ELK
Old Majesty
The days were getting shorter now and the old bull could feel the changes of the season deep within himself. He had been alone in this high timbered basin for nearly three weeks now, leaving behind him his summer’s companions, seeking solitude in this familiar place. The alder slides, the dark stands of timber and the high alpine meadows had been home this bull for seven seasons past. Many challenges he’d answered within the confines of this, his Rocky Mountain coliseum and he carried the battle scars on his face and neck, proving he was still worthy of the crown.
The old bull had returned to a ridge high on the north slope of the basin, deep within the dark timber surrounding himself with dozens of aged and aging horn rubs. The worn and beaten trails leading from his mountain palace had been laid long before his time, traveled by those who had reigned before him yet he knew them as his own.
He carried a huge set of royal antlers, each side having six, long and heavy tines that he had been polishing since he’d left his bachelor group weeks passed. Having stripped the velvet from his rack weeks ago, he now spent much of his day rubbing on heavy alders and young spruce trees, polishing his impressive rack while adding a deep, rich, brown color to the thick beams and tines. Not only did his vigorous rubbing polish his rack but it worked his neck muscles, strengthening them for the battles that would certainly occur in the weeks to come.
It was the second week of September, the leaves were bright in color and the mornings were cold with frost. The dark timbered slopes were slow in warming up and the morning shadows seemed not to move at all. It was the season of the elk.
The string of pack horses passed through the valley bottom with little noise other than the odd steel shod hoof striking rock. There were seven horses in all; three were ridden by men the others packed with heavy loads tied under canvas tarps. The mountain trail they followed led deep into the Rocky Mountains, taking them miles from the lodge and the base camp, deeper into the heart of elk country.
They had ridden for five hours by the time the small creek side camp came into view, the cabins looked like they were straight out of a western movie surrounded by neat piles of split fire wood and lazy plumes of smoke hanging around the chimney tops.
The cook stepped out onto the porch of the larger cabin and waived her arm to the approaching men, the open door behind her allowing the smell of strong black coffee to escape and greet the hungry travelers.
With the pack horses stripped of their loads and the saddles pulled from the riding horses, the animals were turned loose and fed healthy portions of hay and grain inside the large corral. The men returned to the cabin to enjoy the hot meal the cook had prepared for them and shared in deep conversation about rutting bull elk.
Darkness brought with it the final preparations for the mornings hunt, it would be the first day of elk season and excitement was in the air. The men went over their gear while the cook finished up the dishes and made the morning lunches all the while they talked of the coming hunt and the thrills it would bring. With bugles tuned and back packs ready the men headed to their cabin and the warm bunks that awaited them, 4 am was coming fast and sleep was needed after their long ride into camp.
The early morning hours brought much activity to the camp, as the cook fixed heaping plates of food the men fed and saddled their horses making them ready for the journey deeper into the mountain valley, deeper into the land of the elk.
As the lamp light from the cabins disappeared into the darkness the trail led the hunters up away from the creek, climbing higher on the timbered ridge with every step of the horses. The men planned to make their way to the head of the valley before dawn, there they would leave their mounts and hunt the huge alder slides and timber meadows on foot.
Traveling through the darkness the men quietly spoke to each other, excited with the coming dawn and the mornings hunt. The air was crisp and the sky clear as many stars could be seen through the towering spruce tops, giving great promise to the hunt. This would be the first time in a year a man’s bugle echoed through the valley and even the head guide, a very seasoned mountain man and hunter, was feeling the excitement.
The familiar “ Tie Trees “ were reached just as the skies began to grey with the early dawn and the men quickly tied their horses, loosened the cinches and made the final adjustments to their backpacks before heading up the trail towards a pair of huge alder slides ½ mile away.
Reaching the edge of the first slide the men gathered themselves as the guide prepared to blow the season’s first bugle at first light. They stood in the cold shadows of an ancient spruce tree as they waited standing in silence; suddenly the crisp morning air was broken by the echoing sound of a deep bugle rising from the dark timber across the slide. The men smiled at each other and the bull’s challenge was answered perfectly by the guide, receiving an answer almost immediately.
The old bull stood in his night bed and stretched his back. Shaking his head from side to side the bull worked the muscles loose, his heavy rack swaying like two trees in the wind. The cold dawn had brought with it an eagerness the bull felt deep within and he tipped his head back bugling from his depths, he was king of this place and those who dared challenge his throne would feel his fury.
