Post by Roe on Oct 3, 2016 0:16:57 GMT -4
The caller ID on my cell phone told me it was Trapper, but the voice was hardly recognizable, more of a whisper through clenched teeth than the strong tones I normally hear. I hoped it was simply a bad connection, not unusual when he calls from “The Jungle” with its spotty cell service, but the story he told proved otherwise. He was wrestling a 400lb drum of honey off his trailer and just as he applied maximum force to get the barrel up on its rim, the locking ring let go and launched him off the trailer to land on his back and left hip. The bruising and swelling were substantial, but the pain was debilitating. As Trapper put it “he could hardly walk, talk, or fart.”
A hospital visit the next morning, at the same time our convoy rolled north to begin our hunt, would confirm two broken ribs and heavy bruising of the muscles and tissues of his lower back and hip, but thankfully no internal damage. Trap was out for the duration, limited to ice packs and pain meds, and Bear Camp 2016 was off to an inauspicious start. It would fall to me to run all the baits, get the hunters orientated, track, drag, and all the other chores necessary to a successful bear camp. There would be four in our group along with one other hunter, Dr. Bob was back at age 83. Fortunately, Maudite was one of the four, knew the routine, and could handle himself…and he’s well aware that I can delegate with the best of them.
We arrived late that afternoon and hurried to set up camp...
bear camp 2016
...then conferred with Trapper and got the game plan down pat. The next morning, 24 hours before our hunt would begin, I pointed Maudite in the direction of his new bait, then took the other two in turn to their baits, showing them how we bait, where the blinds were, and making sure they could find their way in without me the next day…and even more importantly, find their way out and back to camp after dark.
I finally headed to my bait, far to the north, and found the trails in the worst condition I’d ever seen them...
Heavy rains over much of July and August had taken its toll and the ruts and mud were deeper and longer than ever before. What was once a routine river crossing had become rather challenging. Arriving at the bait I found evidence of heavy activity complete with the territorial markings I'm always happy to find. I refilled the bait log and quickly hung a small trail camera, checked the “blind”, an old chair behind a double trunked maple, then returned to camp to run the rest of the back-up baits and see if Dr. Bob had arrived yet.
one of our typical white pine stump baits
Over the next three days before the bears ate that trail camera...
...it would record nine or ten different bears active on my bait, hitting at all hours of the day and night. Never in the 21 years I’ve hunted this location have I seen this much activity, both in quantity and quality. Ma and Junior were regular visitors…
As were a handful of shooters ranging from an estimated 250 to over 350 pounds. For a comparison that bait log is nearly 4 1/2 feet long and more than 2 feet in diameter…
And finally this brute…
That my friends is a good 500 lb or better bear.
The next five days were some of the most exciting and entertaining I’ve spent in the bear woods. The first night Ma & Junior spent 40 minutes at the bait, finally departing to my right. 20 minutes later I heard noise over first my right shoulder, then moments later my left. Soon, both bears exited the heavy cover and passed within six yards of my motionless camo form, walking in my entrance trail. Scent lock clothing and knee high rubber boots no doubt helped as that little family had circled me at very close range.
The following nights I could hear bears facing off in the woods around me, huffing and teeth popping, sometimes a quick scuffle followed by a heavy body crashing away. Bears of all sizes continued to come and go, and on more than one occasion I could hear but not see a bruin circle my position in the nearly impenetrable cover surrounding me. Evidence showed the Big Guy continued to hit the bait, but as is usual with these trophies, well after dark. A full moon and clear evening skies certainly wasn’t helping.
Night four, I passed up three shooters, a 250, a 300+, and one I figured would push 375 pounds, all within a half hour. The first, the 300+, was run off by the next, crashing away into the woods to the left as the bigger bear appeared from the right. This bear was cautious, the wind was wrong that night and he seemed to be getting a hint of me on the currents, standing in the middle of the clearing, head high, his nostrils flared, his lips curled back, sucking in great intakes of air as I watched from 55 yards away through binoculars. Finally satisfied, he made his way to the log, but only moments later his ears shot up, his head swiveled to face the cover to the right rear and he, like the bear before, ran to the left like the hounds of hell were pursuing, noisily crashing through the wood for 50 yards or more. Not at all the behavior I’ve come to expect from a bruin this size. The Big Guy had to be coming!
Cautiously replacing the binoculars with my rifle, I waited, controlling my breathing while looking over the top of the scope. Jet black, bottomless black, filled the shadows of the entrance trail moments before he stepped into the clearing. But he wasn’t The He…instead the smallest of the three, still a good boar of 250lbs, sauntered out. It made little sense. All I can assume is the Big Guy had these bears so buffaloed they ran at the mere suggestion he might be approaching. This bear hung around for 10 minutes then went on alert and eventually got a wiff of me, slinking away into the cover. I could hear bears around me right up until shooting light failed, then left as quickly and quietly as I could, difficult with 500 yards of mud and ruts between me and my old Honda. I had set a camp record…never before had anyone passed up three shooters in one night. The Big Guy had me focused, but my resolve was fading.
