Post by tuketu on May 1, 2022 10:17:53 GMT -4
One for the Road
It was now the 15th of October and there I sat listening to yesterday’s cool autumn rain rolled over the granite cobble that peppered the swollen brook which deviated off the stillwater, as the wind swayed me to its whispers and moans. My two weeks vacation in September is now a fleeting memory with the rumination of an unfilled bear tag in my craw, still adorning my pack. Oh sure there were happy times, watching young blackies bury their heads shoulder deep in the barrel for every sweet desire they could devour. The ritual trail cam review was always a highlight just to see the chronological disembowelment of all that I painstakingly crammed into the barrel the day before. I couldn’t help notice that something had changed. Since the onset of the full moon phase daily visits were almost nonexistent. Prior to that I would relish the moments spent watching the juveniles dart in and out snatching one morsel at a time. It helped pass the 6 – 7 hour stints on the stand. These youngsters, although very healthy looking, were not yet ready for harvest and provided a welcome distraction, but more importantly, an advance guard of perhaps more desirable specimens that may wish to procure some of my offerings.
I had spent many hours, both on and off stand, trying to make sense of my nocturnal dilemma. Until this point I had only one notable bear during daylight hours that gave me hope, but that was short lived, when after 40 minutes of epicurean indulgence at the bait he turned due east and left without offering me one broadside shot. Thing was, I knew I had a very respectable “Shooter Bear” on camera that would grace the bait with his presence about an hour after dark. Maybe, just maybe, he might let temptation lead him astray and come in early.
2
“This bear can’t be patterning me?” I thought. My schedule is too erratic; even my good ole hunting partner Starbuck never knew what to expect. I knew from this years scouting in the spring that there was a well travelled bear trail that followed along the other side of the Stillwater, one that I’m sure my little bear Spitz used regularly during his swims last year. Then it occurred to me, I’m wondering if my shooter is sitting inside the tree line by the water edge watching me leave after my days on stand. “Nah, he wouldn’t! Would he?” It would certainly make sense, and from a timeframe perspective definitely was within the realm of possibility. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Laugh because he was smarter than your average bear … or cry because he was smarter than this average bear hunter.
It was now getting down to the wire. I had only my scheduled days off to hunt, assuming of course that the Rain Gods would take pity on me. Also of concern was that the Pumpkin Army would soon be infiltrating every rock, stump, bush and tree in an attempt to secure his or her winter’s venison; their fluorescence reminiscent of fireflies aglow on a hot summers night. The Boreal would soon be home to the fertile offerings of the Valley. The fall harvest of apples and carrots abound everywhere amongst the pine, spruce and poplars so one need not worry about going hungry in these woods if lost.
After about 10 days of no daytime activity at the bait my days afield were quickly going from musings of anxious anticipation to the pensiveness of despair. I watched as the last vestige of daylight slid behind a fiery hardwood that overhung the waters edge. The last life of summer falling free from its limbs, burning palms turned skyward, it’s edges like fingers grasping at the breeze to be laid gently on the currents and wisped away… much as my hopes of a harvest. With about 15 minutes of shooting light left and against my better judgment I decided to pack it in for the night. After 3 separate days and about 17 hours in the trees I’d had enough disappointment for this week.
3
After mustering up my gear I headed down the tree and out to the road. My mind was filled with thoughts that this may very well be one of my last hunts for bear this year. I had a flood of emotions wash over me, the most prevalent being the fact that I may just have to cut my losses and admit defeat. It has been my practice to use the beginning of the rifle season for deer as my season end for bear. With only a long and short work week left my days were definitely numbered. It would be another 3 days before I could bait again and that could have a definite impact on my sites activity.
