by Jay Cassell
“Unlike their comic counterparts, Alaska bears often ignore picnic baskets when there are coolers of food or deer meat to steal, and the bigger they are, the better. While fishing in the Susitna Drainage one evening, Mark Ubanic woke up with a start, and watched bewilderedly as a massive brown bear chewed into the end of a five-foot-long cooler. The teeth punctured the hard plastic as if it were butter, but the lid wouldn’t budge. A powerful death-grip bite, followed by a massive headshake, also failed to dislodge the contents.
“Not bringing a cooler with him, Mark realized he was witness to a theft and a breaking (and soon-to-be entering) crime scene. Mirth turned to caution as another bear appeared. He watched the bears work over the cooler. Like tag-team wrestlers, one rested while the other chewed off bits of plastic. A third bear soon joined the fracas, and slammed its body into the cooler several times. Obviously irate, the bear sprung into the air and body-slammed the cooler with all its weight. Soon after, the grunts, warning growls and sloppy and furious chomping signaled the cooler had popped open as the bears gorged on the feast. Mark soon heard, but dared not look to confirm, that some bears were becoming increasingly angry over sharing. The first bear to be chased off looked around and gazed into Mark’s tent. Mark froze, then suddenly breathed a sigh of relief when the owner of the cooler charged up the trail, shouting, waving his arms and yelling. The bears scattered to the four woods with various foodstuffs.
“While bear encounters like these make us wipe our brow and pat ourselves on the back for being true survivors, there is no comparing them with those victims of bear attacks who have been maimed . . . or have never emerged from their journey through the Night of the Brown Bear.
“In 1996, world-famous brown-bear photographer and author Michio Hoshino was photographing bears with a film crew on Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula. In the early morning hours, a rogue bear dragged Michio from his tent and killed him before dragging him off a short ways into the brush. The bear was quickly hunted down and dispatched, but it failed to bring Michio back. Michio made a decision to venture into the Night of the Brown Bear. In its darkness, he dared to walk too close to the edge, and slipped.
“The Night of the Brown-Bear is many things, but it is not a single face of a bear or any one incident that can be described. Rather, it is a conglomerate of concerns, a melting pot of very real dangers, shortcomings, hazards, and personal fears, that when combined, form a different face of terror for every man.
“Identify your ultimate fear before venturing into the night. It will help identify your strengths and weaknesses. Some express a hysteria-like concern in not knowing how to protect their children from a brown bear that ran down and killed a King Cove, Alaska boy. Others fear an attack while sleeping in their hunting tent. Others still are afraid of being eaten alive—all of which, although rarely, have happened.
“Even a log cabin often proves to be an ineffective sanctuary. Guide Jim Bailey tells of how a brown bear destroyed his bear-proofed hunting cabin, ripping the door off its hinges, demolishing furniture, biting into pans and utensils before leaving a ring of fur on the jagged edges of a window it probably broke on its way out. Bailey figures the bear smelled what might have been food crumbs that fell into the cracks of the cabin floor, because his floorboards were pried up, with the edges chewed and appeared to be licked clean.
“If you are to survive an encounter with a brown bear, start now by learning how to selectively purge your civilized conditioning. For good reason, our laws encourage us to settle disputes of injuries, thievery or property damage through a mediator or the courts. Brown bears don’t recognize this authority, and survive by dominating territory. We fall into peril when we don’t reprogram our subconscious prior to entering the field. Society embraces kiss-and-make-better solutions to cure the anethemic hemorrhaging of our follow-the-herd programming. Social change has embraced the concept of consolation awards for ‘Worst Costume’ or ‘Last Place Finish.’ Living in an environment that rewards failure, weakens your focus, and dissolves your will may be acceptable in suburbia, but not in the wilderness! Eliminate such programming if you wish to survive the Night of the Brown Bear! The prescription for your survival health and welfare is The Highlander theme: ‘There can be only one!’
