Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Alaska I need another Alaska Fix......

That's right, gotta keep the head moving in the right direction...keep the Minds Eye on that AK Adventure I be wishin' and wantin' for...

The one that's gonna convince me to stay there...you know what I'm talkin' about.

How 'bout a bunch of yer best Bear Stories...and pics...

Hell...don't hold back on the details.... <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/grin.gif" alt="" />

This is my story from last seasons Caribou Brown bear hunt

This is of my second hunting trip this fall.
I took my step son Matthew on this trip. it was his first ever.
He did wonderful. I had to take him out of school for the trip.
I told the principal that It is sometimes wise to not let school stand in the way of a young mans education.
I received a grimaced smile from the principal, so I slipped him a $20 and then he was fine with it. lol,,,,not really, but it may have worked I don't know?
I know how you educators work, my pop was a principal once�.
Its all about the payola if you know what I mean.

Ok now for the real story�.or whatever�.

Back at work again. Our flight to Anchorage did not arrive until 6 pm last night, and my guys were behind me one flight due to over booking. When we picked up all the gear and luggage, well of course the airline left one cooler back in the Village which contained some much needed gear.. (Stuff these guys owned and would need to take home with them) The Airline promised to send it down to the Kenai the next day �
I arrived in my driveway @ midnight. And just crawled into bed. ,, What a trip.. I mean it was another Adventure, and it seems like Alaska is a place that desires above all,,, that the word �Expedition� be part of every sentence.
Wet, Wett, Wettt, Whett�. and cool weather for the last week. We all lived in Gortex and polar fleece clothing though, and what a wonderful thing that is.
For the past 12 or so years I have outlawed any Cotton garment in my camp. It is a wonderful thing in most places, but it is not an indigenous plant here in Alaska, and for good reason.. Cotton is a sponge,,, and In Alaska being a Sponge is no fun.
(Sponge Bob Square pants and Bikini bottom are in the tropics for a reason).. You will waste your time trying to dry cotton out, because it will become a sponge immediately when you step outside. (Its magic I tell you)
Hypothermia is one of our greatest killers here, and most folks don�t realize you can die from it in 50 degree weather.
It seems like almost every hunter I have ever had tries to sneak a favorite Cotton Garment into the duffel bag. As soon as I see it emerge, I find a way to get it away from them, and get it wet right away. It then becomes useful in the kitchen wash basin as a wet rag used to wipe down the table. All cotton, Except for Underpants,,, end up this way. Panties are not to be used for anything around the kitchen�.
�Hang it up and let it dry� I tell them�. it never does dry�.., and they still seemingly can�t grasp the concept.
On these trips, I have had with me Self made men, Millionaires, Doctors, CEO�s and extremely educated people, and yet this Cotton thing seems to be the one basic thing the learning curve struggles to get above 0,,, I mean � 5�.
It�s my cross to bear I suppose. I guess I must let one of them die before the others will learn.
�It is better that one die from Hypothermia from wearing cotton� so a whole nation can survive wearing polar fleece, Wool, Gortex, and other fine synthetic blends��..
Yeah, that�s my new slogan��
I must put this on my headstone for all to know. Or better yet on the headstone of the unlucky cotton sponge, dead guy.
Mother nature tries her best to reclaim the weak and unworthy so the strong will only survive to upgrade the herd.
I guess the Chicken in me says I don�t need the Law suit from the bereaving family.
Enough about that..
Our trip�
Caribou were scarce; 12 miles of hiking the tundra this day showed only 20 some odd animals in even more distant valleys. I leave it to my hunters to decide if they want to hike an additional 2 more miles from camp to try for the Ungulate of choice. It�s usually an easy decision for these softies. We did see 3 wolves on that day, but they were also out of range of the modern day smoke pole. (Gun) ..
An unlucky Beaver was taken out of frustration as we neared camp.
One of the Hunters asks if his license was good for Alaska Beaver hunting? �Of course� I said,� but it�s not usually the trophy of choice�. 12 miles of tundra can change a fellow�s standard I suppose�. I was very surprised when I heard the rifle shot, I did not think he was serious.
After I pulled the buoy shaped beav to shore. Exclaiming . �Good deal� I told the mighty hunter. �I was in need of a new pancake turner �as I examined his big flat tail�.
Unit 18 is open to shooting Beavers, although I never thought to do it myself� They may have something here. Hmmmm
Early to bed? I asked my campmates as they crawled from the dining tarp area to the Tent.
�Hey, you still have rice and Gravy on your chin from dinner �. I said to one of them, He brushed his face with his shirt sleeve and went for the zipper on the tent.
Humor comes to me in strange places�.
The next day and a little less hiking. A bear on a mountain slope eating blueberries 3 miles away. Another wolf, and missed shots at over 300 yds.
More days of Glassing and hiking, Caribou, Moose, Bears and Wolves� All not willing to near our range of hiking power or will.
On Purpose I am avoiding the Beaver ponds on the way back to camp each evening, as to keep the population from certain demise.
I told them no shooting Ravens, Eagles or Osprey, but Seagulls and Merganser ducks were open season. Now that is a lie, but I hate Mergansers� why? I am not sure, but it may be from some horrible encounter I had as a small child�.. Ok, I have no Idea but �. None were taken as they searched their souls for some dignity. Or maybe it was them seeing my big grin every time I pointed one out that could be taken.
I worked on the Beaver hide each night for a few minutes, fleshing and salting him for taxidermy work. �Man this is gonna look great above the Mantle� I would exclaim..
In my best Eskimo Accent I said�.
�Tomorrow is the day. This is Hunting, - Not harvesting, Anyone can pull up to the fenced field and shoot an animal, but the Hunt is what we are after, not the killing. Taking an animal is the bonus. It will make our souls stronger to work for this. So says me Nanook of the North,, Great hunter���.
�Oh yeah?��.. Bill said, �shut up and hand me another mole skin bandAid for my blisters� ,,,,,,,
The next day as if on cue, the animals near camp, and make for the rifle shots and then the photo shoots, the heavy hauling to camp. The tension releases in my hunters, and now they shift their complaints to the weight of the meat laden pack frames.
Laid out on clean tarps, I Cool the meat near the shore of the lake that night, and prepare for the Float plane to arrive the next day at 2 pm.
The tent has a different smell now. We have game and the blended elements of men and game are somehow easy to breathe.
Folks come to Alaska to get the �Big One�.
With Hunting Magazine photos of trophy Moose, Caribou, Bear and the elusive Beaver, Hunters travel North expecting to put themselves and their catch in such Magnificent pictures of their own.
My needs are much simpler �I am thankful for Baby wipes tonight� as I say my prayer.
I wash up all over each day using these little paper towel jewels; I use the unscented ones as to not give the perception of preparing my self for a new diaper, but really so the wild game is not spooked from the perfume.
I do think of my own Babies though each time I look at the model baby pictured on the side of the pop top dispenser, I smile and remember using the baby smelling ones on my children, my babies were much prettier than the model they used�
Lots of snoring going on tonight. I lay awake and think about the trip, the different personalities, and the small tests that were set for myself and the nimrods from the city. They did ok and they learned a lot, but not as much as I did, and I am thankful that my mind can still learn and I can be excited about the morning ahead.
We have several hours before the plane arrives so a short hike to a hill that has a good vantage point over our Beautiful Alaska lake valley. The Mountains always intrigue me because I can look at them, and look at them over and over, and still not memorize all the lines, rocks and gulleys. Too much beauty for my mind to capture I suppose.
The wind is perfect, in my face at 5 knots. I peek over the rise and view the valley over from us, and see a Wolf.
A real pretty one too. We make a stalk, and near 200 yds. I turn to tell my client we have no cover from here so he must make the shot. But as I turn, I view the surrounding area, and see a nice Brown grizzly in a gully to the left.
I point to him, and now we loose interest in the Wolf, and crawl toward the bear. 300 yds and then behind a small hill and some willows. His head is down, he is looking and digging for ground squirrels so we move quickly,,,, head up, we stop and stay perfectly still,,, head down and now slowly we move through the wet ground to within 120 yds.
�This is It � .. I whisper� and then the roar of the 375 H&H rifle breaks the quiet�.
The Bear Roars as he is hit, Water sprays from his hide,, He bites at himself in an instant and then rolls over and over and out of sight.. I run to gain vantage above him, and hear him moving through the willows below,, he emerges and heads away as fast as he can go,, I fire a shot, and then another , and then he is out of sight.
We find a bone about 4 inches long, it looks like a rib bone, the blood trail is easy to follow�.
He goes down hill,, good sign,, but in heavy cover,,, then his trail goes up a small hill,, bad sign, as a bear that is hit in a lung or vital will seek down hill travel if at all possible..
Up a small ravine, the bottom is covered in willow ,small Aspen trees, and Devils club, these of which have leaves the size of paper plates and provide great cover. I climb a small hill along the side of the ravine and see him moving along the small creek. I fire and he falls never to move again.
He has traveled almost a mile from the place my hunter took a deep breathe, and pulled the trigger.
As I finish the capping of the hide, I hear the plane flying toward our lake and camp. My Watch says its 2:15 pm.. The pilot will see the camp still set up. And no one around. He will wait for an hour before he will head on to take care of his other customers.
I wonder what is going on in the minds of my hunters now? Do they realize what has happened to this animal of Gods creation?. Do they understand the Stewardship of man over the Beasts?
My heart is heavy as I think that maybe they are just takers of things. Am I just a taker too?
We are 2 miles from Camp now as I load the 85 lbs of hide on my pack frame and head towards camp.
The pilot is patient and waits. We tear down the camp quickly and load the plane with bags of meat, antlers and hide.
The two hour flight back to Civilization is smooth and comfortable.
I sit next to the pilot in the right seat, and talk to him on the headset. He talks to the Air port air traffic and uses the Word �Creamy� in his explanation of flight conditions�.
Old Tom the pilot says I smell like stinking bear hide..
I smile and ask him if he is jealous�. We laugh�
We look really rough compared to the clean and crisp looking pilot.
�Hey Tom, That�s a nice Jacket you have on� .
He says�yeah, but it sucks when I get it wet�Its Cotton��

Great Story...