The bull’s head turned sharply as his challenge was answered from below and his blood began to boil, he stepped forward and defied his challenger with hoarse bugle that sounded more like a roar than a bugle. Who should dare!
At the sound of the next challenging bugle, the old bull turned and headed at a steady pace towards the intruder, all the while grunting under his breath in agitation. The building fury inside him quickened his pace as he neared the timber’s edge yet he came to a complete stop before he left the safety of his palace walls, looking for a glimpse of his rival. He stepped from the confines of the dark timber tipping his head back as he walked, when stopped he let another hoarse challenge erupt from his depths and then stood perfectly still, ears ahead listening.
With the bulls hasty approach the men quickly found a suitable rest for the rifleman and began scanning the distant timberline with trained eyes. Within a few short minutes the guide whispered that he’d spotted the bull on the timber’s edge, “He’s a good bull but I can’t get a tine count.” The words had no sooner left the guides mouth when the huge bull stepped into the open and bugled, “He’s a solid 6x6, take him in the ribs “, the guide whispered, “He’s yours.”
Tight Cinches & Dry Powder
Written by;
Ron Arnett
"A Man From The Wilderness"
It's every hunter's dream to harvest a bugling bull elk, to experience the thrill of an 800 lb bull crashing through the timber, head tipped back, huge antlers sweeping his rump, roaring his challenge as he comes to defeat his unseen rival, the one who would dare enter his domain.
It sure sounds easy, just go to the Bass Pro Shop and buy the latest elk bugle to hit the market, drive out into the bush and start blowing. Good luck with that.
Without a doubt bugling in a woods wise and extremely wary mature bull elk is one of the most challenging adventures a sport hunter can partake in. He didn't reach maturity by being stupid and he can certainly tell the difference between the real thing and a fella that has no clue on how to properly blow his new bugle. In more cases than not, if a hunter is lucky enough to get an answer to his bugle the bull has already rounded up his cows and is saying "see you later" over his shoulder.
Think of it this way, why would you fight over something you already have? Wouldn't you rather just take a walk and save the effort and the bruises? I've never met a mature herd bull that wanted to show off for his girls, leaving them behind to run down the hill for a fight. I have however, encountered several hundred that saw themselves as lovers and not fighters, choosing to push their cows up the mountain and away from anything they thought was a threat to their hard earned harem.
Bugling a bull is like playing a game of chess with a master, only you can't see the board and he can. Everything comes into play, wind, sound, vision and oh ya don't forget his sixth sense and his amazing depth perception.
Lets try playing a game, but first lets meet the pieces or factors.
Wind;
One whiff, even from a couple of hundred yards and game over. Ever changing, constantly shifting, the toughest factor to overcome. I use a lighter, usually have one in each pocket and one stuffed in the palm of my leather glove. You can never check the wind direction too much, never.
There are a few constants with regards to the wind in the mountains. Always falling when it's cool, blowing down hill with the coolness of the shadows. Always rising with the heat of the sun, gusting up hill, up the valley depths during the mid day.
The transition period, the time when the wind is changing it's direction is the worst time. Constantly gusting, changing it's direction continuously, gusting this way and that until it settles into it's desired direction, this is the time to sit still until the wind chooses. Remember one whiff and it's over so sit still or you stand to lose the game. The transition period usually last for about 20 minutes unless the skies are unsettled with an arriving storm front, so there again, sit tight and relax. It is most important to have the wind in your favor.
Sound;
Everything makes noise while moving. Whether it be in the timber or across an open hillside, every animal makes some sort of noise. It's HOW we make it that matters. The heavy thudding sound of a booted foot certainly is not a natural sound, nor is the continual crunching of twigs underfoot. Where and how we step is the key. Heel down first, slowly rocking ahead on the soul, feeling what is beneath before we apply to much pressure.
Now a bull elk is certainly not always a quite animal, and he can usually be heard from a ways off, snapping and popping through the brush as he comes. There are many sounds to consider and amazingly enough silence can be a killer, by that I mean, being to quite can spook a bull just as easily as too much noise or the wrong noise. It really depends on how the game is unfolding.
The days were getting shorter now and the old bull could feel the changes of the season deep within himself. He had been alone in this high timbered basin for nearly three weeks now, leaving behind him his summer’s companions, seeking solitude in this familiar place. The alder slides, the dark stands of timber and the high alpine meadows had been home this bull for seven seasons past. Many challenges he’d answered within the confines of this, his Rocky Mountain coliseum and he carried the battle scars on his face and neck, proving he was still worthy of the crown.
