CHILKAT PENINSULA, Alaska - It was a picture-postcard morning, the type that can elicit a toothy grin from anyone with a pulse.
A cool breeze tickled the alder-lined meadow, sending branches frolicking. The silt-gray stream, undoubtedly teeming with Dolly Vardens, bubbled and popped as it meandered toward the frothy salt water cove. And snow-capped mountains loomed on the horizon in every direction, standing as sentinels over the rugged surroundings.
The setting dwarfed even the most impressive landscapes I'd ever seen and somewhere among this primeval labyrinth seemingly untouched by time was a big bear. The tracks along the upper edge of the stream bed belonged to either a massive black bear or a respectable brownie, but either way, the hulking animal wasn't too far gone from making its distinct series of impressions in the coarse sand.
There were a number of sets of paw prints, each weaving their own different path along the beach - some headed into the timber - and others that petered out at the water's edge. Perhaps we had missed our chance or maybe the animals simply were too smart to hang out in the open.
Either way, the stage was set for a memorable hunt, regardless of the outcome.
The Last Frontier
To be honest, I'd never been bear hunting anywhere - much less Alaska - so there were the normal up and down emotions that accompany the first excursion into a pursuit that has the potential for danger.
Especially if the trip involves any kind of teeth or claws.
That being said, the confidence factor got a boost after an outing to the rifle range with the tack-driving .300 WSM and a realization that there were plenty of ways the Last Frontier could do a fellow in, so there was no point in dwelling on any of them. After all, more people face an early demise while looking up at an angry moose than a peeved bruin, so I slowly began to shrug off bad thoughts.
My father, Lee, is my next-of-kin and has been on some successful bear hunts in the Southeast (as all Alaskans call that part of the state), so I had at least two things going for me: He could act as my guide and know at least a little bit about what we were doing. Perhaps more importantly, he knew the geography in a place where one mountain tends to blend into another, so there was a better than average chance we'd find our way home - bear in tow or not.
As far as the means and methods to Alaska bear hunting, there's not a whole lot to it. Around the middle to end of May in most areas, black bears and their larger cousins shrug off their slumber, emerging from hibernation. They usually aren't in a great mood, but the first thought sloshing around in their domes is to chow down, normally on plentiful grass if the winter wasn't too harsh. Much like other hunting situations, setting up or honing in on a specific forage sight can be the best way to find, judge and harvest a bear. On our daily excursions, we didn't use any kind of bait, though many hunters utilize it to success in other areas across North America.
The way we decided to tackle the situation was to cruise the beaches in a boat, keeping the binoculars trained on the thin strips of open area closest to the water whenever possible. The problem with most of the islands and peninsulas in the Southeast is there isn't much real estate between the salt water and the dense stands of timber that provide screening cover for all types of critters. That means the biggest bear on the planet could be standing at the edge of the trees or just inside them, and chances are he'd be as hidden as if he was 10 miles back in his leafy lair.
Since bears are apt to be more active and move around in search of food after shaking out of their deep sleep, the odds play into your favor if, after not seeing any animals while scanning, you get out and do some prospecting. If you find bear sign, you know where to set up. If not, it isn't a bad thing. You've simply got to put in your time until you do or find a likely spot that may offer a bear some type of appeal.
After discovering the myriad of tracks a couple of days prior, we knew where we were headed on a bluebird morning.
Be safe
The Zodiac inflatable landed with a slight splash as we nudged it over the stern of the Hewescraft, but before piling in, we made sure the anchor got a nasty bite and took root in the sandy bottom. On a previous bear hunt, my father and a friend learned that there's nothing dreamy about rowing a boat like the song says: The anchor slipped on their larger craft and the ebb and flow of current - which wasn't even that much - pulled the boat at least a mile in the other direction.
With a change in tides that can mean 10 to 15 feet less water in a spot in a relatively short amount of time, it also should be noted to give yourself plenty of cushion underneath if you disembark and leave a craft for more than an hour like we were doing.
If there's a lesson to be learned on any Alaska excursion, it's to do everything as if you're life depended on it - because it probably does - and double-check all matters at least once.
After a short paddle, the raft crawled up on the beach and we hauled it up a short distance so it too wouldn't be meddled with by the tide. After a quick gear inspection, we entered into the spooky timber. It does cause a slight case of goose bumps knowing you could come around a shadowy bend and have a big ball of muscle right in your face, but that is the exception rather than the norm.
Picking our way through the evergreens, we soon emerged on the other side of the alder-lined point and began to stalk along the stream's edge where the tracks again loomed on the sandy surface. Only this time, the paw prints seemed to have cloned themselves as they radiated in a number of arcs and trajectories from the upper edge of the sloping bank. Plopping your foot down next to a big bear track can be a humbling experience, one that had my heart beating at a hefty rate.
We eased along the edge of the timber, glassing every so often and keeping our senses on high alert. Our eyes especially were keyed in on the grassy bowl across the stream, the type of spot where, if there wasn't a bear, you had to wonder where one would be.
Then, the magnificent animal appeared.
Finding the bear
The jet black boar was the embodiment of the power and size of Alaska. The old boy's dense fur covered a rippling assembly of sinew, muscle and bone - the type of mixture only a handful of things in nature possess. In those moments, I knew this was the hunt of a lifetime, the type of grand adventure that may never happen again.
After half-crawling for a couple of minutes that seemed like days, we found the bear in our scopes and tried to slow our pumping lungs and thumping hearts. Having backup is never a bad idea when bears are involved, and this setting was no different. Attempting to track an angry bruin through a thick maze of forest they're accustomed to doesn't rank near the top of my life list.
After collecting myself and making sure I had a steady rest, the safety was clicked forward and the trigger soon was squeezed back, casting a reverberating echo across the landscape and a ringing in my ears.
Humbling experience
Though the hunt ended successfully in a number of ways - chief among them making it back home safe and sound - it didn't diminish in any way my respect for the faraway wilds and wildlife that so many people don't get to incorporate in their collection of memories. If anything, the time spent in the most spectacular of expanses humbled me in a way that can never truly be put into words.
This hunter enjoyed the adventure of a lifetime and treasured every minute of it.
Had the king salmon been running at full tilt, I might never have come back.
Will Leschper is an award-winning member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America and the Texas Outdoor Writers Association. Write to him at wleschper@yahoo.com.
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