Ditto

Boy WildsWalker I have a buddy that if he posted his AK hunting stories on here you would either piss your pants from laughing or would stay as far away from AK so as not to run in to him

He sounds like most of the Huntin' Pards I got now..... <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/grin.gif" alt="" />


I don't think anyone else want's to brag a little with a Bear Story or two......what a shame.... <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/grin.gif" alt="" />

Excellent story.

Well were leaving in 21 days for a brown bear hunt and I bet we will have some great stories to share after this one.

Please fill us in and stay safe...

Good Luck,

This is after we have capped him out, We were in such a hurry to get back to the waiting pilot we only took a couple of pictures, and he was already skinned out, so you can't get a jest of his size. He squared 8ft7in, so he was just a nice bear, not a huge bear.

One fine spring day in Eagle Rver, Alaska, I was sorting and packing my gear in the open-doored garage. Some of the items had dribbled out onto the driveway. A new neighbor two houses up and one over was on her way to the community mailboxes by the creek. I say "Hi" as she walks by. On the return trip she stops and says "What'ca dooin?" I said I was packing for a spring bear hunt. Now I had not talked to this woman more than twice, normal neighbor-talk. She had a New England type accent, odd I thought as she had just moved from Florida. She blinked, took a step backward and said "OH". Some time later...Susan has me trapped sorting mail at the mailboxes. She said " So did ya shoot a poor bay-er?" Oh geeze, I think. But sometimes being quick with an excuse or story, I said to her "Well, Susan no, we did not shoot any bears". She said in a quick reply..."Did'nt 'ya see any bay-ers?" I said "We saw about thirty five bears just on the boat ride to where we wanted to go, then quite a few the whole time we were out". A pause that I needed, but not so lucky was I. Taking a little step closer she said "So why did'nt you shoot one, then?" Here is where I should have shut up. (but I was still a bit, anyway out there, in the Sound bear hunting) I said "Susan, killing a bear is a deeply personal matter. In fact it is something you have to live with the rest of your life (here it comes)...Like getting married." Those big eyes blinked, brown, she had brown eyes, funny I had never noticed. Stepping back she just said "OH". If memory serves she started to walk home then remembered her mail and was once again facing me. I just
walked back home, mail in hand. New neighbors are a fact of life. In time we all on the street became pretty good friends and looked out for and took care of one another. Susan took to the Outdoors, Camping fishing, being single, she took training, bought and practiced with a handgun. As we found out later she was in Alaska as a result of a divorce in Florida. I felt badly because of the marriage bear hunting thing I had said to her earlier. The housing prices took a rapid price increase and Susan flipped her house... and moved to town.

Alaksacanoe,
Great post! I sure appreciate guys like you that are willing to put up with us in order to have those great Alaska experiences. Now, count me as one doctor that brings no cotton to AK, but last year when I hit the Seattle airport on my way home to Atlanta, I bought a whole cotton outfit complete with flip flops, and truthfully it was heaven to change.
Hopefully I'm learning a little each year to make me less a burden, and improve my enjoyment. On the otherhand, I require a strong effort on the guides part, and through several camps I've been in, I'll have to say, I've never been disappointed. All my sheep guides wore cotton jeans last year, and I felt a little overdressed, but I spent the whole trip in smartwool long johns and breathable raingear. Had to bulk up with extra insulation (patagonia micro puff) several times. I was comfy and again had a great time (no beavers though, but two wolves didn't make it home). The scariest experience through it all was the damn pack horses that periodically went apesheet for no reason.......which reminds me of another thing I learned.......never, ever shine a headlight at a wild canadian pack horse <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/crazy.gif" alt="" />
Don

Part 1 of 2 from a few years back. I have pics, but not the skills to post them... Quite long I realize, but if you get bored, a click of the mouse ends the suffering pretty quickly. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

Cheers,

L

Long before I could call myself a hunter, from the time I was a young child, in fact, I yearned to tromp in the wildness of places I visited only in dreams. One of those
places I know now, she is called Alaska.

In the time since W bid me adieu at Juneau International, I�ve slowly digested my Alaskan experience. And in preparation to put to paper the memories still wet in my head, a tangible, everyday comparison I sought. I felt I needed a vehicle to help me describe an experience I found so overwhelming and intense that I was at an unusual loss for words to describe it.

I began considering things I have done in my life that provided feelings of intense exhilaration. Roller coaster rides I thought of for starters, and other kinds of pedestrian pastimes that provide quick adrenaline rushes. Not even close. A roller coaster is a non-interactive, passive experience. You simply sit and hang on. Being part of an impromptu gunfight as a teenager was scary and likewise, exhilarating to be sure, but no. Hmm. Rocketing through downtown traffic at 70 mph on my Yamaha�s rear wheel �well sure, that got the adrenal gland secreting away, but still wasn�t what I was after either. What I felt at times while hunting Alaska was not even of the same family of fleeting rushes such as those experienced in my reckless adolescence. Moreover, Alaska was more than just pure exhilaration and adrenaline. What I felt was powerful and enduring. In fact, I can close my eyes and still feel it.

Back to where I was going. To bring a measure of justice to the experience and to attempt to describe what I felt in a way that might be understood even by those who do not hunt, I felt I needed to continue to dig for my literary vehicle. Kicking countless ideas around, I had about lost faith when it came to me. I laughed out loud as I realized I had it: my Alaskan bear hunt and subsequent first big game kill was in many ways like the time leading up to, during and following having sex for the first time. Yeah, that's damn close. Crazy, say you? I don't think so. In fact, I believe it's near perfect. Clearly, I�m not the first to use the busted cherry analogy, if you�ll excuse the crudeness, but it was that feeling almost exactly.

The beginning

Some 16 months ago, W and I began our off-list correspondence. It started when I fired off to him a civil, if hot criticism of his word choice in a description of a long-past hunt. I spare the details here, but strangely enough, I was upset over a derogatory term he used in his written piece I felt the need to call him on. Funny, that. Imagine me taking that sort of thing out of context�

It wasn't exactly a fantastic beginning, but it was our start, and while I may have gotten us off on the wrong foot, we were stepping in unison soon enough. At some later time, he mentioned plans to head off and chase bears. A bear hunt? The hell you say, mister.

My interest perked, I began to ask of him (OK, bombard is a more accurate term) with questions-- many, many questions. At first, most were very general in nature, but slowly became more involved. After a particularly grueling Q & A session just prior to his setting off last year, he ended his correspondence with, 'so, you're coming next year, right? Think about it'. I guess the man was so fed up with my questions that he decided that showing me instead would be less painful. I recall staring at the screen and re-reading his offer several times. In a hastily written response, I told him if he were actually serious, to go ahead and put me down in his planner, in ink. The seed was planted.

He had seen but a fleeting glimpse of her, but it was enough. The infatuation had begun.

Gearing up

The day before my flight I meticulously went over gear, checking each item against my lists. Then I checked again, and again. I was certain something crucial had slipped from my memory. Truth is, I was doing a splendid job making myself daft trying to figure out what it was. Frustrated with the agonizing wait and considering I always lose or forget something anyway, I threw in the proverbial towel. As long as I had my rifle, ammo, knives and pack, I would make do, any forgotten truck be damned. I heaved it all in the car, as much as anything else to keep me from fiddling with it anymore.

And so like the young man and his thoughts of the young lass he has fallen hard for, the nights leading up to my departure were spent restless, if not sleepless. Thoughts of Alaska and bears raced willy-nilly through my consciousness. And like the young lad swooning, I became at times half-crazed with the almost unbearable feelings of anticipation.

What is it really going to feel like for him? Is he up to this? Will he make a bloody fool of himself? What does he do if something goes wrong?

The not knowing was the worst, and chinks showed in my confidence. Yet the thoughts both gnawed at and delighted me; uneasiness mingled with excitement and evolved from something of a passing fancy to a near obsession. The envisioning of how everything would play out was both constant companion and tormenter. Alone in the darkness before sunrise, my mind ran in overdrive, redlining. I was that young lad before his first date with the girl he hoped to call his own�

She who he, God, he might some day� be with...his first�like he who has had his offer accepted and date arranged, he now begins to sweat a bit�

When the clock radio read 4:25, I shut off the alarm that had no need to sound.. I got into the car and headed into town, got checked in and flew out of Logan without a hitch.

He continues to wonder what he�s made of, feels the need to see if he has what it takes�

Seattle

Under other circumstances, I would probably have enjoyed checking out the city a bit, but Seattle this trip was but an annoying, necessary evil. My shot out on US Air to the West Coast from Boston did not coordinate well with any carrier�s next leg up to Juneau, so I arranged to stay with my cousin for 16 hours until I could grab a jet the following morning. My cousin unfortunately remains stuck somewhere between extremely dull and extremely annoying. I had little desire to catch up with him, and vice versa I�m sure, so I simply emptied his fridge of a few beers, feigned at being happy to see him and went in search of a proper watering hole. I figured leaving my gear at his place and him to his dissertation were the best remedy to the awkward situation we found ourselves in. I figured a beer, a few fingers of scotch and a few games of stick would be a good time killer.

I found all three around the corner in a honest-to-goodness dive. I shot a few games of 9 ball with a clearly underage, self-proclaimed runaway, and periodically watched a horribly tanked gentleman at the bar drooling as much liquid onto the bar as the neat gin he ceaselessly poured into his mouth. I had indeed found something far more entertaining than my cousin. I ended up closing the place up. And that was Seattle.

Juneau and W

If you�ve ever flown into Juneau and were awake, you likely remember it. What fun it must be in weather�looking out either side in the final approach as the aircraft descends, one sees not so much the tops of the peaks than the steep faces of rock and ice on either side of the plane. Yet the pilot made it seem easy. And then I was on Alaskan soil. And so like the young man and the girl who has agreed to let him take her out on their first date, it hit me. I�m here in Alaska, and I�m going to hunt bear, and just maybe make my first big game kill.

