Bear Tales: Unusual Behavior

Unusual Behavior


I’ve been witness to some very unusual behavior during bear season. Not surprisingly, the vast majority of it exhibited by the hunters themselves. For the most part, they are far more unpredictable than the bears, but there are times when Ursus americanus will do some pretty unexplainable things as well. Here in Michigan, ninety five percent of the bears will run like rabbits at the slightest hint of human presence, but on occasion there seems to be a few that never got a copy of that script.

Denny was in his third year of hunting with us and it appeared his run of bad luck was continuing. He had passed up a bear two seasons ago, on the very first night on stand, then never saw another that trip. His second year ended much the same when he inadvertently spooked an approaching bear with a mistimed movement, just hours before a front moved in with days of heavy rain and high winds, effectively shutting down bait activity for the duration of his hunt. We were now three days into this year’s show and Denny had yet to see a bear and already looked rather discouraged.

We were all pulling for him and I took him aside for a little pep talk, urging him to stay positive and don’t let discouragement make him sloppy when at the blind. He headed out that afternoon with a thumbs up and a “tonight’s the night!” It was now only a few hours later and I had just arrived back at camp from a grouse hunt (I had scored opening night on a nice 330 pound boar) and began cleaning the few “pats” I had taken. Trapper rode up from a bird excursion of his own and while we were comparing notes we heard a shot that could only have been Denny. We exchanged a glance and cocked our heads, listening. One shot usually means a dead bear…two shots might be a finisher…but three shots nearly always meant someone screwed up and we were looking at either a clean miss or a long and difficult tracking session. No additional shot came, and smiling, we hurriedly finished cleaning the birds and prepared for the recovery mission ahead.

 By the time Denny got back to camp, Trapper had the narrow flatbed recovery trailer hooked to his Rubicon and I had the drag straps, trailing tape, flashlights, and bungee cords stowed in the rack box of my Foreman. Denny, still shaking slightly with the adrenaline dump he experienced, told us he had not one, but four bears come to the bait all at once, an exceedingly rare experience. Apparently a sow with nearly full grown yearlings, as they all appeared to be about the same size. This was somewhat unusual in itself, since by this late in their second year most yearlings have separated from their mother and are on their own. Two of the bears climbed up on the huge white pine stump, one each side like bookends, and began to pull out the cover logs, the other pair remaining on the ground at the base of the stump.

Denny decides the one on the starboard side of the stump is the biggest and hammers it with his .35 Marlin from 40 yards out. It drops off the stump, rolls, then disappears downhill to the right. Amazingly, the other bears watch her go, one briefly climbing six feet up a nearby tree, then resume opening the bait and feeding as if nothing has happened. Denny wants desperately to make sure the bruin he shot is down but the bears ignore him even when he stands, levers another round into the Marlin with a great flourish, then, when that has no effect, shouts, pounds on his chair, and waves his arms. The bears do little more than lift their heads, but otherwise seem oblivious to his presence. Pretty rattled by now, he sneaks out to the trail, hurries to his ATV with lots of backward glances, and speeds back to camp.

The three of us soon arrive at the bait with plenty of daylight left, the three machines and the rattling and clanging of the trailer bouncing off rocks, ruts, and roots, making a sound signature nearly that of a mechanized division. We quickly find the blood trail and locate the dead bruin, a 160 pound sow with a very luxurious pelt, at the base of the slope not 40 yards from the bait. As we approach and encircle the carcass, all talking and congratulating Denny on his first bear, I hear a large branch snap behind us. I meet Trapper’s eyes with a raised eyebrow signifying an unvoiced “Did you hear that?” and as we begin to turn, we hear the unmistakable vocalizations of a bear begin 25 yards to our rear. Not a growl, more of a moaning grumble rising in both volume and intensity, that snaps our attention about twenty feet up a huge old white pine. There, among the thick dead limbs, sits a nearly 300 pound adult boar, beautiful light brown muzzle, obviously unhappy with our presence. Holy Wah!

Astonished, we all move closer, stopping about ten yards out as the bear gains fifteen feet in elevation and intensifies his complaints. Denny’s taking pictures with his cell phone, claiming this is definitely not one of the bears he had at the bait earlier, while Trapper is chiding the bruin with “Hey Yogi, Yogi, what’cha doin’ up there?”. Since none of us have firearms, or unfilled tags, he is under no threat. The bear continues to vocalize, seemingly embarrassed to be caught flatfooted despite all the noise of our arrival. Why this big male "treed" instead of just moving off during our noisy approach, and the family group acted so out of character, is anybody’s guess. Maybe it was somethin' in the water. After another ten minutes enjoying the encounter, the remnants of a colorful sunset partially visible through the canopy, we leave the boar to his perch, load Denny’s bear on the trailer, and head back to camp to skin and celebrate.

Another fine evening, another unusual adventure, in the bear woods.



Roe