet and kept to himself most of the time. Nonetheless, Jeff proved to be one of the best guides and hunters with whom I have ever had the pleasure of hunting. It was agreed early on that Tom would guide Jim and Angie, and that Jeff would guide Tonya and me.

  During the early evening of the first day we arrived at camp, I sat alone on the shale-covered shoreline looking westward at the majestic snow-capped mountains that sheltered the bay and its inhabitants from the rest of the world. As the sun’s rays pierced down through the clouds and onto the bay’s waters, I immediately felt God’s grace and blessings.

  Following dinner that first evening, Tom shared some of his bear hunting adventures with us. He also told us a little about the history of the island and of Deadman Bay. He went on to mention that there was a good book on the cabin’s shelf titled, Monarch of Deadman Bay, and that it told the story of a mighty Kodiak brown bear that once roamed and ruled in Deadman Bay. Before closing for the night, I chose the faded brown-colored book from the many that lay on the cabin’s shelf. I decided to make it my evening read for the next several days.

  The Monarch of Deadman Bay was indeed a book that shared an early tale of a mighty Kodiak brown bear that once roamed and ruled in Deadman Bay. In the story, the Mighty Monarch inhabited and ruled the area for many years, and it did so despite the fact that one-half of its right front paw had been bitten off in a battle to the death with another great, but less fortunate, Kodiak bear. As I eagerly read page after page of the tale, I could only imagine what it might have been like to hunt a creature as great as the Mighty Monarch. As fate would have it, however, I soon too would cross paths with the mighty half-pawed Monarch, who had returned once again to roam and rule in Deadman’s Bay.

  During the springtime, the bears on Kodiak prefer the hillsides and the cover of the alder and willow bushes. As such, hunting them requires many hours of glassing and spotting. Luckily, we came prepared with 10x50 Swarovski binoculars, a 20x60 Swarovski spotting scope and a lightweight tripod. Additionally, hunting the drainages on Kodiak during springtime also means snow melt, deep rivers, and fast running water. To deal with these obstacles, we equipped ourselves with waist-high Gore-Tex waders, as well as wading boots that could be utilized both in the water and on land hiking comfortably for many miles over the rough terrain.

  The weather changes on Kodiak are phenomenal. I can recall leaving camp one morning under a clear blue sky, bright sun, and warm weather. Two hours later, it rained cats and dogs. Then about an hour after that, the sky turned deep black and the winds blew hard enough to easily capsize a medium-sized boat. Then about an hour after that, it calmed, started snowing for a while, and then the sun came out again. No doubt, we were pleased that we had the proper all-purpose weather-proof clothing, a definite “must have” on Kodiak.

  On the first day of the hunt, we spotted two bears that were approximately two miles away from us on the other side of the bay, and near the top of a 4,000-foot, snow-covered hillside. We stayed watching the bears until they disappeared into a deep drainage. We also spotted a group of mountain goats on the same hillside and just below the area where we had initially spotted the two bears. The second day of hunting was dreadfully windy, making it very difficult to hold our binoculars steady enough to glass any particular area meaningfully. Nevertheless, we were able to spot several different bears that were hanging out just below a rock-faced hillside about a mile away. The circular blowing wind, however, rendered the thought of any stalk on these bears null and void.

  The third day of the hunt proved worse than the second. I swore that I had never been in wind so fierce in all my life. So much for our “all-purpose” clothing on that particular day, as it seemed as though we had none at all.

  The fourth day, however, started off like a gem. The skies were clear blue, the sun was shining bright, and the weather was nice and warm. Needless-to-say, that was the day that I learned that the weather on Kodiak can instantly change, that is, from one extreme to the next. Despite the nasty weather, we did spot two medium-sized bears that particular evening. Neither one, however, was the type of bear we were after.

