A Moose Tag for Bear
As I stood over the bear, I replayed the events in my mind that brought me to that point. It was in the spring of 2002 that I made reservations for the flight to my third hunting trip in Alaska with my cousin, Jon. We had decided to hunt for moose, north of Fairbanks on the Elliott Highway. It was a place in Alaska we hadn't been and wanted to see.
There were also no size restrictions in this area, so any bull moose was legal game. Although we wanted that trophy bull, we also relished the idea of bringing home meat from a tender young spike. There was also the opportunity to use our tags on lesser priced animals if the opportunity arose, a form of "fill your tag" insurance.
With all that working for us, we could hardly wait for that gun on our back, but first there would be rods in our hands for one day of silver salmon fishing in Valdez.
When we flew into Valdez we could see numerous boats fishing in Port Valdez Bay. Seeing people carrying the fish they had caught off the docks while driving to our bed and breakfast was really getting our excitement levels built up.
The next morning we were off to catch our limits of silvers and anything else that wanted to test the strength of its lips out on our hooks.
Within five minutes of dropping my line off our rented boat I was calmly screaming "fish on" then "fish off." It was literally over that quickly.
Two hours later I still had no fish and felt no wiser. We asked the other boats around us what method was working for them and found they were using the same methods we were and with the same results.
The fish were jumping next to the shore so we decided to do some bottom fishing close to where the action was. It went well. We had our limit of silvers in about two hours, and we found out we were the only boat to do so well in that short of time.
After a breakfast of muffins and goodbyes to Valdez, it was off to Fairbanks for the second part of our adventure.
We had one and a half days to find a running car which we planned to purchase and beat up for the next twelve days. We needed something that could handle our gear and hopefully 1,200 pounds of moose.
Finally, we were off and rolling to our hunting grounds in a rented U-Haul. Not exactly what we wanted at first, but it later turned out to be a blessing every night.
On our way up the Elliott Highway we stopped for pictures at the Alaskan Pipeline rest area and continued on. After two hours we reached mile marker 96 where we pulled into a side turn-out and camped until morning.
That first night we studied topo maps, glassed the surrounding hills, and prepared for the hunt ahead.
The first full day of our hunt went with only seeing moose tracks, two moose miles away, and a bear that I could have taken with my moose tag but wanted to wait.
For the next five days we hunted from different spots along the highway and saw nothing but tracks.
Alaska was giving us some of the most beautiful views she had to offer but none of them included bull moose.
I could feel the primeval hunting connection between me and the wolf that brought both hunters to that spot to sit and look for prey. I could have stayed there for a week, soaked up all that scenery like a sponge, not kill a thing, and still have one of the best hunts of my life.
As the close of the second to last day came, Jon called me on the walkie-talkie to tell me he had just seen a bull moose with a big set of antlers cross the road and proceed down the draw into some trees we were glassing into.
We sat across the draw from each other glassing and waiting for the moose to show himself again until it got too dark to see anything.
The next day we decided to take whatever legal game presented itself.
Around five he radioed me to say there was a bear feeding on the ridge above, and I'd better get a move on because he was moving fast.
"Ten-four," and I was off in a flash.
I knew first hand that bears were notorious for feeding in random patterns until they quickly seemed to disappear.
It took me about ten minutes to where I could see the ridge. I crept through the bushes and trees with my gun shouldered the whole time.
At times, I was able to hear him ripping at the ground and moving through the dry foliage. Then I could hear nothing, but my senses would come alive, wondering if he smelled me and was circling around.
These are the hunts I love most. I swell with a primeval euphoric feeling, because I have absolutely no idea of what's about to happen next. This is not at all like our everyday lives.
And there he was. The bear was in his everyday life. He had turned off his primeval senses and was standing on his hind legs scratching his back on a youthful tree looking right at me.
Whatever he was feeling had caused his precautionary senses to turn off and not notice my presence right there in the trees staring at him, not even thirty feet away.
As I raised the gun, he went down and continued feeding. He was probably aware of his surroundings again, but it would be too late.
He squared out a little over five feet. Although not a big bear by any measure, he was a true trophy to me.
In a day we would be back home. We would be two thousand miles away with these great Alaskan stories to tell our friends about.
Planning our next trip to Alaska is a long time away. So until then, we'll savor a fine bottle of merlot, premium cigars, and the finest back straps ever cooked over a camp fire.
Courtesy of the bear.