Oh wow, this is actually happening. Now remember, play it cool�

Walking up the passenger runway up out of the plane, I guess I felt a mild uneasiness. W and I had never met, though I felt I already knew the man in some ways. I had a feeling I was wasting my worry, and sure enough, I forgot all about it as I spotted him standing at the back of the crowd. I walked up and we smiled and shook hands like old friends. After collecting my gear (including my shiny new gun case which was, in less than 24 hours, now an old, dented, scratched and in general, heavily abused case) we were on our way. Home base followed a quick stop at the Alaska Air cargo hold to grab a box I had shipped some 36 hours prior.



Other introductions, errands and The Kapenta

Once at W�s w, as it were, I was introduced to the two other members of our merry group, G.A. and J.C. And a merry group we were. It was clear right away that I was amongst good people, and we all hit it off nicely. We soon were discussing game plans, and last minute needs. Then we were off paying a quick visit to W�s marine mechanic where some minor tweaking was being completed for the maiden voyage. The work would be complete in a few hours, Mike said, and that we could come back in a few hours to haul her.

A few words about the good ship Kapenta: it�s clear to anyone with even a vague notion of marine craft (I fall squarely in this category) that she�s been outfitted for Alaska grade work and weather. Born as a welded aluminum 21 footer with a sweeping v-hull, she sports a fore wheel house which seats 4 with room to spare. The previous owner heavily modified her, making lots of neat, if dramatic changes. The stern was essentially cut off to accommodate a swim deck, which was welded on, giving an extra 4 feet or so to the overall length of the boat. Access to the swim deck is made through a large square open section, allowing access from the wheelhouse almost directly onto the swim deck.

The swim deck itself, which holds extra fuel, rides perhaps 8-10 inches above the water when Kapenta is afloat. In following seas or high swells, it seemed to me, one might have some excitement with that large opening. But no worries, this was a built-for-stout work craft. Large capacity fuel tanks had been added port and starboard. A hydraulic crab pot pulling winch, dual bilge pumps, set-ups for running down riggers, standard communications, navigational, depth and fishing electronics�

From the boat yard we set off to get our licenses and address assorted errands, mainly acquiring added food and drink that we would be hauling along, that kind of stuff. As we exited the AK F&G office armed with our licenses we saw a fairly puny black bear being sealed. It bode well, though, that bears in fact were out and about. A good sign indeed. The four of us were then legal to take a total of 6 black bear. As residents, W and J would be looking into knocking down any big browns we might come across.

Before hauling the boat, W suggested that we who had flown in take an hour out of our day to check our zeros, just to make sure things were what they supposed to be. Having put 500 plus rounds into paper in the two or three months prior to this trip, I knew that as long as the baggage primates hadn�t done my rifle any harm, I was OK, and I was. What was fun at the range was taking Big J�s .458 Win mag and torching off one of his 350 grain handloads. What a hoot! The kick I read about as being so horrible on many of these cannons was negligible to me in my T-shirt. Granted, I fired it only once, but it sure seemed to me that my 12 gauge shotty loaded with late season heavy goose loads kicks about the same. A pleasant but solid thump on the arm from a friend with a few too many beers in him, it felt like.

Soon the boat was hooked up to the jeep and hauled back to load up. The 6 cylinder Cherokee did not much like being asked to haul the heavy boat, but made it without any hitches other than a clutch you could smell. We hit the grocery/LQ and were set for provisions. The errands taken care of, we did some relaxing. That night we set up shop in the garage and talked over 25 pounds of live Maine lobster we cooked up (thus the stop at the freight office), a T-bone steak, some cold beers and a scotch or two. My five years� hunting experience with nary a big game animal to my credit versus the collective one hundred plus and countless critters seemed unimportant, and I was made to feel most welcome as a fellow hunter.

Some time after dinner, G presented all in the group with ulus, traditional native skinning blades. He had taken the time to make one for each of us, complete with sheaths. He explained that it was a bit of a tradition for him on the outset of a hunt to share a bit of himself with his hunting companions. Damn nice tradition, that, and I�m flattered by the gift. I guess I�ve established a similar tradition for myself, albeit in the form of live lobster and a nice single malt rather than durable goods. A shame G, the poor sod, is allergic to lobster�thus the loneT-Bone�though I did not hear W or J complain about us divvying up G�s share. We blanched the four remaining two pounders we simply could not eat and sealed them up in freezer bags for W and W to play with later.

Gear fiddling and lightweight drinking filled the rest of the night, and before long the others headed off to rest. I bid them all goodnight and said I�d probably follow suit at some point, though I knew I would not sleep again until we made camp. I was so charged up I wanted to run in circles to burn off some of the nervous energy. I resisted the temptation for fear of questions of my sanity and with the last remnants of light fading away, I went out front to the end of the drive to lie in the dry grass. I have been called high strung and intense, but that night I was absolutely wired for sound.

He wants this, no, needs this. Please, he plead to no one in particular, let this happer...

Being outside helped, and in short order the view from the end of the driveway had me giggling. The sauce may have helped a bit in my reveling, but you see, W and W have it tough. 15 feet off the side of the driveway is a wilderness area. Just around the corner are glaciers. Looking above the trees from the drive they behold Thunder Mountain and its surrounding peaks. I put my head back and let my brain swim a bit.

Before night gave way to day I was startled by a roaring noise. I sat up, trying to place it. It sounded much like thunder, but not quite. I realized then that it was the mountain shedding. Aha. Thunder mountain. Right, W had mentioned avalanches. I laughed out loud. Alaska was talking to me, and as best I could tell was welcoming me. In a few hours we would be on our way.

The wait is almost over. Hang in there, he tells himself, and you�ll be OK. This will happen if it�s meant to be �



And away we go

W had arranged for a friend to come haul both boat and crew to nearby Auke Bay for our launch, since a big 8 cylinder was really what was needed to pull several tons of boat and gear. We had spent the better part of morning loading up the boat, and it seemed all was going as planned. Guns, gear, food, fuel� And thanks to friend N and his nifty conversion van, in short order we were put in at the ramp, afloat and tied off.


We thanked our ride and made final preparations to be underway. Since all gear had been loaded at the house, so there was nothing much for me to do at this point but smile and take photographs. Soon we were all aboard. Cap�n E powered up the 225 hp Mercury Black Max, and we were off to the races.

I love the ocean, its salty smell and everything it provides, so as we powered out of the bay I chose to sit on deck outside amidst the spray rather than be inside with the others. I took in the gorgeous scenery and got in some quick shots with the old Canon. We had not yet passed out of sight of the harbor when the amazing bounty of Alaskan wildlife began to make itself known. Seals, porpoises, sea lions and humpback whales swam in the cold water all around us, seemingly oblivious to our presence. A myriad of various fishing boats moved in and out of the harbor and snowballs, what the locals call bald eagles, soared over head.




Butterflies filled and tickled his insides at the thoughts of what was to come�

Out of eyeshot of Auke Bay and well into the Lynn Canal, the good Captain had us up on plane and we moved handily through the water amongst a mild chop. J served as navigator and consulted the marine charts, keeping us clear of potential hazards. Things, they were perfect. Right up until the motor conked out.

He hits a snag in their plans and his heart sinks like a stone�

Engine trouble

There was silence as everyone on board looked at the Captain, then each other, then back at the Captain. W shrugged, gave the motor a shot, and we were under power again immediately. Hmm. Just a hiccup, we hoped. Please, please�not now�OK, life is good again. Then perhaps five minutes later, it�s not so great again. The motor died again, and again. I believe I may have looked curious, perhaps even mildly concerned. Inside I was a bit of wreck.

He knew it. He�s never going to get to be with her�it�s always something, he fumes inside�.

It was clear that there was more than a hiccup with the power plant. G, being pretty clearly our most technically savvy crewmember, soon figured out that our problem seemed to be electrical in nature. Specifically, both batteries were low on juice. Since they had been charging all night, seemed to be OK up until that point, he deduced that they were draining. And they were. We debated for a very short time as to whether or not we should keep plowing ahead in the hopes that the problem, likely the alternator, was simply being fussy and would right itself, or to turn back. The decision was unanimous, and we reversed direction and steamed back for port. When we got back in we tied up at dock. W made a quick call and arranged to have another friend come pick he and J up. They would grab a voltmeter, make a few calls to try to both definitively figure out and fix the problem.

While waiting, G and I watched some successful halibut fishermen feed entrails to some happy seals from a dockside cleaning station. I was still somewhat dejected, but my initial horror had given way to optimism. The lack of sleep crept up on me as I lay on a fish cart on the sunny dock, so I stretched out and soon was fast asleep.

Maybe things will be OK. Worrying about being with her isn�t the answer. He must relax and deal with what comes, when it comes, if it comes...

Diagnosis

When W and J returned with the voltmeter we popped off the engine cover again to get at the alternator. I saw lots of soot on the motor and wondered about it, but being as non-mechanically inclined as they come, it meant nothing to me except that the motor was dirty. But it meant something to G. �Here�s the problem�, he said, as he pinched the belt between thumb and forefinger and touched the two. The belt was loose, so the wheel was turning, but not spinning the corresponding wheel on the alternator. So after some running around getting new belts and the proper tightening of same, we were ready to have at it once again. A quick stop to top-off burned fuel, and we were back in the game.

The Lynn canal

To get to the X some 40 miles out of Auke Bay, we would steam up through the Lynn Canal, part of SE Alaska�s inner passage. My eyes feasted on beauty the likes of which I have rarely seen before. The Chilkat range runs along the length of the canal, with massive snow covered mountains dominating over all. Running down to meet the finger of ocean that is the canal as far as the eye can see, glorious, jagged snow-capped mountains abound. I truly was in awe, and snapped a few pictures. From time to time, I went back in to get out of the spray and chat with the crew.

For the most part, we had no more trouble, and soon enough, we were approaching the mouth of the X, our jump off point. I had casually studied topographic maps of the area in order to try to get a feel for the area, and while it did provide a feel, a map simply cannot do justice to any place so magnificent as this. Like a typically bungled attempt at describing a young beauty��she�s gorgeous; a real knockout�, words `cannot suffice. To actually see it, or her, in person, it�s just a whole different ballgame.