  It wasn’t until breakfast on the morning of the fifth day that our luck changed for the best. The past four days we had hunted down-bay and Tonya couldn’t bear the thought of spending another one just sitting and glassing. She was eager to exercise and suggested that we hike upstream. Jeff seemed favorable to the idea, so we decided to hike to an area upstream where several of the rivers commenced their journey down to the bay. After about a six-mile hike and crossing several deep and fast-running rivers, we elected to stop and glass for awhile. It was no surprise that the wind proved once again just how relentless it could be.

  We glassed on and off for about two hours, when Tonya and I decided to take some shelter from the cold wind. We were just over the hill from Jeff when he came running frantically over the top shouting, “Bear!”

  Jeff had spotted a bear on the other side of the drainage about 600 yards away. The bear had been sunning out of the wind in an area that made it almost impossible to see it. We studied the 9-footer for about 25 minutes, when for some reason, the bear quickly got up from where it was lying and commenced to travel up the draw. That particular draw ultimately led to a deep canyon. It was then that we realized why it was rapidly moving out of the area. About 100 yards behind it in the brush moved a very large dark brown-colored creature. When the creature became visible, it was without a doubt the largest and most impressive bear that I had ever seen, dead or alive!

  The enormous creature was most likely pursuing the 9-footer for an afternoon challenge to the death, or for its next meal, or maybe both. Whichever it was, the next thing I heard was Jeff saying, “Let’s get a movin’!”

  It immediately became apparent to me that the bear was headed straight for the canyon, and that we only had a couple of minutes to try and get to a point that would enable us to get a shot. Within seconds, we had our packs and rifles slung over our backs, and we were traveling through the brush as if it never existed. Somehow during our run, I was able to reach over to the top of my barrel and remove the balloon I had placed over it to keep it free from debris. Nothing, and I mean nothing, was going to stop my shot at this bear. But, maybe I spoke too soon. As we were proceeding in the direction of our would-be vantage point, we ran out of mountain. Two feet in front of us was a 60-foot straight down drop. I knew that this was it; I could either shoot from there, or let the bear get away.

  Off came the packs. I immediately piled them in front of me to create a shooting rest. I then turned the adjustable objective on my scope to somewhere between 300 and 400 yards, and loaded one in the chamber hoping that the big brown bear would give us a shot. Fortunately for us, the 9-footer had traveled to the corner of the drainage which was 350 yards away, and then traveled down and into the canyon. We could only hope the large creature that followed would do the same. Just then, out of the brush c
ame the big brown following its predecessor’s trail over to the same drop-off point. Jeff quickly ranged the point at 350 yards.

  When the big brown reached the edge of the rim, it looked down and then raised its nose in the air attempting to scent its prey. All I kept thinking was, “What a monster!”

  It was then that I laid the crosshairs on the bear’s right-front vitals and pulled the trigger. I knew it was a hit, as the bear had picked up its right front leg off the ground, turned around, and started back in the direction of the brush. Then, in mid-stride, the bear turned to its right and ran in a direction directly away from us. As everyone who hunts big bears knows, follow-up shots are highly recommended, so a few more were taken to make sure the job was finished. This time it slowly made its way about 20 yards into the brush and collapsed. We waited for about 45 minutes, as this was not a wounded bear that we wanted to meet up with in the brush on that day, the next day, or on any day for that matter.

  After convincing ourselves that the big brown had expired, we proceeded to find a way to get to the bottom of the canyon, cross the waist-high, ice-cold river, and then climb up the other side and over to where the bear had last lain. As we cautiously neared the big brown, I began to realize how incredibly big this bear truly was. Its head was so massive that I couldn’t wrap my arms around the sides of it. The widths of its forearms were an easy 26 inches. Its coat was long and a beautiful chocolate-brown color with cinnamon highlights, and not a single rubbed area.

  After the excitement of the handshakes and picture-taking, we began the tenuous skinning process. When I lifted the bear’s right arm, my eyes froze in amazement as I stared at the bear’s paw. At that moment, I could not believe what I was seeing. One-half of the bear’s right-front paw was missing, just like in the story of the Mighty Monarch. Suddenly, the same special feeling of that first evening’s sit on the shale-covered shoreline ran through my body. Upon realizing what had just happened, I bowed my head and thanked God for bringing back the Mighty Monarch, to once again roam and rule in Deadman Bay.