The next afternoon was clear and nearly dead calm, even the drone of the mosquitoes covering my headnet seemed subdued somewhat. When I sat down I realized the bait log had been dragged or rolled to the right so far I couldn’t even see it behind a small peninsula of cedars. A conspiracy of ravens flying out with scraps of meat told me the log had been opened and when two large vultures landed in the clearing and walked out of sight towards the log I decided I had to act. Leaving the .350 leaning against the maple, I quietly walked down the shooting lane, spooking the big scavengers into the air, and rolled the log back where it belonged. I wasn’t sure if I had screwed the night away, alerting every bear in the area to my presence. Time would tell.
All was quiet for the next three hours and I was beginning to believe I had fouled my nest. About an hour before dark I could hear a large bear circle my location. Nothing blatant, but enough auditory clues to suspect he was there. A quarter hour ticked by, then another. Finally, without a sound, a big boar stepped into the clearing from the right, like so many had before. It was obviously not the Big Guy, but a very respectable bruin, a solid 350, and I watched him through the binoculars fighting to keep my resolve. When he turned and faced me I caught sight of the well defined creamy white Y in the center of his chest. Any resolve I had left quickly vanished and for only the second time all week the binos were cautiously lowered, and the .350RM was brought to bear (no pun intended). When he turned broadside and lifted his head to inhale the aroma of the beaver castor I had placed high on the trunk of a young birch as a positioning tool, I took the high shoulder shot I’m so fond of. The .350 put him down in his tracks and he expired by the time it took me to walk the 60 yards.
I apologize for both the poor quality pictures and my haggard appearance. When I got back to camp I found one of the other guys had shot a bear but was unable to locate it and that took top priority. The bait he was hunting happened to be the farthest south, mine the farthest north. By the time we rode to his bait, tracked and located his bear, dragged it out and transported it back to camp, then switched trailers and retrieved my bear through the miles of mud and ruts and that, by now, ominous river crossing, two and a half hours had expired and the odometer on my Honda registered an additional 35 miles. Frankly I was beat and no one had yet handed me a cold beer.
Two days later Maudite took another nice bear off the same bait, a 315 lb boar with a nice dark muzzle. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again…true happiness is a thoroughly muddy truck and ATV and a fresh swizzle stick hanging from the rear view mirror…and a 500 pounder waiting in the wings for next time.
Roe
A hospital visit the next morning, at the same time our convoy rolled north to begin our hunt, would confirm two broken ribs and heavy bruising of the muscles and tissues of his lower back and hip, but thankfully no internal damage. Trap was out for the duration, limited to ice packs and pain meds, and Bear Camp 2016 was off to an inauspicious start. It would fall to me to run all the baits, get the hunters orientated, track, drag, and all the other chores necessary to a successful bear camp. There would be four in our group along with one other hunter, Dr. Bob was back at age 83. Fortunately, Maudite was one of the four, knew the routine, and could handle himself…and he’s well aware that I can delegate with the best of them.
We arrived late that afternoon and hurried to set up camp...
bear camp 2016
...then conferred with Trapper and got the game plan down pat. The next morning, 24 hours before our hunt would begin, I pointed Maudite in the direction of his new bait, then took the other two in turn to their baits, showing them how we bait, where the blinds were, and making sure they could find their way in without me the next day…and even more importantly, find their way out and back to camp after dark.
I finally headed to my bait, far to the north, and found the trails in the worst condition I’d ever seen them...
Heavy rains over much of July and August had taken its toll and the ruts and mud were deeper and longer than ever before. What was once a routine river crossing had become rather challenging. Arriving at the bait I found evidence of heavy activity complete with the territorial markings I'm always happy to find. I refilled the bait log and quickly hung a small trail camera, checked the “blind”, an old chair behind a double trunked maple, then returned to camp to run the rest of the back-up baits and see if Dr. Bob had arrived yet.
one of our typical white pine stump baits
Over the next three days before the bears ate that trail camera...
...it would record nine or ten different bears active on my bait, hitting at all hours of the day and night. Never in the 21 years I’ve hunted this location have I seen this much activity, both in quantity and quality. Ma and Junior were regular visitors…
As were a handful of shooters ranging from an estimated 250 to over 350 pounds. For a comparison that bait log is nearly 4 1/2 feet long and more than 2 feet in diameter…
And finally this brute…
That my friends is a good 500 lb or better bear.