The old bull had returned to a ridge high on the north slope of the basin, deep within the dark timber surrounding himself with dozens of aged and aging horn rubs. The worn and beaten trails leading from his mountain palace had been laid long before his time, traveled by those who had reigned before him yet he knew them as his own.
He carried a huge set of royal antlers, each side having six, long and heavy tines that he had been polishing since he’d left his bachelor group weeks passed. Having stripped the velvet from his rack weeks ago, he now spent much of his day rubbing on heavy alders and young spruce trees, polishing his impressive rack while adding a deep, rich, brown color to the thick beams and tines. Not only did his vigorous rubbing polish his rack but it worked his neck muscles, strengthening them for the battles that would certainly occur in the weeks to come.
It was the second week of September, the leaves were bright in color and the mornings were cold with frost. The dark timbered slopes were slow in warming up and the morning shadows seemed not to move at all. It was the season of the elk.
The string of pack horses passed through the valley bottom with little noise other than the odd steel shod hoof striking rock. There were seven horses in all; three were ridden by men the others packed with heavy loads tied under canvas tarps. The mountain trail they followed led deep into the Rocky Mountains, taking them miles from the lodge and the base camp, deeper into the heart of elk country.
They had ridden for five hours by the time the small creek side camp came into view, the cabins looked like they were straight out of a western movie surrounded by neat piles of split fire wood and lazy plumes of smoke hanging around the chimney tops.
The cook stepped out onto the porch of the larger cabin and waived her arm to the approaching men, the open door behind her allowing the smell of strong black coffee to escape and greet the hungry travelers.
With the pack horses stripped of their loads and the saddles pulled from the riding horses, the animals were turned loose and fed healthy portions of hay and grain inside the large corral. The men returned to the cabin to enjoy the hot meal the cook had prepared for them and shared in deep conversation about rutting bull elk.
Darkness brought with it the final preparations for the mornings hunt, it would be the first day of elk season and excitement was in the air. The men went over their gear while the cook finished up the dishes and made the morning lunches all the while they talked of the coming hunt and the thrills it would bring. With bugles tuned and back packs ready the men headed to their cabin and the warm bunks that awaited them, 4 am was coming fast and sleep was needed after their long ride into camp.
The early morning hours brought much activity to the camp, as the cook fixed heaping plates of food the men fed and saddled their horses making them ready for the journey deeper into the mountain valley, deeper into the land of the elk.
As the lamp light from the cabins disappeared into the darkness the trail led the hunters up away from the creek, climbing higher on the timbered ridge with every step of the horses. The men planned to make their way to the head of the valley before dawn, there they would leave their mounts and hunt the huge alder slides and timber meadows on foot.
Traveling through the darkness the men quietly spoke to each other, excited with the coming dawn and the mornings hunt. The air was crisp and the sky clear as many stars could be seen through the towering spruce tops, giving great promise to the hunt. This would be the first time in a year a man’s bugle echoed through the valley and even the head guide, a very seasoned mountain man and hunter, was feeling the excitement.
The familiar “ Tie Trees “ were reached just as the skies began to grey with the early dawn and the men quickly tied their horses, loosened the cinches and made the final adjustments to their backpacks before heading up the trail towards a pair of huge alder slides ½ mile away.
Reaching the edge of the first slide the men gathered themselves as the guide prepared to blow the season’s first bugle at first light. They stood in the cold shadows of an ancient spruce tree as they waited standing in silence; suddenly the crisp morning air was broken by the echoing sound of a deep bugle rising from the dark timber across the slide. The men smiled at each other and the bull’s challenge was answered perfectly by the guide, receiving an answer almost immediately.
The old bull stood in his night bed and stretched his back. Shaking his head from side to side the bull worked the muscles loose, his heavy rack swaying like two trees in the wind. The cold dawn had brought with it an eagerness the bull felt deep within and he tipped his head back bugling from his depths, he was king of this place and those who dared challenge his throne would feel his fury.
The bull’s head turned sharply as his challenge was answered from below and his blood began to boil, he stepped forward and defied his challenger with hoarse bugle that sounded more like a roar than a bugle. Who should dare!
At the sound of the next challenging bugle, the old bull turned and headed at a steady pace towards the intruder, all the while grunting under his breath in agitation. The building fury inside him quickened his pace as he neared the timber’s edge yet he came to a complete stop before he left the safety of his palace walls, looking for a glimpse of his rival. He stepped from the confines of the dark timber tipping his head back as he walked, when stopped he let another hoarse challenge erupt from his depths and then stood perfectly still, ears ahead listening.