  Photo from B&C Archives

  Polar Bear, Scoring 27-3/16 Points, Taken by Robert B. Nancarrow on Banks Island, Northwest Territories, in 1997.

  Polar Bear Number 9

  By Robert B. Nancarrow

  23rd Big Game Awards Program

  I HAD JUST BEEN THROWN FROM THE SLED, WHEN JOHN, MY GUIDE, PREMATURELY THREW OUT THE ANCHOR BEFORE THE SLED HAD SLOWED ENOUGH FOR A SAFE DISMOUNTING. I LANDED ON MY CHEST, WITH MY RIFLE UNDER ME, SLIDING ACROSS THE ICE IN THE SNOW. WE HAD TRIED TO INTERCEPT A LARGE BOAR THAT HAD BEEN PURSUING A SOW, WITH TWO YEAR-OLD CUBS. WE JUST WEREN’T QUICK ENOUGH. THE BOAR HAD REACHED THE NEW ICE, AND WAS QUICKLY ON ITS WAY TO THE ROUGH ICE.

  Hunting polar bear by traditional means, using dog sled and Inuit guides, is without question one of North America’s greatest challenges. We were using a team of seven dogs, solely for transportation. John didn’t believe in chasing polar bear with dogs. His exact words were, “We will ‘hunt’ the polar bear with dogs.” That’s exactly what we were doing, the sixth day of my 15-day hunt.

  At 180 yards, I quickly rested my .300 Winchester Magnum on the nearest block of ice, placed the crosshairs on the bear’s shoulder, and pulled the trigger. At the report of the rifle, the bear stopped running and stood up. I was surprised I had not hit the bear, but now I had a standing shot. I squeezed the trigger a second time, again with no results. I shot a third, followed by a fourth and final shot, still with no results. I quickly checked my scope to see if it was loose, and inserted four more shells. By this time, the bear had started to run to the rough ice. I fired two more shots, and did not touch the bear. My guide looked at me with disbelief, but with calm reservations that we would see another bear and maybe get another shot. Not finding the scope loose, I blamed myself in my excitement for just plain poor shooting, never thinking that my gun was at fault.

  That night it was very difficult to sleep, because I knew I had just lost a trophy of a lifetime. John was reassuring, and I was able to finally fall asleep. The following day we started our hunt where we left off the day before. The tracks were still there, and the mistakes I made were still fresh in my mind. We then took to the huge track and started to hunt again. By noon, we came up against a wall of ice. John decided we would hunt in the direction of our main camp, 10 miles back. Not feeling as though I was going to have the good fortune of seeing a bear of that magnitude again, I sat in the dog sled with mixed emotions. John stopped and climbed a large block of ice to look for bear. He quickly motioned me to join him, and when I got there, he was pointing a quarter mile in the distance to a very large bear, eating a bearded seal. The bear was on new ice, approximately four to six inches thick. The wind was coming from the north, and was starting to pick up. We were 22 miles west of Banks Island on the Arctic ice flows. I asked John if he would stay with the dogs, so they would not bark. I would make the stalk alone. He agreed and wished me luck.

  I was now on my own, crawling the entire distance since there was nothing but smooth ice between me and the bear. On my belly, I was instantly aware that the ice was rolling under me. It seemed to intensify as the wind became stronger, but all that mattered was that I was getting closer to my trophy. I was now within 180 yards, and although my heart was hammering, I elected to take my shot from that distance. As I calmly squeezed the trigger, expecting to hit the bear, the horror of the day before became real once more. I fired the second, third, and fourth shots, all with the same results. I could not hit the bear at this distance and had to come up with a different plan. My guide was too far away to get his rifle and the bear had now become nervous, moving further away. The one thing in my favor was the constant cracking of the ice, which sounded as loud as the report of my rifle. The only two options I had were to give it up completely or get within bow range, and hope for the best. I chose the latter.