The next five days were some of the most exciting and entertaining I’ve spent in the bear woods. The first night Ma & Junior spent 40 minutes at the bait, finally departing to my right. 20 minutes later I heard noise over first my right shoulder, then moments later my left. Soon, both bears exited the heavy cover and passed within six yards of my motionless camo form, walking in my entrance trail. Scent lock clothing and knee high rubber boots no doubt helped as that little family had circled me at very close range.
The following nights I could hear bears facing off in the woods around me, huffing and teeth popping, sometimes a quick scuffle followed by a heavy body crashing away. Bears of all sizes continued to come and go, and on more than one occasion I could hear but not see a bruin circle my position in the nearly impenetrable cover surrounding me. Evidence showed the Big Guy continued to hit the bait, but as is usual with these trophies, well after dark. A full moon and clear evening skies certainly wasn’t helping.
Night four, I passed up three shooters, a 250, a 300+, and one I figured would push 375 pounds, all within a half hour. The first, the 300+, was run off by the next, crashing away into the woods to the left as the bigger bear appeared from the right. This bear was cautious, the wind was wrong that night and he seemed to be getting a hint of me on the currents, standing in the middle of the clearing, head high, his nostrils flared, his lips curled back, sucking in great intakes of air as I watched from 55 yards away through binoculars. Finally satisfied, he made his way to the log, but only moments later his ears shot up, his head swiveled to face the cover to the right rear and he, like the bear before, ran to the left like the hounds of hell were pursuing, noisily crashing through the wood for 50 yards or more. Not at all the behavior I’ve come to expect from a bruin this size. The Big Guy had to be coming!
Cautiously replacing the binoculars with my rifle, I waited, controlling my breathing while looking over the top of the scope. Jet black, bottomless black, filled the shadows of the entrance trail moments before he stepped into the clearing. But he wasn’t The He…instead the smallest of the three, still a good boar of 250lbs, sauntered out. It made little sense. All I can assume is the Big Guy had these bears so buffaloed they ran at the mere suggestion he might be approaching. This bear hung around for 10 minutes then went on alert and eventually got a wiff of me, slinking away into the cover. I could hear bears around me right up until shooting light failed, then left as quickly and quietly as I could, difficult with 500 yards of mud and ruts between me and my old Honda. I had set a camp record…never before had anyone passed up three shooters in one night. The Big Guy had me focused, but my resolve was fading.
The next afternoon was clear and nearly dead calm, even the drone of the mosquitoes covering my headnet seemed subdued somewhat. When I sat down I realized the bait log had been dragged or rolled to the right so far I couldn’t even see it behind a small peninsula of cedars. A conspiracy of ravens flying out with scraps of meat told me the log had been opened and when two large vultures landed in the clearing and walked out of sight towards the log I decided I had to act. Leaving the .350 leaning against the maple, I quietly walked down the shooting lane, spooking the big scavengers into the air, and rolled the log back where it belonged. I wasn’t sure if I had screwed the night away, alerting every bear in the area to my presence. Time would tell.
All was quiet for the next three hours and I was beginning to believe I had fouled my nest. About an hour before dark I could hear a large bear circle my location. Nothing blatant, but enough auditory clues to suspect he was there. A quarter hour ticked by, then another. Finally, without a sound, a big boar stepped into the clearing from the right, like so many had before. It was obviously not the Big Guy, but a very respectable bruin, a solid 350, and I watched him through the binoculars fighting to keep my resolve. When he turned and faced me I caught sight of the well defined creamy white Y in the center of his chest. Any resolve I had left quickly vanished and for only the second time all week the binos were cautiously lowered, and the .350RM was brought to bear (no pun intended). When he turned broadside and lifted his head to inhale the aroma of the beaver castor I had placed high on the trunk of a young birch as a positioning tool, I took the high shoulder shot I’m so fond of. The .350 put him down in his tracks and he expired by the time it took me to walk the 60 yards.
I apologize for both the poor quality pictures and my haggard appearance. When I got back to camp I found one of the other guys had shot a bear but was unable to locate it and that took top priority. The bait he was hunting happened to be the farthest south, mine the farthest north. By the time we rode to his bait, tracked and located his bear, dragged it out and transported it back to camp, then switched trailers and retrieved my bear through the miles of mud and ruts and that, by now, ominous river crossing, two and a half hours had expired and the odometer on my Honda registered an additional 35 miles. Frankly I was beat and no one had yet handed me a cold beer.
Two days later Maudite took another nice bear off the same bait, a 315 lb boar with a nice dark muzzle. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again…true happiness is a thoroughly muddy truck and ATV and a fresh swizzle stick hanging from the rear view mirror…and a 500 pounder waiting in the wings for next time.
Roe