“For this is the only law you must adhere to during your darkest hours of trial: you will be the one left standing. But it takes time to train yourself to overcome the paralyzing grip of failure and react with physical precision. Commit now to do whatever it takes to ready yourself. If a hungry, 1100-pound boar decides to strong-paw itself into your hunting tent, expect no help from the cavalry, police, or even your friends. Once trained, you will have the skills to respond immediately to Nature’s involuntary summons and dominate the Wilderness Court of DLP: Defense of Life and Property. Within seconds, you must transcend above your victimized state and become judge, jury and if necessary, executioner. You will triumph. Without practice, the resulting consequences of error or indecision in any of these areas can kill you.
“I’ve had my own experiences with DLP and these rogue raiders. On one trip, I was hunting blacktail deer and elk from an old trappers cabin on Afognak Island with two friends. Winter and f reezeup arrived early; salmon runs were poor; and the bears, hungry. At least our deer would be safe, as brown bears don’t climb trees. Or so we thought.
“One by one, our deer disappeared from the massive branches of a huge spruce. In our cabin, we’d hear the dull thuds of frozen deer dropping 20 feet to the forest floor. Rushing out with rifles in hand, we’d find no night marauder: only hair, claw marks and deeply gouged and missing bark indicating how the bear had clawed up the tree, reached out and slashed down each deer.
“As we bagged more deer the following days, the bear stole and ate each one. The bruin was much craftier now, knowing we were watching and avoiding our efforts to bag him. When the storms hit, we’d never hear the bear. Just see the remnants of deer hide or hair the next morning when we awoke. One evening, angered and frustrated that our deer were gone, and having nothing to sit up all night to protect, we settled in for a good night’s sleep.
“Shortly before midnight, John awoke to his side of the cabin shuddering and stovepipe rattling. John shouted at the top of his voice, his words red-hot needles searing my subconscious. Emerging from deep sleep, I couldn’t see in the blackness, and assumed the bear had broken into the cabin and was attacking John. I grabbed my rifle and rolled off the top bunk. I dropped through the blackness to the floor, landing on my feet and ready to defend.
“Waving flashlight beams and three-second mini-novas of strike-anywhere matchheads revealed no bear inside the cabin. With rifles ready, we ventured into the howling wind for a sign of what happened. The ends of the 12-inch cabin logs, sturdy, yet slightly soft from years of weathering, were sheared off the main logs of the cabin. Others above it were gouged by claws. The bear had attempted to climb onto the roof, possibly to get at and eat a small piece of frozen deer tenderloin the cook had saved.
“Soon the once-a-night visits became several times a night. Such fearless attacks were potentially dangerous, especially when sleep-groggy hunters stagger out the cabin door at all hours to relieve themselves.
“Desperate, we devised a workable plan. We tied a string to a game bag that held the last remaining scraps of our deer. We ran the string through a hole in the cabin door, and tied on a series of empty soda cans. Sitting on empty five-gallon pails, we hovered over the cans, waiting in silence, fighting off the urge to sleep. About 10 p.m., the cans crept ever so slowly toward the door. They twitched again, then clicked together. We were ready.
“In the narrow penlight beam, I could see John ready the huge, wide-beam flashlight. Rick slipped off the safety on his .338. I stood ready with my .338 and headlamp. We all nodded in unison that we were ready. John cracked open the cabin door and flicked on the flashlight. The white beam caught the brownie full-form and Rick’s .338 hit its mark. Pulling on our fleece clothing, we ventured out
into the 15-below temperatures and 20-mph winds, finding the bear less than 30 yards from our cabin. The 8-footer was layered with fat and showed no evidence of starving.
“It’s easy to understand why bears like tent camps. Looking at a campground from the air, the brightly colored tents and coolers resemble colored hors d’oeuvres, arranged in appetizing fashion and surrounded by a decorative garnish of forest.
“Friend J. W. Smith ran a hunting and fishing camp on the Alaska Peninsula, the heart of brown bear country. His dozen tents are pitched within 100 yards of the best sportfishing as well as bear-viewing spots. But don’t look out on the flats for the bears, but rather, in camp. Some of the problems J. W. Smith has learned to live with:
“Meal preparation often requires a guide to grab a shotgun and, while shooting into the air, chase the bears out of the cook tent.