  I had waited for too many years, and spent more money than I could afford getting this far. Only a hunter could understand my decision. As I crawled to within 70 yards, I could truly see the bear’s tremendous size. My heart was pounding out of control and I was actually starting to feel fear. At approximately 60 yards I decided to shoot, not knowing what to expect. As I pulled the trigger, I can honestly say I did not know what the results would be. I had the crosshairs on the shoulder of the huge bear, and the bullet struck three feet back from his front shoulder. The bear let loose a tremendous roar and started diagonally toward me. Seeing that the gun was that far off, I had to force myself to aim off the bear, in order to hit him again. It worked! The next bullet struck the bear in the chest. The bear turned sideways, going in the opposite direction, so I aimed at his hip, striking the bear square in the shoulder. I was out of bullets and the bear and I were now only 35 yards apart. The bear got up again. Knowing there was nothing I could do, I laid with my face on the ice, hoping he would not see me.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the bear finally expired. By that time, I was so exhausted from fear, that I almost could not raise up to look at my monstrous trophy. The bear was the ninth bear seen on my hunt — truly, the most fabulous creature I have ever seen. Later I discovered that my gun barrel was blocked with ice and had split at the magna-porting when I was thrown from the sled, causing its inaccuracy.

  Photo reprinted from Fair Chase magazine

  Gene Alford and his faithful hunting companions, Scratch and Kelly, in Idaho’s Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness where they spent countless months together tracking cougars.

  A Long 27 Years

  By Gene R. Alford

  20th Big Game Awards Program

  FOR 40 YEARS, I HAVE HUNTED COUGAR WITH HOUNDS; AND, HOPEFULLY, MY 1988 HUNT WILL NOT BE MY SWAN SONG. THE LAST 30 YEARS, I HAVE HUNTED IN THE SELWAY BITTERROOT WILDERNESS IN IDAHO EACH WINTER, TRYING TO KILL A BOONE AND CROCKETT LION. EACH WINTER FOR THE LAST 20 YEARS, I HAVE HIRED A SKI PLANE TO FLY ME, MY DOGS, AND CAMP, INTO THE BACKCOUNTRY WHERE I HUNT FOR A MONTH OR LONGER. I PREFER TO START HUNTING ABOU
T THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY, AS THE WEATHER TENDS TO IMPROVE RATHER THAN DETERIORATE AFTER THAT TIME.

  That was my thought on February 3, 1988. The day dawned clear and cold, and since I had loaded my pickup the day before, all I had to do was to phone the local commercial fly-boy and make arrangements for the flight. I called Frank Hill, of Hill Aviation in nearby Grangeville, and told him I was ready to go.

  After a 30-mile drive, I arrived at the airport around 9 a.m. and started loading my gear into a 180 Cessna ski plane. I’d done this many times, so I had a pretty good idea of what I was doing. When the load got to within a foot of the headliner, I stuffed my two hounds on top and we were ready for takeoff. The airstrip we were using was long and black, so there was no problem getting airborne. The strip we were going to, however, would be different.

  Forty-five minutes later, and 100 miles east, we came to the snow-covered, 900-foot, private airstrip with a double dog-leg. Frank extended the skis below the tires and powered-in around the ridge to the final approach, and we splashed down in 18 inches of fresh snow. My work was just beginning.

  After unloading the plane, I packed all my gear 200 yards to the campsite. I had to clear snow for a place to set up my tent, then get the stove in place, and cut a good supply of wood. It was dark by the time I was finished, and the stars were out. The night was going to be really cold.

  I’m 65 and have been a senior citizen for 10 years already. While I spend most of my life outdoors and take long summer and fall pack trips with my horses and mules, I wasn’t ready to run up and down the mountains as I once did. Consequently, I spent the first week getting in condition and breaking the trails. The first three weeks, my dogs treed several lions, one of them a big tom and the rest females. None were big enough to consider taking. I was enjoying the action and the solitude.