Bear Tales: Somethin's Fishy

Sideswipe requested I share a few of the short stories I've been posting on another forum with the members here.  I seldom write "success stories". preferring to focus on the many unusual or humorous occurrences I've experienced in 30+ years of bear hunting.  Here's the first of them, in no particular order.  Hope you enjoy...

Somethin's Fishy

For a handful of years a group of us practiced bear hunting the hard way...we did everything ourselves. During the week, all of the month of August, we would collect bait from various sources, then each weekend haul it the 450 miles to our hunting grounds in Michigan's UP. where we would divide it among our baits. Back home on Sunday night, we would begin the process all over again until the season opened on September 10th.

I was in charge of meat. I had contacts at local grocery stores and meat markets that were good for a couple of 55 gallon drums of spoils and trimmings each week. I also gathered 5 gallon buckets of used restaurant fryer grease. One of our party collected sweets, discards from a nearby bakery, enough to fill another large drum. Another had a source for institutional sized packets of powdered jello. Raspberry, strawberry, liberally sprinkled over the foliage, it was a great tool for opening a new bait location. Finally, my cousin Mooch brought 5 gallon buckets of offal from a fish processing plant near his work. Now fish heads and guts are not great bear bait, but mixed with the fryer grease in burlap bags, dragged to the bait site from as far away as a half mile to lay down a scent trail that any bear crossing would turn and follow, then hung out of reach in an afternoon sun to drip on a log or rock near the bait itself was a powerful attractant.

It was the Friday evening of Labor Day weekend and I was pacing in my driveway waiting for the boys to show up. My utility trailer, The Stink Wagon, was hooked up to my truck, loaded down with the drums of meat and buckets of grease, with room to add the sacrificial offerings each would bring. Keith rolled in and we added his collection of sweets to the 55 gallon drum already strapped in place and I paused just long enough to sneak an only-slightly-crushed Twinkie out of the drum before clamping the lid back on. As usual, Mooch was running late.

A half hour later, I saw his S-10 Blazer coming up the street, a large misshapen cardboard box roped to the roof rack. I wondered what possible surprise he had in store. As he pulled in the driveway, the pungent smell of decaying fish was overpowering, and when he exited the vehicle it actually got stronger! Keith and I began to back away, our senses under assault, as Keith proclaimed, "Holy ----, you smell like the shit house door on a tuna boat!" Mooch began to explain, while we maneuvered to keep upwind.

When he showed up at the processing plant some new hire had tossed the five gallon pails and lids he had left to be filled. A day's worth or so of rotting fish parts were in a heavy plastic liner inside a pallet-sized thick cardboard box. Mooch had little choice but to have them hoist the pallet up by forklift then wrestle the box on to the roof of his Blazer, where he roped it down for the 40 mile trip to my house. Halfway there, in his side view mirror, he had noticed the liner had developed a leak, the escaping fluid soaking through the box and the liner was now working it's way through the weakened cardboard. He pulled to the side of the expressway and decided the best course of action was to puncture a hole in the liner and let the weight of the large amount of liquid escape.

Pulling a pocket knife, he proceeded to do just that, as he tried to stand clear enough to avoid the rush of rank juices. When the blade penetrated, the liner split full length, a cascade of putrid fluid gushing across the roof and down the sides of the vehicle. Mooch was happy with himself he had dodged the majority, only a small amount had splashed on his boots and cuffs, and a quick car wash could take care of the vehicle. His joy was short lived however. As he rounded the back of the Blazer, he realized, in his haste, he had left the drivers door open, the door panel, carpet, and drivers seat now saturated with the foul slime. He had little choice but to drive the remaining distance stewing in the juices, so to speak.

While Keith and I set to transferring the fish offal to buckets, Mooch did what he could to mop up the inside of the Blazer. Then Mooch cleaned up by garden hose (my wife wouldn't let him in the house) and changed clothes, while I sprayed the vehicle with some deodorizer and we left it parked in the driveway with the windows cracked open to allow ventilation. We realized the error in that when we returned on Monday afternoon and found the Blazer was loaded with thousands of flies, so many all the windows appeared to be blacked out. We evicted most of them with a gas powered leaf blower, but three days in the August sun had not helped the odor issues any. He claimed that black cloud of flies followed him all the way to the highway.

The worst of it began after Mooch made it home. You see, the Blazer was his wife's daily driver. When three different companies were unable to remove the smell, he was forced to sell it at a big loss and buy his wife a new commuter. The silver lining? We curtailed our use of fish...and the nickname that had hung on my trailer found a new home.

Roe