I moped my way along the road towards my truck trying to snap my seat cushion onto my day pack “Lots of shooting light here” I thought to myself. I made my way across the Stillwater Bridge, still fumbling with my pack, I happen to take a glimpse up the road and was dumbfounded at what I saw. There, standing in the middle of the road was my nemesis. A beautiful specimen of Ursus Americanus, so black he had a blue sheen. He was just standing there at about 40 yards, well beyond my comfort range with a bow… I was stunned. I stopped dead in my tracks then slowly sidestepped , slipping into the alders that lined the road to break up my silhouette “What now? He’s gonna bolt!” What happened next baffled me; with no more than a fleeting glance he slowly turned away and started sauntering down the road as if unconcerned or unaware of my presence. Initially I though he had walked off into the woods to the right, but as I strained to get a view up through the brush I could see his big black head as he ambled up the road, all I could think was “Oh My God, get the camera the boys aren’t going to believe this!” but before I had time to react I felt a sharp pain on the left side of my head which I’m sure was Starbuck kicking my in the ear …“ Nock an arrow you Idiot!” It was a no brainer. I reached to my bow quiver and tried to quietly slip string into the groove on the nock. Why the quiver chose now to inflict some kind of death grip on my arrow I don’t know but after a brief altercation and some graphic mutterings I managed to nock an arrow and began to creep along the roadside tree line as best I could. Trying to stay in cover, yet open for the shot, I was having a hard time making up ground on him in stealth mode. The stretch of straight road around the bend was going to pose a problem; I needed to be within 25 yards for the shot. On endorphin overload, I inched along watching that big black butt waddle like Baloo.
4
“Man what a nice bear!” The pain in my ear had been replaced by the thumping of my chest as my blood burned through me … “Get closer, get closer!!!” I don’t know what it was but something made him turn broadside, call in animal instinct, a sixth sense, whatever, as quick as it started …it was all over … BUSTED! There was no second chance this time. It was as if he vanished into thin air, 0 to 60 in 1/1000th sec. More amazingly the woods were silent, not a snap, a crack, nothing as he bolted through the dense cover.
As I sat there in a steaming heap, the whole event replayed itself, “What a Friggin Rush”. Surprisingly I wasn’t disappointed with the outcome, but felt rather fortunate to have had such an amazing experience eye to eye. Once I composed myself I began the short walk back to the truck. I couldn’t help but wonder though “Where was he headed? What was he looking for? How many times had he snickered to himself as I walked morosely to my truck?”
“Oh well” I chuckled, “I guess that’s one for the road!”
tuk
Oct 18/11
It was now the 15th of October and there I sat listening to yesterday’s cool autumn rain rolled over the granite cobble that peppered the swollen brook which deviated off the stillwater, as the wind swayed me to its whispers and moans. My two weeks vacation in September is now a fleeting memory with the rumination of an unfilled bear tag in my craw, still adorning my pack. Oh sure there were happy times, watching young blackies bury their heads shoulder deep in the barrel for every sweet desire they could devour. The ritual trail cam review was always a highlight just to see the chronological disembowelment of all that I painstakingly crammed into the barrel the day before. I couldn’t help notice that something had changed. Since the onset of the full moon phase daily visits were almost nonexistent. Prior to that I would relish the moments spent watching the juveniles dart in and out snatching one morsel at a time. It helped pass the 6 – 7 hour stints on the stand. These youngsters, although very healthy looking, were not yet ready for harvest and provided a welcome distraction, but more importantly, an advance guard of perhaps more desirable specimens that may wish to procure some of my offerings.
I had spent many hours, both on and off stand, trying to make sense of my nocturnal dilemma. Until this point I had only one notable bear during daylight hours that gave me hope, but that was short lived, when after 40 minutes of epicurean indulgence at the bait he turned due east and left without offering me one broadside shot. Thing was, I knew I had a very respectable “Shooter Bear” on camera that would grace the bait with his presence about an hour after dark. Maybe, just maybe, he might let temptation lead him astray and come in early.
2
“This bear can’t be patterning me?” I thought. My schedule is too erratic; even my good ole hunting partner Starbuck never knew what to expect. I knew from this years scouting in the spring that there was a well travelled bear trail that followed along the other side of the Stillwater, one that I’m sure my little bear Spitz used regularly during his swims last year. Then it occurred to me, I’m wondering if my shooter is sitting inside the tree line by the water edge watching me leave after my days on stand. “Nah, he wouldn’t! Would he?” It would certainly make sense, and from a timeframe perspective definitely was within the realm of possibility. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Laugh because he was smarter than your average bear … or cry because he was smarter than this average bear hunter.