With the bulls hasty approach the men quickly found a suitable rest for the rifleman and began scanning the distant timberline with trained eyes. Within a few short minutes the guide whispered that he’d spotted the bull on the timber’s edge, “He’s a good bull but I can’t get a tine count.” The words had no sooner left the guides mouth when the huge bull stepped into the open and bugled, “He’s a solid 6x6, take him in the ribs “, the guide whispered, “He’s yours.”
Tight Cinches & Dry Powder
Written by;
Ron Arnett
"A Man From The Wilderness"
It's every hunter's dream to harvest a bugling bull elk, to experience the thrill of an 800 lb bull crashing through the timber, head tipped back, huge antlers sweeping his rump, roaring his challenge as he comes to defeat his unseen rival, the one who would dare enter his domain.
It sure sounds easy, just go to the Bass Pro Shop and buy the latest elk bugle to hit the market, drive out into the bush and start blowing. Good luck with that.
Without a doubt bugling in a woods wise and extremely wary mature bull elk is one of the most challenging adventures a sport hunter can partake in. He didn't reach maturity by being stupid and he can certainly tell the difference between the real thing and a fella that has no clue on how to properly blow his new bugle. In more cases than not, if a hunter is lucky enough to get an answer to his bugle the bull has already rounded up his cows and is saying "see you later" over his shoulder.
Think of it this way, why would you fight over something you already have? Wouldn't you rather just take a walk and save the effort and the bruises? I've never met a mature herd bull that wanted to show off for his girls, leaving them behind to run down the hill for a fight. I have however, encountered several hundred that saw themselves as lovers and not fighters, choosing to push their cows up the mountain and away from anything they thought was a threat to their hard earned harem.
Bugling a bull is like playing a game of chess with a master, only you can't see the board and he can. Everything comes into play, wind, sound, vision and oh ya don't forget his sixth sense and his amazing depth perception.
Lets try playing a game, but first lets meet the pieces or factors.
Wind;
One whiff, even from a couple of hundred yards and game over. Ever changing, constantly shifting, the toughest factor to overcome. I use a lighter, usually have one in each pocket and one stuffed in the palm of my leather glove. You can never check the wind direction too much, never.
There are a few constants with regards to the wind in the mountains. Always falling when it's cool, blowing down hill with the coolness of the shadows. Always rising with the heat of the sun, gusting up hill, up the valley depths during the mid day.
The transition period, the time when the wind is changing it's direction is the worst time. Constantly gusting, changing it's direction continuously, gusting this way and that until it settles into it's desired direction, this is the time to sit still until the wind chooses. Remember one whiff and it's over so sit still or you stand to lose the game. The transition period usually last for about 20 minutes unless the skies are unsettled with an arriving storm front, so there again, sit tight and relax. It is most important to have the wind in your favor.
Sound;
Everything makes noise while moving. Whether it be in the timber or across an open hillside, every animal makes some sort of noise. It's HOW we make it that matters. The heavy thudding sound of a booted foot certainly is not a natural sound, nor is the continual crunching of twigs underfoot. Where and how we step is the key. Heel down first, slowly rocking ahead on the soul, feeling what is beneath before we apply to much pressure.
Now a bull elk is certainly not always a quite animal, and he can usually be heard from a ways off, snapping and popping through the brush as he comes. There are many sounds to consider and amazingly enough silence can be a killer, by that I mean, being to quite can spook a bull just as easily as too much noise or the wrong noise. It really depends on how the game is unfolding.
BLACK BEARS
“A Mother’s Love”
The Southern slopes were now turning green with their early season foliage, the creeks were swelling their banks and the mountains echoed with the thundering sounds of the last of the great spring avalanches.
Spring was in the air and the excitement of new beginnings was every where.
The glacier lilies were slowly starting to push their way to the surface, the willow and alder bushes were working to produce their new buds and the sun was gathering strength each morning as it climbed the peaks, casting it’s welcome warmth into the dark shadows of the long winter past.
It was there, high on the southern slopes of the great mountain that she, a four year old black bear sow, chose to introduce her new cubs to the world.
She had given birth deep within the confines of her winter’s den, one, a small brown boar and the other, a tiny black female. She had spent the weeks prior to the spring thaws deep inside the dark and musky surroundings of the den, nursing the tiny cubs, holding them against the warmth of her breast, feeling the instinctive bond of love grow with each moment that passed. Every time one of the cubs would stir, struggling to regain it’s hold on one of her nipples, she would feel something stir inside her, warmth and love for her tiny child, a love only a mother can feel.