“Throughout dinner, newly arrived guests watch wide-eyed as a guide would suddenly excuse himself, grab a shotgun, and rush outside, shooting into the air, followed by a round of expletives.
“Inside the Quonset-hunt dining tent, clients indulge in to-the-rim refills of fine Cabernet to help calm their nerves for the inevitable hike back to their sleeping tents. J. W. claimed never to have lost a client to a bear.
“Sometimes Smith becomes what the guides call ‘unbearable.’ Once while taking an afternoon nap in his tent, Smith awoke with a start to find a bear sniffing around his head. The bear’s salmon-fattened, rotundo body plugged the tent as tightly as a cork in a wine bottle. Smith gave the bear a strong right cross, which sent it scurrying for cover. Sometimes you just gotta stand your ground and fight back.
“The Night of the Brown Bear also has a lighter side, ranging from bear jokes to black humor. For instance, be wary of a hunting buddy who wears sneakers and carries a .22 for bear protection. Why? Because if you can’t outrun your buddy, he’ll shoot you in the foot with the .22 to slow you down, so he can outrun you. (From what I’m told, the lighter caliber doesn’t inflict much damage, and imparts a hop-along, crippling effect, which the bears seem to prefer.)
“Of course, here’s an instance I heard about on the incorrect use of pepper spray. A newly arrived soldier to Alaska purchased some pepper-spray bear repellent. According to hospital personnel, the solider stated that immediately before departing on a fishing trip, he perhaps took the term ‘bear repellent’ a bit too literally. He assumed the application was the same as with insect repellent. He sprayed his face and neck with the ‘bear repellent,’ and immediately realized the severity of his mistake. The moral of the story? Let the bears pepper their own soldier steak!
“Ah, look, the first rays of morning. Before you depart, friend, on your hunt, let me share with you a few words that have kept me and quite a few of my fellow brown bears alive from hasty, impulsive mistakes made by either side. Shocked to hear that? Don’t be. Honorable warriors respect their adversaries, and after being thoroughly trained in battle or survival, the ultimate goal of any warrior-survivor should be peace.
“The phrase is from Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese strategist and military tactician. I’ve taken the liberty to modify it slightly in recognition of you being made an honorary graduate of the Night of the Brown Bear:
“‘You do not have to possess sharp eyes to see the sun and the moon, nor does it take good ears to hear the thunderstorm. Wisdom in brown-bear country is not obvious. You must see the subtle and notice the hidden to emerge victorious.’”
“As you walk through the Night of the Brown Bear, feel the wilderness with more than just your hands. Look with more than just your physical eyes; look with the eyes of your soul, and hear the bear and its environment speak to you of its dangers, as well as its wonders. Do this, and I guarantee you’ll avoid most if not all hazardous or life-threatening brown-bear encounters.
“Speaking of communication, the twitch in my fishing arm tells me we should grab those fly rods, and amble down to my favorite salmon hole before the bears do. Your blacktail deer can wait, as these late-run silvers are so much fun this time of year. And who knows? Perhaps if we’re lucky, and we sing as we go, we’ll discover that we’re too late and find a salmon flopping around for us in the middle of the trail!”
Christopher Batin is a resident of Alaska, and editor and publisher of Alaska Hunter Publications. He is also the author of the award-winning book, Hunting in Alaska: A Comprehensive Guide, which includes a detailed chapter on how to hunt Alaska wolves.
Two Bulls
E. DONNALL THOMAS, JR.
The elk of a lifetime reminds us that the value of the hunt cannot be measured in inches.
Wind is the most capricious element the bowhunter faces in the field. It cannot be controlled or disguised, and game animals detect the scent it carries with an acuity we can scarcely imagine. Since we are largely at its mercy, the best approach to a fickle wind is often a judicious retreat. All successful hunters must eventually learn that lesson, especially those ambitious enough to do their hunting with traditional archery tackle.