W, by necessity, had planned on using the tides to get us in to anchor up. We had to put in as close as possible to the top of high tide, as we could then use the water under the hull to get upriver a ways to anchor up in the shallows. We were a little behind schedule, but all was well, with plenty of water and we put in behind the hook of a sandbar that remained exposed even at high. It was perfect. The Kapenta came aground and the crew was ready for the work we needed to do to get the camp put together. We scrambled ashore and G and I began unloading gear as W and J got the hooks into the water and the additional two lines run ashore.







Camp

It�s not such an amazing thing, perhaps, but it always brings a smile to my face getting a camp set up with others who actually know what they�re doing. 95% of the time, camping in my neck of the woods, I end up doing everything for everyone, or otherwise re-doing what I have asked others to do. It�s not such a big deal and I know what I�m getting in to, since I take out lots of newbies, but watching everything come together the way it did was a nice treat. With the combined outdoors wisdom and basic know-how, using existing materials effectively and efficiently, et cetera, we worked like a well-oiled machine and in no time had everything set up. Walk in the park.

Camp was in a small, isolated but sheltered stand of alder and spruce, some ten feet above the flood tide line, located just at the mouth of the X. Some previous residents made our lives easier in that they left a bounty of stuff with which we used to our advantage. We had a work table in the form of an upside-down 14� aluminum skiff, a perfect sized clearing for the tent, bush paths to points of egress, and even some cut stumps to supplement the driftwood that lay about I used to fuel our fires.

At some point during all the busy work W must have slipped away to glass the area behind us, as he came back and nonchalantly said that we might want to load up, as there were two bears in the backyard. I must have shown a hell of a face, because as W turned away I could see him snickering. I loaded up the 7 mag with three in the magazine and nothing in the spout, then set the rifle to hang in a tree. My knees felt weak and my body a bit tired. As I went to relieve myself in bush I found myself talking. �Calm down and try to relax�, I told myself. You�re fine. I held out a hand and it was mostly steady, but not perfect. The cold, yeah, blame it on the cold. It was warm, but blaming the weather worked just fine. �Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for I�m the baddest MF in the valley�� I walked back to camp feeling a bit better. False bravado sure helps when you�ve got nothing much else to go on. And so it goes.

OK, see, things are working their way out�almost time for the big dance, he realizes�is he ready for this? Yeah, he is� Ain�t nothin� to it but to do it�

We broke out some beer and had a meal that first night. I threw together a fire, something I enjoy greatly, and we swapped jokes and hunting stories. I felt good. I was amongst friends, friends who would guide me through the hunt and any subsequent processes, lending a much-needed hand. But I wanted any help on any actual stalk to be at a bare minimum. It was something I felt wanted, no, needed, as much as is possible. Tomorrow, we hunt.

Some things in life a man just has to do for himself, and this is one, he tells himself...

The game begins

We awoke to a glorious day, perhaps in the low 70s, bright sun shining through a virtually cloudless blue sky. W and J remarked that we must have overshot the X and made land somewhere in the tropics, because the weather, this time of year or any other for that matter, was just unheard of. SE is essentially a rainforest, W told me more than once, and that I needed to be prepared for its quirks. Yet the T-shirt and thin coat I wore would soon see me overheating.

After an initial glassing of our backyard and immediate area we had a bite for breakfast (actually, W does not do breakfast, but morning coffee, strong and black, seems to be a way of life�but the rest of us ate). The plan was to set out in two teams and head into different areas, scouting and killing, if applicable. J and G would head to the East, upriver, and W and I would head North, following the canal, 150 meters or so inland.

I continued to giggle quietly all the while, absorbing Alaska. The place we trod was magical, soul stirring to me. To be out there with a friend I had never met before, willing to suffer me my ignorance with full knowledge of that fact, willing to take the time and effort and expense to show me his Alaska, his slice of heaven, I was humbled. We stopped often to look and W showed me things I missed, making sense to me of tracks and scat I knew nothing of and could not have deciphered on my own. Just as DJ had taken me by the hand and showed me his world in the deep woods of Quebec and his Le Boise, W did the same for me in his Alaska.

We talked quietly about bears, the hunt, and other things. I began to feel at ease with the world, a feeling I do not get often in my urban existence. Sappy, yeah, maybe, but true. And for that I am grateful.

I was a little embarrassed to hear W and the others laugh it up my first night�s extended (but blessedly unintelligible) unconscious conversations and accompanying hysterics. But other than that minor embarrassment, I felt out there with him alive in a way that I just don�t here at home.

At some point, perhaps half a mile out of camp, W decided that we should move more inland. We took advantage of a gap in the cover that we shuttled through to view the open area that stretched between water and mountains. Under W�s instruction, we slid in the shadows of the trees, looking carefully, moving slowly but deliberately. We came to the edge of the clearing, and I began to take off my pack when W put his hand on mine and motioned me to get down. Never did he move his gaze from the far side of the clearing. I saw nothing at first, then I caught movement. Across the field was a feeding bruin. I did as he said, and we donned our glasses. I peered at the bear with hands clutching the binoculars.

An incidental sighting; he encounters the object of his love ad desire on a city block. Dumbfounded by her beauty and wanting to rush to her, knowing it would not be quite right to do, he locks up and suffers, watches her, yearning for her�at a loss at what to do next�

Had W not started whispering a couple of minutes later, I may have lost consciousness there, as I found I had to take a gasp of breath to respond. I had apparently forgotten to breathe as I watched my first bear while hunting. It was a pretty black, with tan muzzle, and as we watched it feed, W determined it was a boar by its behavior. A sow will feed in the same way but act differently, more nervously, glancing back to a tree line and such to check for its young, should there be any present. As best as he could judge at that distance, perhaps 250 meters or better, it was a mediocre bear. Nice, but not one he chose for us to get after on the first day. I told him that I was following his lead exactly, and I had no issues with that. We then slunk back into the tree line. I was absolutely floating on air.

I had told the man earlier that I had several goals I wanted to meet on this adventure, and that by seeing that bear in the wild, a major one had been accomplished. If I was to go home and see no other bear, I was happy. I meant this, but at the same time I felt something else that perhaps I did not say. An itch had developed that needed scratching; a sensation, no, a need grew within me. I wanted badly to hunt him, to test myself against that bear. I wanted desperately to run my hands through its hair. I wanted to run my fingers along its ears and touch its teeth and to smell its smells. I wanted to feel my hands wet inside of the beast and taste of its flesh.

He feels like he needs this now and can practically taste it� he musn�t get cocky�musn�t jump the gun� musn�t stray any further out of his element�he�s already in a place he hates to admit, but knows nothing of...if he takes it slow, they�ll be OK when the time is right�

We continued on and came across other bear tracks and fresh scat, maybe belonging to the bear we had seen, maybe not. At the far end of the field we paused for a break at an old airstrip. W punched in the location on his GPS, we shared some water, and moved to the coast. While W did some more future referencing, I told him I was going to the water�s edge. I made it down to the rocky beach, smiling all the while, and knelt by the ocean amongst a myriad of tidal pools. I saw that I was in a mussel bed, so I pulled my Breti (thank you, Kyle) and popped a few open to taste their salty sweet meat. I wiped off the blade and turned to go back to W. We quietly made our way back to rendezvous at camp with the other team to compare notes. That first day would bode well for what was to come.

Regrouping

Back at camp we discussed options. G and J had spotted some sign, but none of it too fresh. W and I, on the other hand, had seen lots of sign, and had the opportunity to watch the black. He was feeding on tubers or roots in the field itself, the same as the two the first night. A pattern showed itself. The bears were moving in the early evening, and we were right where they wanted to be. Tomorrow we would see if the pattern would hold. Get up, relax, and do some spotting around camp. W was sure he had the bears doped out, and said that if we were diligent and patient, the bears would come right to us.

As will happen, a pattern within our own group developed. I made the fires, W and G cooked, J had his share of tasks, including watching the boat and repositioning anchors and so on. We meshed well. We ate good food, relaxed, laughed together. I really could not have asked for a better fit. It just was right. As I am wont to do, I asked lots of questions and got proper answers, and I learned from those boys. That night the adult beverages flowed freely, as did some stories that will likely never be shared with strangers or while children are present.

Eventually the rest of the lads wandered off to the tent. And as the pattern of my own lifestyle dictates when home in the city, I stayed up alone. But rather than sulk or wonder what was to become of my life in the city, I reveled in that place, unabashedly happy. That night, I�m certain, as I lay by the fire under the Alaskan night, I fell into the arms of Morpheus wearing a smile.

He chooses not to make his presence known, but to instead watch her from afar. Her form gliding along as she did her own thing was amazing to him. How can one be so beautiful without knowing it, without even trying? As he turned to leave, she looked up and caught his gaze. Then she smiled as she waved to him�his shyness showing,, his face hot, he manages a smile back�she motions for him to call, and he nods�.things were taking shape for him, he thought, and that that night he dreamt beautiful dreams of her�

The visitor

We awoke as we had the first day, leisurely and amidst the sunny warmth of mid-morning. After some coffee and camp duties, we spread out to sniff around the beach and upriver a ways, stopping to examine the many tracks left by bears in recent days. At least one track was made by what W believed to be a very large bear. The shorter claws meant it was not a grizz, but then, W pointed out that with all the black bear activity we were seeing, there were likely no browns in the area.

A few short recon trips were conducted into the afternoon, and with nothing moving, at around 3:00 we decided to have get lunch together in preparation for the afternoon visits that W predicted. As W and G put together pork chops and assorted goodies, J and I sat around back just in case something came sneaking in. I was glassing the beach when J said, �we�ve got company�. My heart stopped and I put down my glasses to look at where his were focusing. I saw the brown shape he was looking at in the distance and put quickly put mine back to my eyes. �I think that might be a small brown, but I�m not so sure�. I was excited as hell, and another one of my goals had been reached. I was looking at a maybe grizzly bear in the wild. �Say L, go ahead and get W out here, would you?�

Off I went like a shot (a quiet shot, that is), my heart beating fast. I tried to act nonchalant as I arrived at camp, but believe I probably failed. I raced back and blurted out to W that there was a brown bear out back. �Allrighty�, he said, as he continued to play with a chop on the grill. I thought perhaps he didn�t hear me, and I almost repeated myself. I watched with stunned curiosity as he leisurely put down his utensil and covered the grill up. He then stretched. What the�? He then strolled over to grab his glasses and headed out back through the path. I�ll be a son of a bitch. Cool as a cucumber dropped in a snow bank, this old boy is! I giggled and brought up the rear.