Instinct had told her when the time was right for her to leave the den the first time, and, leaving the two now puppy sized cubs alone in the darkness, she broke open the entrance with a strong push, stumbling into the fresh air and warming sunshine. She was hesitant to travel more than a few hundred meter’s from the den yet her exploration was enough to tell her that there was enough growth amongst the fresh foliage to support her growing hunger.
The winter months had been long, and supporting her own bodily needs and the growth of her two nursing youngsters had depleted her stores of fat and inner proteins. She needed to feed now and the cubs needed the fresh air and sunlight to help them along with the amazing speed at which they grew.
When she returned to the den she could see the tiny tracks of her boar cub at the entrance, knowing he had now tasted the freshness of the outdoors, tasted the freedoms that awaited him and his tiny sister beyond the confines of the den. An excitement stirred within her as she crawled into the den and a desire to show her children their new world began to burn inside her.
More than a week passed, finding the young mother leaving the den more frequently, traveling further from the steadily growing cubs each time she ventured forth. Each time she returned she could see the evidence that now both of her youngsters were leaving the safety of the den and once she had returned to find them engaged in a wrestling match several meters from the entrance. The time was now upon her to take the pair of inquisitive youngsters on their first full day’s outing, time to show them the amazing world that surrounded them.
As the days grew slowly longer and the sun steadily warmer, the young mother found herself leading her joyous little cubs further and further from the safety of the den, further into the excitement of their new world. She watched carefully over the growing youngsters as she fed in the warmth of the spring, ever watching, feeling a protective warmth grow within her as the days passed and the cubs grew, a mother’s love.
The young boar cub was beginning to gain a confidence in his surroundings and was soon testing his mother’s patience with disobedience and solo adventures, one of which found him hanging in an alder tree with no idea of how to get down. His bawling soon brought his mother to the rescue and after several encouraging grunts he released his frantic grip on the suspended limb, tumbling from his perch to the ground below with a thump.
His little sister was much more reluctant to leave the safety of mother’s side, rarely venturing more than a few meters away from her watchful mother. She did however, spend considerable time watching her brother get himself into all sorts of predicaments, almost enjoying, with a little sister’s contempt, when mother would swat him off his feet for becoming too frustrating or getting underfoot and disrupting the task at hand.
The days grew longer, the spring snows subsided and the growth of the fresh clover in the valley bottoms soon drew the young family down from the safety of the high country, down into the depths of the valley, closer to the ugly brown lines carved into the earth, the access roads pushed into the heart of the wilderness by the timber companies.
Rich clover thrived along the edges of the mountain road and it’s sweet aroma attracted several of the valley’s resident bears, both grizzly and blacks to the lush and tasty feed. The young mother soon found herself feeding on the soft shoots that had sprouted along a shady road way, leading her young family slowly into the depths of an unfamiliar valley, leading them away from the safety and seclusion of the high mountain slopes.
The cubs were resting, nestled underneath the safety of a huge spruce tree and it’s drooping limbs, cuddled together in the warmth of the afternoon shadows while their mother fed quietly and alone along the edge of an aging road way. Suddenly her head came erect, her senses sharpened, a distant and strange rumble in the valley depths had broken the silence, an unfamiliar sound that scared and worried her. She tested the wind with her keen nose, listened to the strange sound as it drew nearer, turning towards the shadows along the creek were she had left the cubs with a fear growing inside her. She hurried towards the cubs when suddenly a horrible burning pain slammed into her side, a cry of pain and anguish burst from her as she thrashed in agony, trying desperately to reach her babies, to protect.
The rifle awakened the cubs with a horrible start and they listened in fear as the awful thunder echoed again through the valley.
The pain stricken moan that escaped their young, loving and protecting mother caused panic in the tiny siblings, and they listened in horror as the echoing thunder was followed by strange and horrific yells a hoops from some strange being.
They waited, trembling in fear, waited for their mother to come to their side, coming to protect them, to save them, to love them. They waited, waited alone until the starvation claimed them both in the dark and ominous shadows of the valley depths.
They waited, waited as dozens of young cubs wait every spring, waiting for their murdered mothers to return, never understanding as they grow weaker and weaker from the starvation and pain that claims their tiny lives.
Written by:
"A Man From The Wilderness"
It is not my intention with this story to detour you from hunting Black Bear, such a harvest is needed to ensure proper management of the species and to continue to instill the inherent fear of man within the Black Bear as a species.