It was now getting down to the wire. I had only my scheduled days off to hunt, assuming of course that the Rain Gods would take pity on me. Also of concern was that the Pumpkin Army would soon be infiltrating every rock, stump, bush and tree in an attempt to secure his or her winter’s venison; their fluorescence reminiscent of fireflies aglow on a hot summers night. The Boreal would soon be home to the fertile offerings of the Valley. The fall harvest of apples and carrots abound everywhere amongst the pine, spruce and poplars so one need not worry about going hungry in these woods if lost.
After about 10 days of no daytime activity at the bait my days afield were quickly going from musings of anxious anticipation to the pensiveness of despair. I watched as the last vestige of daylight slid behind a fiery hardwood that overhung the waters edge. The last life of summer falling free from its limbs, burning palms turned skyward, it’s edges like fingers grasping at the breeze to be laid gently on the currents and wisped away… much as my hopes of a harvest. With about 15 minutes of shooting light left and against my better judgment I decided to pack it in for the night. After 3 separate days and about 17 hours in the trees I’d had enough disappointment for this week.
3
After mustering up my gear I headed down the tree and out to the road. My mind was filled with thoughts that this may very well be one of my last hunts for bear this year. I had a flood of emotions wash over me, the most prevalent being the fact that I may just have to cut my losses and admit defeat. It has been my practice to use the beginning of the rifle season for deer as my season end for bear. With only a long and short work week left my days were definitely numbered. It would be another 3 days before I could bait again and that could have a definite impact on my sites activity.
I moped my way along the road towards my truck trying to snap my seat cushion onto my day pack “Lots of shooting light here” I thought to myself. I made my way across the Stillwater Bridge, still fumbling with my pack, I happen to take a glimpse up the road and was dumbfounded at what I saw. There, standing in the middle of the road was my nemesis. A beautiful specimen of Ursus Americanus, so black he had a blue sheen. He was just standing there at about 40 yards, well beyond my comfort range with a bow… I was stunned. I stopped dead in my tracks then slowly sidestepped , slipping into the alders that lined the road to break up my silhouette “What now? He’s gonna bolt!” What happened next baffled me; with no more than a fleeting glance he slowly turned away and started sauntering down the road as if unconcerned or unaware of my presence. Initially I though he had walked off into the woods to the right, but as I strained to get a view up through the brush I could see his big black head as he ambled up the road, all I could think was “Oh My God, get the camera the boys aren’t going to believe this!” but before I had time to react I felt a sharp pain on the left side of my head which I’m sure was Starbuck kicking my in the ear …“ Nock an arrow you Idiot!” It was a no brainer. I reached to my bow quiver and tried to quietly slip string into the groove on the nock. Why the quiver chose now to inflict some kind of death grip on my arrow I don’t know but after a brief altercation and some graphic mutterings I managed to nock an arrow and began to creep along the roadside tree line as best I could. Trying to stay in cover, yet open for the shot, I was having a hard time making up ground on him in stealth mode. The stretch of straight road around the bend was going to pose a problem; I needed to be within 25 yards for the shot. On endorphin overload, I inched along watching that big black butt waddle like Baloo.
4
“Man what a nice bear!” The pain in my ear had been replaced by the thumping of my chest as my blood burned through me … “Get closer, get closer!!!” I don’t know what it was but something made him turn broadside, call in animal instinct, a sixth sense, whatever, as quick as it started …it was all over … BUSTED! There was no second chance this time. It was as if he vanished into thin air, 0 to 60 in 1/1000th sec. More amazingly the woods were silent, not a snap, a crack, nothing as he bolted through the dense cover.
As I sat there in a steaming heap, the whole event replayed itself, “What a Friggin Rush”. Surprisingly I wasn’t disappointed with the outcome, but felt rather fortunate to have had such an amazing experience eye to eye. Once I composed myself I began the short walk back to the truck. I couldn’t help but wonder though “Where was he headed? What was he looking for? How many times had he snickered to himself as I walked morosely to my truck?”
“Oh well” I chuckled, “I guess that’s one for the road!”
tuk
Oct 18/11