When we got around back J was gone. We then saw that he had moved upriver about 75 yards to a better vantage. �Hmm. I don�t reckon that�s a brownie, but I�m not 100% sure. I�m going to join J and try and get a better look�. �Okay, I�ll just sit here and watch�, I responded. Off W went to join J. I was basking in this stuff, watching it all. The ocean to my right, the salty air filling my nose, the river to my left, mountains surrounding it all, and dead in front of me at perhaps 350 yards, a maybe brown bear. Life, she can be good. I went back to camp to grab my camera. I knew it wouldn�t make for a great shot; even with my Nikon 10� zoom lens mounted, I couldn�t bring the bear into any decent viewing range. In fact, it looked much like a dog even cranked up at the full magification. That was OK, I�d know what it was. I couldn�t shoot a brown with a rifle, but I could do as I bloody well liked with my camera, and did take a couple of shots of him grazing in far end of the field.




They meet briefly, and he gets a taste of what she�s like�he yearns for her, wants her� aches to know her more�be with her�she seems to feel the same way for him�

Time for some action

I heard movement behind me, and so took my gaze off of the maybe brown which was slowly moving to the southwest, toward the river and slightly inland. It was G, coming to join me watch, I assumed

�What a beautiful beast, huh G?�� I asked. �Too bad you and I can�t hunt them anytime soon unless we hit the lottery or inherit a small fortune. I must say, he looks kind of small compared to what I figured a brown would look like, even at this distance�. G had a strange grin on his face, I noted, and looked much like the proverbial Cheshire Cat. I looked at him with mild suspicion before turning back to watch the maybe brown. �You want him?� he asked? I dropped the glasses again and turned, confused. �What are you on about?�, I asked. He paused, obviously enjoying this immensely. �W is 95% sure that�s not a brown, but a blackie. We have to decide between us who wants to try to stalk him up and get close enough for a shot�.

He hears a knock at the door, and parts the blinds of the window to look out. As he peers out curiously, he sees her standing there. She is fixing her hair in the reflection of the glass door. He almost falls over. What is she doing here? Oh�. My�God�

Before I could generate a response to G, he said, �Man, I think you should be the one to try�. I stumbled for words, but was able to blurt out something regarding asking if he was certain he was willing to allow me this first chance. He nodded. �Yeah, you get after him. J�s going to back you up in case it gets hairy or it turns out to be a brownie after all� �Are you sure you�re sure?� I asked him. He nodded in agreement. �Thank you, brother� I said, and didn�t wait for another response. A smile spread across my face as I bolted back to camp to grab my 7 mag.

The stalk

I met J and W as they continued to examine the bear from behind a large driftwood log at the river�s edge. �So we have a winner, do we?� W asked as I slid in behind him. �Yah mon�, I said, trying to keep my thoughts straight and keep my sentences short, as it was tough enough at this point to string words together.

�OK, J�s going to back you up. Better get going, because he�s heading towards the river. If he gets there first and gets out onto the flats, you might not be able to get close enough for a decent shot because of lack of cover. Just remember to work that bolt, right?�. I waited for some more instruction, but W was back with the glasses. �Um, huh?� I wondered to myself. �That�s it? That was my big pep talk?� I turned to J and he nodded. I shrugged, smiled, and off we went. I was giggling again.

He is giddy with thoughts as he walks to the door� they had recently become much more familiar, had spent all the spare time they had together�made strides in their relationship...he could feel it now�one of these days it was going to happen�God, what was she doing here unannounced anyway�

We quickly decided that the best plan of action would be to get ourselves down to near the water�s edge, as the bank would keep us hidden from view at least until we were ready to head inland on an intercept course. There we would use available brush and trees to stay hidden. When we got close enough, I would leave J and take it from there.

He opens the door and stammers out a greeting�she smiles broadly, and wearing her little summer dress she is a vision of beauty to him �she explains that she was just in the neighborhood and thinking of him, decided to drop in�he nods his understanding, and they stand�looking at each other� his mind is spinning like a top, gyrating wildly�as she glides by close he can smell her perfume and see all her gentle curves� there is something different in the way she looks at him now�something is going to happen today�

J took the lead and we stealthily made our way about 100 meters upstream, having checked once to see if our quarry was still moving. He was, if slowly. We hurried, keeping as best as we could away from any noisy footing. We made our way towards an uprooted tree�s root system at the crest of the riverbank. J noticed at this time that I was crouching, and told me it was better to stand straight, as the motion associated with a head bobbing to look up and down might give us away. �Got it�, I said. We peeked from behind the root and glassed for the bear, who was about 90 meters away now, dead ahead and feeding off towards the left. I whispered to J that we could keep ourselves unseen by staying left and moving in, using a small spruce to keep between us. And so we did, with J and I now moving side by side, slowly now.

Not even sure what he�s doing, he takes her by the hand and starts upstairs. He is at least as shocked when she squeezes his hand back and follows, wearing now a shy smile�

We run into some dried, noisy brush underfoot, and have to backtrack a few times in order to find a route not covered by anything but the dry grasses of the field. Twice we lose sight of the bear, and I am not a little nervous since we think we know where he is, but cannot see him. I kneel down and peek along a sight line along the side of the spruce to look. And there he is, oblivious to us. He�s now some 60 meters away.

He leads her into the bedroom and sits down on a chair, offering her the other�

We make the tree and go down to one knee apiece. �OK, I�m going to get a good final look at him, but I�m sure at this point he�s a black. You should take a good look and decide now if you want him. If you don�t, we ought to back on out of here quietly and not spook him.� �Got it�, I said.

She instead walks slowly to the bed and sits on the edge�

After eternity, or some 30 seconds more likely, J says, �he�s a black for sure. He�s got a gorgeous coat; no rubs as best I can tell. Size wise he�s no monster, I�d say he�d square a bit better than 6 feet, a respectable bear in anyone�s book. Time to make a decision, my man�

She then extends her hand to him, beckoning him to join her�he�s unsure what to do, wants it so badly, but is feeling slightly frozen to the chair�.

I happen to have excellent eyesight, in fact it was 20/15 the last time I had it checked, in both eyes. I didn�t need glasses to get an eyeful of that bear. He was now at around 50 meters. I whispered to J plaintively, �well what do you think, J? Is he a good bear? I don�t want to take him just for the sake of killing one. I want a good one, and I�ll pass this guy up if he�s just fair to mediocre.� It was J�s turn to giggle softly (at my facial expressions, I assume). �And that�s the thing about hunting, L. It�s personal, and the final decision to pull the trigger or not rests solely upon the hunter, and no one else. It�s a good bear in my estimation, yes, but some would take it, and some wouldn�t.� I peeked around again to look at the bear. There he stood, head down, feeding. God, his chocolate brown coat was stunning. I was jittery and probably shaking more than just inside. I was not afraid of this beast, per se, but was reacting to being so close to such a large predator. Not many beasts the likes of this guy from where I�m from. For 30 seconds I was torn in the purest sense. My mind said yes, then no, then yes, then no, and so on. J�s words snapped me out of this useless volleying back and forth. �What�s it going to be, my man?

He rose slowly and looked at her now lying outstretched on the bed. He knew then that she would be his today, and that she would make him hers�

�I�m going to kill him�, I said.

Last rites

I took off my binoculars and opened my Remington�s action a fraction and looked in, just to confirm a final time that I had a 175 grainer into the pipe. I had my 2 X 7 scope cranked down to its lowest power. I was ready. �I�ve got you covered. Good luck� J said softly. I looked at J and the mighty .458 Winchester hanging from the black tactical sling on his big frame, and giggled. �Hell yeah, you do� I winked at him and got down on my knees as I crept to the side of the spruce with my 7mag in one hand. There were lots of dry, bamboo-like shafts littering the ground, so I had to be careful to glance down and map out a route to get me to where I had decided to shoot from, a large log, without making lots of noise. The log was some15-20 yards away, and I felt I could slink there well enough to make it undetected. The wind had been in our favor the whole time, and continued to be my friend, blowing hard into my face. The only slight problem was that in order to get to the log, I would be completely exposed.

Now I knew from all my time at the range I could probably put his eye out from behind the tree where J now stood, but the truth is I wanted to get closer for a couple reasons. First, I was sufficiently freaked that I wanted to have a rock steady rest, and second, and as important to me, I just wanted to see if I could.

Getting to the log was painstakingly slow, and I did not take my eyes completely off the bear at any time. I looked in his general direction rather than directly at him as I snaked along on my belly, perhaps out of superstition more than anything else, but as I reached my mark saw that the bear was doing nothing different, and continued to feed broadside to me. I was a ghost.

At this point the adrenaline was pumping through me, and I was fighting to force myself to think and to take it easy. I anchored an elbow in the soft sod and lowered myself into a comfortable position. I then slowly eased my forearm and rifle onto the log. A few minor adjustments got me looking at him just from a line above the scope. I then lowered my eye so as to look through the scope and slowly moved the cross hair to the point of impact I wanted.

He slid into bed with her and they embraced, their shared passion and their being together in this way the only things that mattered in the entire universe�

I suddenly felt as if the bear and I were alone out there, and the thought sent a shiver up my spine. Jesus, look at that head. OK, what did W tell you, that it�s about even money that a bear shot gets up and bolts when he takes the slug? Well [bleep], if this guy gets hit and comes my way he�s bound to be unhappy. If he does, I�m popping him again, and again, until he�s down, or I�m empty, or both. And then if need be I�ll pull my shank. Oh Christ, you�re going to stick him with your knife are you, tough guy? I had to squeeze my lips together to stifle a laugh. I was slaying myself out there.