The Black Bear has learned to co-exist with man and, in many cases, has learned to rely on man as a means of a constant food supply through our trash disposal and poorly contained food supplies while visiting wilderness areas.
I wrote this story with a desire to create a strong realization within the bear hunting community that there certainly is the need for the ability to distinguish the difference between a Boar and a Sow Black Bear while in the field hunting, to instill the fact that there are certain consequences that walk hand in hand with our lack of such abilities.
Tight Cinches & Dry Powder
“A Man From The Wilderness"
The black bear is without doubt one of the most difficult trophy species we hunt in North America to judge, both in size and gender. Years of hunting and viewing experience still leave room for error and one is never completely sure, unless able to witness a bear in a family unit or, through the event of observing a bear urinate, can the gender distinguished absolutely. Size is never an absolute judgment, small is small, medium is medium, and large is.....well, large is when he comes walking out and "HOLY COW" comes to mind.
The spring hunt is undoubtedly the most difficult time to pass judgment on the Black Bear, largely due to the fact the bears are slimmer in size from the long winter spent within the den and the depletion of their fat supplies, and the fact that the sow will often stash the cubs during the early spring while she is out in the open feeding. Throughout the summer and fall months however, the sow can be more frequently observed with her playful offspring at her side, and sometimes even under foot.
As I stated, small is small, long lanky legs, the appearance of a long neck, small head and over sized ears are all a good indication that the bear you are observing is small and not worthy of harvest.
Medium, well medium will appear to have a stouter body, shorter looking legs, not so long in the neck and ears that don't look like satellite dishes. A mid sized bear will walk with a slight swagger and have a well rounded shape to it's body. This the size of bear that is difficult to distinguish a sow from a boar and the only real way is to watch the bear urinate or to observe it with cubs. I can tell you to watch for a pointed, somewhat up turned snout which would usually indicate a sow, to look for a smaller more olive shaped head and a narrow looking front end but it's all just guessing until you run into big.
Big will cause your heart to skip a beat, your mouth to dry up and your mind to race a little. He'll look a baby buffalo ambling along, appear to have no neck, just a head attached to his body and a belly that nearly drags on the ground. This is big, the one you're looking for. Very few black bear sows ever reach six feet from nose to tail, a measurement most frequently used in the west to determine the size of a bear. A six foot bear is a big sow or an average boar, a six and a half foot bear is a good boar and anything bigger than that is getting into the trophy class. A black bear that measures longer than 7 feet nose to tail is extremely large and considered by anyone to be of trophy quality. This is big and there will be little doubt when you see him.
Over the past twenty five years in the mountains, I have witnessed nearly 200 bears be harvested; many a poor shot and many good ones as well. It is my opinion, and only my opinion so take it for what it's worth, that it is NOT a good idea to try busting your bear in the shoulder. It takes an exact, very precise shot to break both shoulders and I have very honestly only seen this done a very few times. Unfortunately I have seen numerous three legged bears run into the brush, a very disappointing and potentially deadly situation for the fella that has to take the rifle from his client and track the wounded and very upset bear into the thick brush.
Take the time to put a well placed shot into the lungs of the bear. Sight your cross hairs on his elbow, slide back just a couple of inches and squeeze. REMEMBER, a bear will always turn into the impact of a bullet, an ungulate will spin away from the impact. Secondly, if you shoot a bear on a steep hillside and it balls up and comes rolling down the hill looking like a large bowling ball, it is very much alive. Bears are no different than you, even though injured, they will ball up and protect themselves when falling or rolling down a steep slope and chances are that when he stops he's going to get up and run for cover, fast. If, after your shot the bears appears to be rolling down the mountain side in an uncontrolled, leg flailing crash, well he's most certainly been hit hard, there's still a good chance however, he could get up, so stay ready and give him an anchoring shot in the ribs when he comes to a stop. A good rule of thumb to always consider when hunting any big game," They can only go as far as their last breath of air will take them when shot through the lungs, they can seemingly go forever on three legs."
"A Man From The Wilderness"
The Southern slopes were now turning green with their early season foliage, the creeks were swelling their banks and the mountains echoed with the thundering sounds of the last of the great spring avalanches.
Spring was in the air and the excitement of new beginnings was every where.
The glacier lilies were slowly starting to push their way to the surface, the willow and alder bushes were working to produce their new buds and the sun was gathering strength each morning as it climbed the peaks, casting it’s welcome warmth into the dark shadows of the long winter past.