That’s why I spent days waiting for a southwest wind to follow the elk down the coulee as they moved from the bedding cover to the little spring. Southwest winds are common in my part of Montana, but the weather had pushed steadily out of the northwest all week. Northwest was close, but it wasn’t close enough, not for the big herd bull and his harem of jittery cows. After all the scouting I had done, I wasn’t taking any chances. I was the only member of this cast of characters who knew that an elk hunt was taking place, and since I wasn’t going to let a treacherous puff of wind cost me that advantage, there was nothing to do but avoid the area until conditions changed. Patience and planning may not enjoy the appeal of more aggressive hunting tactics, but sometimes that approach is just what it takes to get the job done.
Now, the wind was finally right. Warm autumn colors spread across the hills as I hiked up the draw and settled into my blind near the edge of the spring. Fresh elk tracks punctuated the mud in front of my hiding place, and the willows bore fresh scars from heavy antlers. With the wind in my face at last, this was the night to kill the herd bull . . . if the elk came down this coulee instead of one of a dozen others, and if they arrived during shooting light, and if the cows didn’t detect me first. Suddenly, the litany seemed all but overwhelming.
My blind was a simple affair cobbled together from brush and a strip of camo netting. Squatting inside, I noticed the freshly killed remains of a sharptail left behind by a hawk. I started to discard them, but then I hesitated. There was no reason why two predators couldn’t share the cover. Finally, I nocked an arrow, checked my shooting lanes, and fussed over a few stray twigs and branches until I was sure there was nothing left to deflect a shaft.
Then there was nothing left to do but wait.
Although unfavorable winds had kept me away longer than I wanted, it had scarcely been an uneventful week. Little wonder; for serious Montana bowhunters, there is hardly ever an uneventful week in September.
My only regret was that I hadn’t been there when Joe killed his bull. Joe is the teenage son of longtime hunting partner Ray Stalmaster, and while he has accumulated a record of success that most archers twice his age might envy, a big elk had always eluded him. He deserved a good bull, and I was sorry I hadn’t been there when he finally killed one.
And he had taken his bull with class. Joe was working his way down a long draw when he heard the first bugle on the ridge above him. Hustling ahead in order to pick up some more of the wind, he kept track of the bull’s progress with his ears as their two paths slowly converged. Finally, he came to the edge of an open meadow and realized that he was going to meet his quarry without the benefit of cover.
But there was a lone pine tree in the middle of the clearing. Thinking quickly, Joe climbed up into its lower branches. When he finally saw the bull emerge from the timber, he cow-called and the bull charged the source of the sound. Joe’s longbow sent his arrow down from the tree and through the elk’s heart, and he watched it
collapse in plain sight barely fifty yards away.
Imaginative tactics, good shooting, and a clean kill . . . bowhunting doesn’t get much better than that. And to top all this off, the bull was a heavy, symmetrical seven point, the kind of animal most elk hunters will do without for a lifetime. Joe was modest, Ray was proud, and everyone was happy. For a while, it seemed as if the season had given us all that we could ask of it, but I still had an elk tag in my pocket, and the memory of all that fresh sign around the wallows just wouldn’t go away.
Nestled in my blind, I watched a herd of antelope cross the head of the coulee half a mile to the west. A marsh hawk worked the tall grass on the other side of the spring, feinting, towering, and finally moving on. I wondered if this was the other hunter whose meal I had so recently interrupted, and if so, what his attitude might be toward my intrusion. Through it all, the wind held steady from the direction of the setting sun. All I needed to convert a beautiful evening into an elk hunt was some elk.
And suddenly they were there, a dozen harried cows stampeding down the draw toward the spring. It didn’t take long to determine the source of their agitation. A piercing bugle rose above the sound of the breeze, ending in a resonant grunt that seemed to shake the earth. When the bull finally trotted into sight at the rear of the column, I didn’t need my binoculars to know that I was coming face to face with the king of the mountain himself.
In fact, events were moving a lot faster than I wanted. An enthusiast of controlled, deliberate archery, I had envisioned lots of time to make sure the end game went according to plan, but the elk had other things in mind. Flush with the imperatives of the rut, the bull was bugling incessantly and charging his cows like an overworked sheep dog trying to keep track of too many sheep. Suddenly, cow elk were scattered everywhere. Matters were getting out of hand.