I suppose all that was nervous energy, like laughter at a funeral. Whatever it was, it stopped then. This was serious stuff, and I was going to kill this bear, now. I put my head down and took a bead. As I looked through the scope I thumbed off the safety and slid my finger in through the trigger guard and onto the trigger. I remembered to hold on my half-exhale, to squeeze and not jerk, and to work that [bleep] bolt right away. Work the bolt, work the bolt, work the bolt, I chanted to myself.

Having looked at a bear using those clear plastic anatomical texts with various systems overlapping each other (a nice item I temporarily liberated from the science library at the main university) I was pretty sure I knew where the heart lived in that beast. I was just about to put pressure on the trigger when I noticed as I looked through the scope that my heart was beating so hard that with every beat the rifle would jump. Not much, but enough to worry me. I relaxed and put my finger on the guard again, breathing deeply in through my nose and out my mouth. He�s not going anywhere, I told myself. Relax and make your shot count. At this point he had turned 180 degrees on me, but was still perfectly broadside. There was some brush now that worried me, but I saw a clear path 3 or 4 feet to the right, in the direction he was grazing. It was perfect, and I knew he was going to walk right into it. OK, this is it, the moment of truth. I was ready and determined to kill him. I put the pin again on his heart and followed the spot on his chest as he stepped to the right. I held on the half-breath exhale and squeezed as the walked into the kill zone.

Everyone who has told me that they do not hear anything when they squeeze the trigger on an animal told me the gospel truth. I have fired that ported 7 mm Remington Magnum a lot, and foolishly, a couple of times without ear protection. It�s report is painfully loud. Yet I heard nothing but my heart in my head and the new round being jacked into the chamber. At the recoil I saw the bear leaping, or jack knifing, or flipping, I�m not sure which, but I saw a flurry of brown and in what seemed like an instant, re-acquired his barrel chest, prepared to put another round in him. Curiously, I found myself on a knee. I hadn�t made any conscious decision to change my position for any follow up shot, but there I was. I watched in the split second after the hit as the bear rolled and came to a rest. I looked up from the scope and knew immediately that he was gone. �He�s dead�, I said out loud to no one. I looked hard for chest movement, and there was none, though my own chest heaved heavily. I kept the muzzle pointed at the bear, and waited for J to get up to where I now stood.

�Where did you shoot him, in the head?� J yelled as he walked toward me. �No�. I said without taking my eyes from the bear. �I blew his heart away, I�m pretty sure�. J and I walked up, with me having a little difficulty catching my breath. I was mildly shaking, and felt sort of numb, to be honest. God, I needed a cigarette. I was neither particularly overjoyed nor dismayed, as I recall. That came later. A detached sort of happiness I felt, but at that moment I was mostly locked in numbness. I had just taken the life of this bear, and was sorry that he would no longer grace this land with his beauty, but was grateful for its giving its life to me and especially for his dying easy. I felt not the pangs of deep sorrow in killing him I expected I might. I have before, so that was a bit confusing. No matter; it was, as J said, a �Hollywood death�. He flipped mid-air as the bullet punched through his chest. He rolled once and expired. When the momentum of the roll stopped him where he lay, he took not another breath nor moved a muscle more.

I was more contemplative than anything else, I think, and perhaps J sensed that I wanted to be alone for a moment. He shook my hand and congratulated me on a well-placed shot. I thanked him for all his help as he then told me he was going to get the lads. I soon learned that they were on their way already, having seen the entire show from start to finish from the bleachers. I stroked the bear�s head, running my hands through his thick fur, then put a finger in his mouth and ran it along his fearsome teeth. I thanked him for giving himself to me, and whispered to him that he would not be forgotten.

As he lay silently as she slept, there was both joy and a certain sadness that he did not quite understand� they shared both intense physical and emotional love �had felt their lust and passion and ecstasy rise to a crescendo�yet underlying it all now was a certain sadness�and then it struck him�as he held her tight, he wept a silent tear as he realized there is but one first time...how he desperately wanted to make it last forever�and while he knew this moment would become in the morning but a sweet memory, his comfort lay in the future and the knowledge that no one ever, ever forgets their first�

lhonda...pm sent...great story, man....

PART TWO

The work begins

I got up from where I knelt at the bear�s head and slowly headed over to greet W and G, who had made their way over from camp. With J, all three walked toward me, smiling broadly. Their sentiment was catchy. After some kind congratulatory words, I began to relax, helped along by their easygoing banter and the couple of smokes I gratefully bummed. All three had watched the stalk from start to finish, and it apparently made for some enjoyable viewing.

W was good enough to have hauled my camera from camp, so I then spent a few minutes taking the obligatory kill shots.

Then it was time to get to work. I took off my sweater and picked up Diana, a Mel Sorg knife, and listened and watched carefully as W explained to me how I was to get started. I�m not the least bit squeamish, and a good thing. It was clear I was still a little freaked out on adrenaline, though, for as I pushed the knife into his abdominal cavity the whooshing sound created by escaping gas about had me jump out of my skin. For a split second I think I thought he was coming back to life. And so it went, with me being walked through the gutting and cutting step by step. W, ever patient, literally took me by the hand when I could not find where the diaphragm was attached to the body. Our hands dug around in this foot-deep warm soup, me holding an armful of intestines aside with my left, my right holding Diana, all the while being guided in by W�s hand. As the surgery progressed into the animal�s thoracic cavity, I saw for the first time the devastation caused by a high-powered rifle round.

There was but a tiny entrance wound, with very little blood showing around it. It looked very neat and proper, actually. Inside was the real damage. The bullet entered the chest cavity between ribs on the right side and proceeded to tear through muscle as it expanded. The first lung was jellied as the round steamed through, ripping the heart in half at the top.

The slug continued on its path to likewise partially jelly the opposite lung, then smashed through a far side rib before exiting through on the other side. A ragged hole about the size of a quarter marked the exit wound. The factory ammo I used seemed to have performed nicely.

It was a great lesson, and I enjoyed the hands-on experience (hands-in experience?) greatly. W helped me roll the beast over and make the last cuts that would free all the innards. We now had an empty bear, save for some liquids still sloshing around. With the help of the other three gentlemen, we lifted the bear away from the gut pile and set him face down to drain, making sure we spread the ribcage apart to aid in cooling.

At about this time someone remarked, �uh, hey guys, heads up. Looks like we�ve got a friend watching us. I looked up to see another black bear slowly circling our area, at perhaps 100 yards. He clearly knew we were there, and his body language seemed to say that he was curious and concerned that we were there, but he did not seem terribly afraid. W asked G if he wanted to take him then and there, but it was determined that he was on the small side, so G passed. �THANK YOU, SIR!�, W said emphatically. Trying to coach one flunky at a time on taking off a bear�s hide is enough for any man, I imagine. So instead, W grabbed my camera and walked right at the bear. He got off a picture at about 60 yards before the bear decided he did not like the hairy faced reprobate coming dead at him, turned and scrammed.




Soon after, the blood covering me almost dry, we began the task of skinning. W had told me before I came that this was not the easiest task. He wasn�t kidding. I wince a bit at re-living the process that began then. The wounds on my fingers have just now properly healed, save one. Rather than describe the process I will suffice by saying that skinning a bear, especially when you�ve never skinned anything larger than a goose or road-killed raccoon, is hard, hard work. The feet and face alone, especially, required hours of toiling, and had W not assisted me in the way he did, I would have botched it for certain. I tended to rush and make sweeping cuts, but in doing so left lots of fat on the hide, a tactic I deeply regretted later, for hours and hours. Just thinking about the time I spent hunched over that hide make me want to groan. The cramped hands, the slit and bleeding fingers-- man, it was kind of a bitch, really. Well worth it, you bet it was, but not something I�d care to do for a living.

After a few hours� worth of skinning and dusk approaching, W decided it was best to cover the bear with burlap, to keep it cool and clean of insects and critters, and to head back to camp. In the morning I would return and resume where I left off. I recall feeling pretty wiped out from the work, but maybe more from crashing from my elongated adrenaline high. Whatever the case, I was happy to bag it, but not before dressing the bear up a bit. Before we left, W told me that I should take my socks off. I told him that I�d be happy to, but was curious about motives, thinking that perhaps there was some strange Alaskan ritual coming that I hadn�t heard of. Instead, he explained that man stink left on the corpse, er carcass, I mean, would help dissuade other bears from getting into it. I said that I could go one better, as I had an article of clothing on me that had been worn for two days already�a pair of pants. Now, a half-skinned bear looks an awful lot like a human already. One that�s covered with burlap and sporting a pair of drawers� With all the blood and guts it was scary just how much it looked like a human that had just met a horrible and extremely violent end. I could not help but look back several times as we walked away. There, under a shroud of burlap lay my first big game kill, wearing my pants. I shook my head as we walked back to camp, giggling yet again. The term surreal is overused, but as the sun began to drop behind the mountains I felt as if I was living out some kind of wonderful, opiate induced dream; slightly bizarre but comforting to the soul. After eating a meal followed by not a few celebratory toasts, the boys again made their way to the tent. I stayed up with a can or two of beer and watched the clouds race each other across the Alaskan night. Lying there beneath the moon and stars, I asked myself what I was doing in the city at all. As yet, I still have not come up with an entirely satisfactory answer.

The work continues

After a couple of boiled eggs and coffee, my work called and off I went. W met me at the kill site a bit later and in between cutting sessions (me cutting bear, W cutting bear, me cutting me, repeatedly) we shot the breeze. W is one fascinating cat, and topics of conversation ranged from city life versus country to work to best loads for ptarmigan and teal. Tales were told and accounts related of lives led long ago and far away; of remote insertions and firefights in the central highlands in the early 70s to the taking off of drug dealers in Boston housing projects in the mid 80s. And so it went. I suppose saying we touched on topics ranging from Artemis to Zeus is a fair statement.

Meantime G and J were out on patrol, looking for fresh sign and the bears responsible for the same. As I recall, I don�t think they saw too much new sign, and later over lunch we talked about things hopefully picking up in the evening. I continued flaying away (flailing?) as W, the dutiful sensei, paid frequent visits to alternately assist and scold me for my occasionally sloppy work. As I toiled away, gradually seeing progress being made and getting into something resembling a rhythm, I began to wonder about the other bears that might be about, and began hoping hard that I would not be alone in filling a tag.