It was there, high on the southern slopes of the great mountain that she, a four year old black bear sow, chose to introduce her new cubs to the world.
She had given birth deep within the confines of her winter’s den, one, a small brown boar and the other, a tiny black female. She had spent the weeks prior to the spring thaws deep inside the dark and musky surroundings of the den, nursing the tiny cubs, holding them against the warmth of her breast, feeling the instinctive bond of love grow with each moment that passed. Every time one of the cubs would stir, struggling to regain it’s hold on one of her nipples, she would feel something stir inside her, warmth and love for her tiny child, a love only a mother can feel.
Instinct had told her when the time was right for her to leave the den the first time, and, leaving the two now puppy sized cubs alone in the darkness, she broke open the entrance with a strong push, stumbling into the fresh air and warming sunshine. She was hesitant to travel more than a few hundred meter’s from the den yet her exploration was enough to tell her that there was enough growth amongst the fresh foliage to support her growing hunger.
The winter months had been long, and supporting her own bodily needs and the growth of her two nursing youngsters had depleted her stores of fat and inner proteins. She needed to feed now and the cubs needed the fresh air and sunlight to help them along with the amazing speed at which they grew.
When she returned to the den she could see the tiny tracks of her boar cub at the entrance, knowing he had now tasted the freshness of the outdoors, tasted the freedoms that awaited him and his tiny sister beyond the confines of the den. An excitement stirred within her as she crawled into the den and a desire to show her children their new world began to burn inside her.
More than a week passed, finding the young mother leaving the den more frequently, traveling further from the steadily growing cubs each time she ventured forth. Each time she returned she could see the evidence that now both of her youngsters were leaving the safety of the den and once she had returned to find them engaged in a wrestling match several meters from the entrance. The time was now upon her to take the pair of inquisitive youngsters on their first full day’s outing, time to show them the amazing world that surrounded them.
As the days grew slowly longer and the sun steadily warmer, the young mother found herself leading her joyous little cubs further and further from the safety of the den, further into the excitement of their new world. She watched carefully over the growing youngsters as she fed in the warmth of the spring, ever watching, feeling a protective warmth grow within her as the days passed and the cubs grew, a mother’s love.
The young boar cub was beginning to gain a confidence in his surroundings and was soon testing his mother’s patience with disobedience and solo adventures, one of which found him hanging in an alder tree with no idea of how to get down. His bawling soon brought his mother to the rescue and after several encouraging grunts he released his frantic grip on the suspended limb, tumbling from his perch to the ground below with a thump.
His little sister was much more reluctant to leave the safety of mother’s side, rarely venturing more than a few meters away from her watchful mother. She did however, spend considerable time watching her brother get himself into all sorts of predicaments, almost enjoying, with a little sister’s contempt, when mother would swat him off his feet for becoming too frustrating or getting underfoot and disrupting the task at hand.
The days grew longer, the spring snows subsided and the growth of the fresh clover in the valley bottoms soon drew the young family down from the safety of the high country, down into the depths of the valley, closer to the ugly brown lines carved into the earth, the access roads pushed into the heart of the wilderness by the timber companies.
Rich clover thrived along the edges of the mountain road and it’s sweet aroma attracted several of the valley’s resident bears, both grizzly and blacks to the lush and tasty feed. The young mother soon found herself feeding on the soft shoots that had sprouted along a shady road way, leading her young family slowly into the depths of an unfamiliar valley, leading them away from the safety and seclusion of the high mountain slopes.
The cubs were resting, nestled underneath the safety of a huge spruce tree and it’s drooping limbs, cuddled together in the warmth of the afternoon shadows while their mother fed quietly and alone along the edge of an aging road way. Suddenly her head came erect, her senses sharpened, a distant and strange rumble in the valley depths had broken the silence, an unfamiliar sound that scared and worried her. She tested the wind with her keen nose, listened to the strange sound as it drew nearer, turning towards the shadows along the creek were she had left the cubs with a fear growing inside her. She hurried towards the cubs when suddenly a horrible burning pain slammed into her side, a cry of pain and anguish burst from her as she thrashed in agony, trying desperately to reach her babies, to protect.
The rifle awakened the cubs with a horrible start and they listened in fear as the awful thunder echoed again through the valley.
The pain stricken moan that escaped their young, loving and protecting mother caused panic in the tiny siblings, and they listened in horror as the echoing thunder was followed by strange and horrific yells a hoops from some strange being.
They waited, trembling in fear, waited for their mother to come to their side, coming to protect them, to save them, to love them. They waited, waited alone until the starvation claimed them both in the dark and ominous shadows of the valley depths.
