Bear Tales: Dr. Bob

Dr. Bob


One of our great pleasures is introducing neophytes to the excitement of bear hunting. By far the most enjoyable is when we host a first timer who happens to be well up in years…crossing off a line on their bucket list, so to speak. Dr. Bob was one such guest. A family friend of one of our regulars, Dr. Bob was retired from his practice, in his early eighties, and wanted to bear hunt before it was too late. He was due in camp on a Saturday, two days before he could legally hunt, after a 500 mile trip from the lower peninsula. We kept an eye out for him all day, but he never showed and calls to his cell phone went unanswered.

The track to Trapper's camp, The Jungle, is nearly a mile long after an 8 mile grind up an old logging road. There are literally dozens upon dozens of tracks and trails that branch off from that logging road and it continues on well into the wilderness past the turn to camp.

The next morning my partner and I headed to town for supplies after running our baits. On the return trip, we noticed a vehicle parked down one of those side tracks to nowhere. That alone was not unusual. What was unusual? It was a new BMW sport-ute, a shiny bright aluminum trailer attached, holding a spotlessly clean new Honda Rancher. As out of place in this land of rocks, ruts, and iron stained mud as a nun in a biker bar. I hit the brakes as it dawned on both of us simultaneously…"must be Bob!" We walked up besides the Beemer to see this five foot nothing, thickly bespectacled little man unsuccessfully trying to get cell phone reception. “You must be Dr. Bob.” I greeted. Somewhat shocked, he replied “Yes, and I’m lost!” “Not lost sir, you’re nearly there. We’ll get you the rest of the way.” It was immediately apparent he was quite hard of hearing, but all smiles now that he was reassured.

We introduced ourselves, got him backed out of the cut, and had him follow us into camp. While he met Trapper and the other hunters, we set to work unloading his Rancher and unhooking his trailer. I noticed the odometer reading on the obviously new machine was a single digit. I also noticed how unsure of himself he was when he moved the machine near the woodpile. Bob decided he would rather stay in the comfort of a motel in town and with directions to that and some of the better eateries, off he went with the promise to be back first thing in the morning.

There was a flurry of activity that next morning as Trapper had to take a couple of late arrivals out to their baits, while the rest of us had our own bait runs to make. It was decided the night before we would put Bob on a bait very close to camp for obvious reasons. Bob showed up just as Trapper returned from one of his runs. Bob was warming up his machine as I saw Trapper ride up and I was just walking over to warn him of Bob’s unfamiliarity with his ATV...too late…I heard Trapper say “Let’s go” and off he rode while Bob fiddled with the shifter, finally getting it in gear and slowly proceeding up the drive. I was filled with a sense of foreboding. That fear was realized 15 minutes later when Trapper came roaring back into camp looking for Bob. Somehow, in less than a half mile Bob had disappeared. Tracking him among all the tire tracks from that morning’s activity proved fruitless and three of us headed out in different directions to search.

An hour later Bob showed up in camp, none the worse for wear and not having a clue where he had been. Trapper and I breathed a sigh of relief and they headed off to his bait once again, Trapper at a much slower pace this time. When they arrived at the bait, Trapper had Bob sit in the “blind”, at this location a chair placed behind the V of a massive double-trunked maple 50 yards from the bait, which was contained in the hollowed out stump of a huge old white pine. “Watch me at the bait so you can get an idea of size and distance”, he told Bob as they separated. When Trapper had rebaited the stump, he looked back to Bob who was seated on the chair, his back to the bait, peering intently into the woods. Trapper walked the 50 yards, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Bob, the bait’s back over here.” while pointing a finger at the old stump. Bob turned around, realized his error and quipped, “Damn good thing too, there’s no shooting lanes this way.” We made sure Bob was pointed in the right direction, actually and figuratively, for his evening’s hunt.

I passed up a rather small bear that night, content to watch his antics, then sped back to camp to lend a hand if anyone else had scored. As I rolled into camp the headlights of my Honda fell upon a nice 250 pound bear laid out on a tarp ready for skinning. “Who’s bear?” I shouted as I coasted to a stop. “Dr Bob!” a half dozen voices yelled back. Bob had spent a little less than an hour and a half at the bait before the bruin came in early and he made a perfect shot with his 30-06, dropping him on the spot.

Standing by the fire receiving hand shakes and congratulations, our five foot nothing octogenarian looked ten foot tall.


Roe