By the end of the long day�s work, the hide came off and we dismantled the beast into quarters. W then showed me how to take off the backstraps, a procedure I noted was not too unlike filleting a bluefish. When it came to the head, W suggested we might get out a saw. Wanting to just get on with it, I decided I would rip it off instead, which I did with a violent twisting and yanking. Apparently this is not standard procedure. W and I shared a grin, and at that the meat, hide and skull were packed up. We four marched back with various bear pieces on our backs.

Sustenance and some time around the fire were in order. Spirits were high all around, especially mine (despite having suffered from severe blood loss). While G and J got dinner ready, W sent me to the boat to get a big bag of salt from the boat. Had I known what was in store, I would not have been so quick in returning, but rather, like the boy sent out back to cut his own switch, may very well have gotten lost. W took far too much pleasure in prepping me for what he knew awaited. �say L, you know all those cuts you have on your hands and fingers?� �Um, the ones leaking this sticky red stuff all over the place?�, I asked. �Yeah, well now I�m going to prove that you have more than just the ones you can see� And sure enough, the man was good to his word.

Later, we ate spaghetti with lots of caribou meatballs, compliments of W. Our bellies full, we relaxed over spirits and suds, and when we had done away with the contents of a fifth of Kentucky Bourbon, we watched the dead soldier melt into a blob in the fire. Sleep came easily for all.

G scores

The next morning saw the weather continuing to hold nicely, and while I continued to toil away at the hide, with its excessive fat needing to come off, the lads went off on another recon trip. My day then was again filled with playing with the hide, and after I had cleaned up the main part of the hide, W coached me on how to begin to do the ears and face.

Upon his return from an upriver jaunt, J told me that he had the name for my bear: Five Eagles. He explained that natives believed that names were given, and that upon arriving to the area where mine was killed, saw that five bald eagles were feeding on the carcass of my bear, including what J called a �king� eagle, sporting a six-plus foot wingspan. Ad so dubbed was my bear.

Some time later, in the afternoon, a bear was spotted on the beach. I swapped knife for glasses and camera and went out back to see what all the others had their glasses locked on down on the beach.

A black bear was foraging along the beach some 400 yards off. The lads were debating on whether or not a stalk was in order. I watched for some time, then went back to camp to finish up Five Eagles. I was ready for the hide to be finished. I had killed him close on 48 hours previous and I was still working at the hide. I�m not exactly a patient man, and knowing that I could be damaging the hide by taking so long in getting it taken care of was making me edgy. When G and J set out to get a better look at the bear, I decided rather than accompany them from a distance I would continue to plug away at my hands, I mean, hide.

Perhaps 45 minutes later W remarked that the boys should have been on top of the bear by then, and that he supposed they passed on it or it got into the tree line. �Well, I imagine there�ll be more as�� His sentence was cut short by the report of G�s .300 Win. Mag. We looked at each other, smiles on our faces. We listened with cocked heads, and when there was no second shot, W said, �say Mister Honda, let�s me and you go for a little stroll�

I could read the body language and knew there was a bear down as we closed on the site, and soon we saw a beautiful jet-black specimen down for the count, which seemed to me to be about the same size as mine. I lack the trained eye needed to be able to make the distinctions necessary to properly judge size, but it seemed to me to be another fine example of Alaskan bear. Following congratulatory words and photographs, J and G went on to tell the story of the stalk. G wore his excitement on his face as he told the story, and it pleased me no end to see his wide grin.

After a bit of waiting, watching and shifting, the two lads closed on the bear�s position and eventually stalked to within 50 or 60 yards. G then settled into a shooting position. The bear grazed all the while and seemed unconcerned about anything but eating. Glassing carefully and making mental notes of size, color and coat, the boys decided that this one indeed was a shooter. The problem was that the field that the bear was feeding in was covered with vegetation, the same field I had taken 5 Eagles out of, but at the opposite end. The vegetation was relatively sparse, yes, but was enough to be a potential problem.

At some point the wind shifted and the bear raised its snout, apparently beginning to wind the boys. G knew that the jig was about to be up, so made a decision and picked a small but clear opening he had been lining up, and sent a pill into the bear�s boiler room. The bear dropped in his tracks and #2 went down. Photos and congratulations followed, and then G, also under W�s tutelage, began his work with his trusty ulu. G�s bullet placement had been similar to mine, but whereas I had torn the top of Five Eagles� heart in half, G�s shot had split his bear�s heart dead center. For reasons I�m not exactly sure of, J dubbed G�s bear Umbler. So far, we had on the trip two shots taken and two bears reduced to possession.

J�s turn

The next day saw G busy taking the hide off of Umbler as I endeavored to finish up on Five Eagles� face. W continued to coach me through, and without his help I simply would not have been able to accomplish any of the fine work that is required with the ears and face. Little tricks he showed me, such as using a blunt stick, propped up on the ground and pushed on the hide from the hair side into the ear canal, which at the time must be inside out� I can�t imagine exactly how much more effort is involved in taking of the hide of a large brown bear, say, but there�s no question that properly skinning any bear is a lot of work. Did I mention that already? Granted, it was my first big game skinning job and therefore, by necessity, took me much more time than a skilled skinner would, but by that time� let�s just say I was very glad to be finishing up. I did take some time out of my day to wander around and take some photographs. The weather had shifted to a light drizzle and was beginning to resemble the rain forest climate that SE Alaska normally is, and thick mist settled into the river valley, the steep walls of the mountains surrounding acting as a funnel. It was spectacular, and no photograph can do justice to it, but I took a few just the same

The dew and light rain covering everything made for some interesting flora photography, and I was also able to capture some wildlife on film, including a few of large rafts of lesser scaup, which fed by day in the mouth of the river. In my little travels I also found a moose skull, many large sun-dried starfish brought onto the small plain by flood tides and lots of other interesting things. I pocketed a few of the little treasures to haul back as mementos.

At some point later in the day J and W went out to join G. I looked up to see them heading out without a rifle, a first, and I commented to J about it. He said that if need be he would come back for his. �OK�, I said, and shrugged. I thought to myself that he was a bolder man than I, heading back to a kill site unarmed. W on the first day had doled out road flares to each of us as bear deterrents, but I certainly wanted a little something more than an industrial sparkler with me in case an argument occurred that I had no hope of winning.

When J got back to camp perhaps an hour later he was looking a bit ragged. Understandable, as he had just hustled perhaps 1/2 a mile. He picked up his rifle and turned to head back out once again. Another bear was in the field, he said. I wanted to tag along, but as J headed down the trail toting his .458 mentioned that there was no reason to get excited, because the bear had seen them all. As a matter of fact, he said, the bear was behaving in such a way that led J to believe he would not be there upon his return. �OK, good luck anyway�, I said. After a few final minutes of cutting, I had Five Eagles finished. I washed up and grabbed my glass, hoping that I would be able to see something of interest. I opted not to head out to meet the lads, for fear of blowing J�s stalk (if he in fact was stalking) in some way. I decided instead to hold down the fort and take a gaze with the glasses from just beyond our backyard. I saw two of the lads kneeling, perhaps 500 yards out, and assumed it was W and G continuing to skin out Umbler. I watched for any excitement, saw nothing much of interest, so returned to camp. I listened casually as I did a few camp chores, mainly gathering any and all large pieces of wood (did I mention I like to burn stuff?), and heard no shot. It came then as not a bit of a shock when the boys showed up later all smiles, explaining that J had just killed the largest bear we had seen yet.

As the story went, J wove in and out of tree cover as he closed on the bear, who was indeed at the time looking as if he wanted out of human company, in a hurry. Within range and recognizing his only chance, J�s rifle boomed just as the bear broke for the tree line, and the bear fell forward with the impact of the slow moving, extra large hunk of lead. The bear�s front paws clawed at the ground for a second in an effort to still make the trees before keeling over. The round had entered from behind, high on the ribcage, and traversed forward through the spine, shattering vertebrae as it made its way its resting place at the base of the neck. Three shots had now yielded three bears. W had indeed delivered the goods, and then some. All three bears died in the backyard, the killing field, and not a one more than � of a mile from camp.

That night I happily worked Five Eagles� skull, using a stick to get at the brain. I happily poked away, and later, between my intermittent boiling and scraping of cooked flesh, I sat around the fire with the others basking in both collective and individual successes. I did my laundry as well, getting some funny looks from the others (in the bush, I often burn my dirty clothes if they are old and worn and I have no other option than to haul them), but I wanted to try to travel light on the return trip. Dirty laundry, it turned out, was the very least of our worries.

Big trouble

The next day, Thursday, the day before we were to depart, I awoke from another giggle-filled slumber to a frenzy of commotion in camp. I learned what the buzz was about as I shook the cobwebs from my head and stumbled the few feet to the river. The Kapenta was in tough shape. All but swamped, the rear section of the deck already under several feet of water, which had flooded in through the cut in the hull leading to the swim deck, it was clear that we had big problems. Both the main power plant and the kicker were mostly submerged in the salt. The wheelhouse was beginning to take water, the batteries were underwater, and with the tide still on its way up to its 16 foot high for the day, things were looking rather bleak, actually. I thought then of what W had joked about over the phone with me before I flew out--that even should we have boat trouble we would be fine, it would only be a hundred odd mile walk out or so. I giggled a nervous giggle imagining me humping Five Eagles a hundred miles on my back, and shook my head.

Being that the boat was up against the steep bank with hundreds of gallons of water, there was no moving her. J and W had gotten as much gear off of the boat while they were able, but at that point all we could do was watch with crossed fingers. We had two bears still in the field that still needed to be addressed, so off J and G went to continue their work. I stayed in camp and had coffee with W, discussing our options. I got out my camera on the sly and took a candid shot of a contemplative W as he stood at the water�s edge chewing on a cigar. I thought to myself, some day we just might find this amusing, but as it was, it wasn�t such a pretty sight of the Kapenta on her maiden voyage.