They waited, waited as dozens of young cubs wait every spring, waiting for their murdered mothers to return, never understanding as they grow weaker and weaker from the starvation and pain that claims their tiny lives.
Written by:
"A Man From The Wilderness"
It is not my intention with this story to detour you from hunting Black Bear, such a harvest is needed to ensure proper management of the species and to continue to instill the inherent fear of man within the Black Bear as a species.
The Black Bear has learned to co-exist with man and, in many cases, has learned to rely on man as a means of a constant food supply through our trash disposal and poorly contained food supplies while visiting wilderness areas.
I wrote this story with a desire to create a strong realization within the bear hunting community that there certainly is the need for the ability to distinguish the difference between a Boar and a Sow Black Bear while in the field hunting, to instill the fact that there are certain consequences that walk hand in hand with our lack of such abilities.
Tight Cinches & Dry Powder
“A Man From The Wilderness"
The black bear is without doubt one of the most difficult trophy species we hunt in North America to judge, both in size and gender. Years of hunting and viewing experience still leave room for error and one is never completely sure, unless able to witness a bear in a family unit or, through the event of observing a bear urinate, can the gender distinguished absolutely. Size is never an absolute judgment, small is small, medium is medium, and large is.....well, large is when he comes walking out and "HOLY COW" comes to mind.
The spring hunt is undoubtedly the most difficult time to pass judgment on the Black Bear, largely due to the fact the bears are slimmer in size from the long winter spent within the den and the depletion of their fat supplies, and the fact that the sow will often stash the cubs during the early spring while she is out in the open feeding. Throughout the summer and fall months however, the sow can be more frequently observed with her playful offspring at her side, and sometimes even under foot.
As I stated, small is small, long lanky legs, the appearance of a long neck, small head and over sized ears are all a good indication that the bear you are observing is small and not worthy of harvest.
Medium, well medium will appear to have a stouter body, shorter looking legs, not so long in the neck and ears that don't look like satellite dishes. A mid sized bear will walk with a slight swagger and have a well rounded shape to it's body. This the size of bear that is difficult to distinguish a sow from a boar and the only real way is to watch the bear urinate or to observe it with cubs. I can tell you to watch for a pointed, somewhat up turned snout which would usually indicate a sow, to look for a smaller more olive shaped head and a narrow looking front end but it's all just guessing until you run into big.
Big will cause your heart to skip a beat, your mouth to dry up and your mind to race a little. He'll look a baby buffalo ambling along, appear to have no neck, just a head attached to his body and a belly that nearly drags on the ground. This is big, the one you're looking for. Very few black bear sows ever reach six feet from nose to tail, a measurement most frequently used in the west to determine the size of a bear. A six foot bear is a big sow or an average boar, a six and a half foot bear is a good boar and anything bigger than that is getting into the trophy class. A black bear that measures longer than 7 feet nose to tail is extremely large and considered by anyone to be of trophy quality. This is big and there will be little doubt when you see him.
Over the past twenty five years in the mountains, I have witnessed nearly 200 bears be harvested; many a poor shot and many good ones as well. It is my opinion, and only my opinion so take it for what it's worth, that it is NOT a good idea to try busting your bear in the shoulder. It takes an exact, very precise shot to break both shoulders and I have very honestly only seen this done a very few times. Unfortunately I have seen numerous three legged bears run into the brush, a very disappointing and potentially deadly situation for the fella that has to take the rifle from his client and track the wounded and very upset bear into the thick brush.
Take the time to put a well placed shot into the lungs of the bear. Sight your cross hairs on his elbow, slide back just a couple of inches and squeeze. REMEMBER, a bear will always turn into the impact of a bullet, an ungulate will spin away from the impact. Secondly, if you shoot a bear on a steep hillside and it balls up and comes rolling down the hill looking like a large bowling ball, it is very much alive. Bears are no different than you, even though injured, they will ball up and protect themselves when falling or rolling down a steep slope and chances are that when he stops he's going to get up and run for cover, fast. If, after your shot the bears appears to be rolling down the mountain side in an uncontrolled, leg flailing crash, well he's most certainly been hit hard, there's still a good chance however, he could get up, so stay ready and give him an anchoring shot in the ribs when he comes to a stop. A good rule of thumb to always consider when hunting any big game," They can only go as far as their last breath of air will take them when shot through the lungs, they can seemingly go forever on three legs."
"A Man From The Wilderness"
