Bear Tales: Bucky's Initiation

Bucky's Initiation

I first met Bucky when he began dating my wife’s niece. For the purposes of this story I'll call him Bucky, for although not his real name, it is somehow fitting. Nearly ten years my junior he was definitely a country boy with his ponytail, ever present cowboy boots, and rockabilly blaring from an aging Dodge Ram. A bit cocky and high strung, but he was a good kid, and a hunter, so it wasn’t long before we hit it off. I got him interested in handguns, taught him to reload, and we did quite a bit of small game, deer, and predator hunting together. After hearing many of my bear hunting stories, he soon had the fever. A year later he drew a permit in the state lottery and September found us heading to The Jungle, a little piece of Heaven in Michigan’s UP.

A few weeks before our departure I called my old friend Trapper, caretaker of The Jungle and a master of the fine art of baiting black bear. Bucky was still quite full of himself and needed to be taken down a notch or two. Besides, he had pulled a few practical jokes on me and it was payback time. I had Trapper take an old wooden stool out to the bait site, where he covered it with honey and bacon grease. The desired effect didn’t take long and we had the perfect seat, one with numerous teeth and claw marks, to put in Bucky’s blind. The stage was set.

We arrived at camp mid-afternoon on the day before the opener. As soon as introductions were made, we had Bucky’s Honda Fourtrax off the trailer and he was following Trapper through the six or seven miles of ruts, rocks, logs, and mudholes that constituted the trail to the northernmost bait. As Trapper explained to me later, when they approached the bait he realized he had forgotten to put the bear molested stool in the "blind" and it was still lying on the ground a few yards from the hard hit bait. Thinking quickly, and without a word to Bucky, he scooped up the chair as he rode up, walked over, and flipped it behind the fallen tree that would serve as Bucky’s hideout the next day. After replenishing the bait and restacking the cover logs, they wordlessly began the return trip to camp.

I had not drawn a permit for this hunt and spent their absence moving our gear into an old Airstream trailer that would be our home for the next week. Upon their return, Trapper explained it had been a dry summer, with a very poor berry crop. The bears were especially active, hitting the baits aggressively. He showed us where a good-sized bruin had been coming into camp, attempting to get into the bait shack. Deep claw marks in the tarpaper siding exposed the pale yellow of the plywood beneath, and the splintered corners of the battered door bore testament to his hunger and frustration. Bucky examined the damage carefully, his eyes the size of silver dollars, and his ponytail nearly erect.

That evening we retired to Trapper’s cabin for a good evening of beer and bear stories. Bucky had dozens of questions and Trapper had just as many interesting stories. He told of past hunts, bears taken, bears missed. Bears wounded and the late night tracking escapades that often followed a muffed shot. Bucky was getting pumped. Then the question I had been waiting for, Bucky asked about the stool. Trapper, never missing a beat, replied, “I’ve never seen anything like it! Every time dat bear comes to da bait, first thing he does, he drags dat ol’ stool out of da blind and tears it up.” Trapper continued to lay it on and I could see, even in the dim glow of the single propane mantle on the wall over our heads, that Bucky’s ponytail was again at full mast.

Soon after, Trapper headed into town for the night, and Bucky and I fell back to the Airstream. After finishing off another beer or two it was nearing midnight when Bucky exclaimed, “Aw hell, I’ve got to use the outhouse!” After a subtle reminder that it was located right next to the bear damaged bait shack, I watched him disappear into the darkness, toilet paper in hand. I gave him a minute or two, then crept out of the Airstream. I snuck around the back of the cabin, tiptoed behind the woodpile, then began my final stalk on the back of the outhouse. I silently approached the small building, paused briefly, then forcefully dragged my fingernails down the shingle-sided back wall. From inside, a sharp intake of breath could be heard, followed by a distinct “plop, plop” hitting the pile below! I think Bucky called me every name in the book, but I only heard about half of them over my uncontrolled laughter.

The following afternoon, Trapper and I chatted and filled bait buckets while Bucky prepared for his afternoon hunt. A little before 3 pm he emerged from the Airstream, decked out in his hunting attire. As he purposely strode to his four-wheeler, you could plainly see the black rubber grips and stainless steel grip frame of his S&W 44 Mag, peering out from the leather shoulder holster draped under his left arm. Trapper scrutinized him with a raised eyebrow then, in his familiar UP accent, asked, “Huntin’ with a handgun, eh?”
“Yeah!” Bucky replied enthusiastically.
“You pretty good with that thing?” Trapper continued.
“Yeah, I think I am.” Bucky said, not quite so sure of himself.
“How are you on runnin’ shots?” Trapper fired back, a slight smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
“Running shots? I…I…kind of expected the bear to be standing at the bait.” stammered Bucky.
“Not the bear runnin’. You runnin’!” exclaimed Trapper, going in for the kill.

Later that night, after Bucky had returned from the first evening of his hunt, he pulled me aside to confide, “You know, Roe, the first thing I did when I got to the bait was throw that stool as far away as I could!”

Mission accomplished.

Roe