At some point soon after, I turned away from the river to pour myself another cup of coffee. I nearly dropped the pot when I heard from behind me something sounding between a guttural growl and a sickened groan. The �OH, NO!� that followed made me realize it was our intrepid skipper. I bolted back to the bank and joined W in a groan as we watched the Kapenta keel over and go turtle. As we watched, the wheelhouse slid under the surface as the hull came up on the other side. I began to think I should have put in for a longer vacation.

Despite a strong desire to want to be try to do something, all we could really do was wait for the tide to recede and hope for the best. W suggested that I head back to the kill sites, where I would do my best to give G a hand. We would need all four of us to try what W had cooking. It was a long shot, but you try to do what you�ve got to with what you have.

Soon, G had his bear�s hide off and I bagged and hauled three of the quarters back to camp on my pack frame. G and J followed shortly after. In our absence, W had been a busy beaver indeed, and had rigged up a pulley system of sorts, using sheep shanks and a tree as an anchor point. After a light lunch, we four got ready to try to pull the hull into a position more advantageous to her skipper and crew and less so for the tide to do more damage. We hauled at the rope for all we were worth, yet the boat did not budge an inch, despite our best efforts. With a final mighty tug we saw results, just not the kind we were after; the rope gave way. We would simply have wait for the tide to leave the boat stranded on the bank, and try to set her right side up somehow. Without the buoyancy of the water to aid in moving the heavy boat, we had shallow prospects indeed, but with no other options, we headed back to the bears without much talk. Our emotional highs from the night before had given way to a somber quietude.

If we even could right the boat, we had to then hope that we could get the motor to run. If we had seawater in the fuel, even if we could get the motor up, we had nothing to run the power plant on, if we even had enough juice left in the batteries to crank the big motor. If we couldn�t right the boat, we�d have to begin to rethink the plan in terms of alternatives to get out of there. Lots of ifs in the equation. We were all four concerned, but as worrying doesn�t get much done, concentrated on solutions as we headed out to get the last of the G�s and J�s bear out of the field.

A lucky break

I returned to grab the last of G�s meat and before I set off for camp was asked by W, who had come over from J�s bear, to try to find a tree for us to use as a lever back to camp. He described his plan and what he was after in terms of a tree. He and J had talked and they believed that we could try to get the four of us on the end of a 25-odd foot section of green spruce to lever the boat over. I agreed to search for one, and headed back to camp alone.

I hung G�s last quarter in a tree and began to set off around camp to find our lever. Before I went, I decided to have a close look at the boat, which now was aground in the sandy-rocky bank. As I walked down, I began thinking of alternative methods of flipping her. J had talked about jamming the found skiff we used as table to jam under the hull and using its buoyancy to lift the boat as the tide came in. I had talked of using the burlap game bags we had to load with rocks and tie off on the other side as ballast. W and G had mechanical advantages on his mind, pulleys and levers, and so on.

As I stared at the boat and walked around the bow from the hull side to the wheelhouse side, I decided that I would run a test, just for [bleep] and giggles, really. I knew there was no way I could get this thing over. Or was there? Had I had company, I would likely not even have tried, but being alone and unafraid of looking like a jackass to but a few random critters, decided to see what I could do. I got below the rail on the port side, which was about at shoulder height, and pushed up. Not that much happened at first, and then I began to put my back into it a bit. The aluminum rail began to bend under the pressure, but not much more happened. I shifted my grip onto the hull itself and tried again. At this, the boat did move an inch or two, and I could hear scraping underneath the hull as it rocked ever so slightly. Hope sparked, I stood back and thought for a moment. OK kid, you�re no Hercules, but you do have enough strength to shift this bitch enough to rock her. Hmm, rocking it. I thought of winter at home in Boston and cars being stuck in the snow. What do we do? Rock the car and have the driver get on the hammer at the high point of the car�s upward travel of the forward rocking. It takes some work sometimes, but the car drives out every time. I began believing I just might be onto something, and so looked for a better spot to heave against. I walked a little further back on the boat to find a spot where I could use not just my arms, shoulders and back, but my legs to apply upward pressure. I suppose my genes lend themselves to heavy work (as long as no reaching for tall shelves is involved) , and with my low center of gravity can make good use of my legs.

It then occurred to me that the wheelhouse itself, which was at the time parallel to the beach, seemed the spot from which I needed to push up against. I figured that maybe the added length, while making my load perhaps a little heavier, was worth it leverage-wise and to my advantage to give my final try to. I could always bag it and get the others to help; surely we could get it over together using this method. And so with nothing much to lose, I heaved for all I was worth, and the boat broke from its position and rose a few inches. It then came down, and I bent my legs as it did, then thrust up again with the hopes that the momentum would carry it further upward, and it did. With each successive heave she moved even more. Confidence building, I continued to rock her, pushing hardest when the weight of the hull and the fuel and water in the hull were moving away from me. It was clear after a few minutes that I was going to get her to flip. With a final push, I forced the wheelhouse upwards. Gravity and physics took over, and the Kapenta was again right side up, landing with a crash. I made the one mistake of trying to lessen the blow on the far side of the hull by grabbing onto the rail and pulling down as the low side went high. I went flying up with the boat and smashed my ribs on the hull, but I was not much worse for wear, and we had at leats one big if out of the way. I giggled a bit, happy with myself, as I grabbed my rifle and pack frame and set off to let the Captain know we were upright again.

Later that day I managed to roast the skull of my bear while I stalked up a pair of amorous sea otters who had been creating a racket on the beach. I did, alas, get a few great shots of the male as he hung onto the female for all he was worth, despite her screaming and biting. Not a total loss, but another rookie mistake cost me a bit, as the bone charred a little on the top of the skull.

The morning would see us breaking down camp and leaving the X, maybe. I was quiet that night as I stared into the flames of the last fire, as I really didn�t want to leave, and I secretly hoped that maybe we would have to walk it out.

The limp home

We loaded up the three bears and all the gear the next morning. We were hopeful that we could make the shot over to E, which lay across the water perhaps some 15 miles off. G got some of W�s tools into the small 15 hp kicker, and after some work and his magic, was up and running amidst cheers. It was determined that the big motor wasn�t going to get us anywhere more on this trip, as the block was filled with saltwater and the batteries were too drained.

A bit of preparatory work was done on the boat, namely covering the swim deck entrance, and packs, rifles and bits of recovered flotsam was tossed on board during the morning. As the 19 foot tide came in, we crossed fingers and breathed deep sighs of relief when the hull rose off the bank. We were afloat once again. A humpback whale blew just offshore; a mere hundred yards out of the mouth of the river the bottom falls away dramatically, and just past where we floated was six hundred feet of water.

The Lynn canal is a formidable stretch of water, and if we had to try to run across it with the little motor it would have to during calm seas and calm weather. We got both, and we set out. The motor died twice as we motored out, and twice G got us back underway, with J�s help. After the last time I promptly fell asleep, and when I awoke we were entering the cove.

There s no phone at the cove, just a ramp and some campsites, but J is well known in those parts, and soon got a borrowed car. He and W set off to make a few calls and to buy batteries, as he hoped to be able to get the boat back to Auke Bay. It wasn�t in the cards, but in the meantime I recognized Wini, who made the drive out to rescue us after getting a message. Over some gift beers some local had bestowed upon me and a deck of cigarettes I purchased from a hippie kid, G and I discussed not looking forward to having to make any explanations as to the boat to W's wife. We also concurred that neither of us would lie if prompted. When she asked me the dreaded question, as in, �so L, what went wrong with the motor?� I said, �I think the diagnosis was water in the engine�, and left it at that as I looked away. Seconds later, she asked, �and there was water in the engine why�?� No fleas on that lady, I noted. Being the rough and tumble kind of guy and never one to avoid an awkward situation, I turned to her, looked her in the eye and told her politely that she needed to ask her husband.

Good byes

The last day before we were to head out we slept late, enjoyed brunch and made phone calls to both the AKDFG and to taxidermists. The proper cleaning of the guns, getting the bears sealed and the butchering of the meat filled the rest of the day. The evening was spent relaxing and enjoying the company of the folks around the W and Wini household. Dinner, drinks and hunting stories filled the night. G was to be leaving first thing in the morning on an early jet. J and E.J., who had flown in from Seattle, would be off to address a rental property they owned. My flight was later, and W would take me last to the airport.

After all packing was completed, W and I took a long walk with Maggie, and I continued to marvel at the beauty that surrounded him in that place. We had a long conversation, and on the ride to dispose of all the bones I tried to make clear to him just how much the hospitality, trip in general and most of all his mentoring meant to me. I also explained my disappointment that he had not the opportunity to take a brown, but he made it clear that to be able to guide three friends to bears, and all three their firsts no less, now that made him as happy as could be. I believe him.

At the airport, we shook hands and I explained to W that he held now a marker of mine, good indefinitely. I will pay back the debt someday, this I know; I hope he does. What do you tell a man who has extended his friendship and shared with you an adventure of a lifetime? �Thank you, brother. Until we meet again��, was about all I could manage.

And as the jet took me off the ground at Juneau International I looked down with mixed emotions. I felt a sense of overwhelming gratitude for being able to be in Alaska, both to take part in the hunt and the taking of my first big game animal, and to have made contact and connection with a friend. There too was a deep sense of remorse in leaving, but I took comfort in knowing I would be going back, soon enough.


END

My thanks to you for your kind words, WW. Getting a bit busy here at work, but I've read your PM and shall respond soon.

In the meantime, best to you and yours,

Leighton

Roy, I don't know how to post video footage, so am dropping a DVD in the mail tomorrow for you. Shows a little bear viewing trip my son and I made in 2004. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

G,

On Kodiak..?

Thanks, that's cool of you...I'll be lookin' for it...

Tryin' to get me pumped up on bear huntin' ain't ya..??

Too late, I already am...... <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/grin.gif" alt="" />

It was on the Peninsula at Hallo Bay, about a half-hour by C-206 NW of town. Wait until you see the big boar, I about wet my pants on that one!! <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/shocked.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/laugh.gif" alt="" />