Remembering follow-ups on wounded bears

Most times a hunter is tight to a bear without ever knowing it

Some odd thoughts  rumble through  my mind without apparent thought or reason. Current weather of circumstances have little to do with when these thoughts come to mind.

I don’t know how it happens. I guess it’s just the way my brain is wired together. Frankly, I  delight in these off-the-wall thoughts because they usually put a gentle spin on an  uneventful day.

I was looking through an old pile of Outdoor Life magazines from the decade when I wrote stories for them  on a regular basis for. One article was about a grizzly bear attack that I'd covered for the magazine.

The biologist was a man who had most of his face chewed or ripped off by a grizzly bear, and lived to tell me the story. The magazine flew me to Salt Lake City where the interview took place.

The man got too close to the bear without knowing it. Bad mistake

He lost one eye, his nose and one ear, and the bear literally ripped his face off. He'd had over 1,000 stitches when I did the interview, and he had more plastic surgeries scheduled.

That got me to thinking about the number of black bears I've killed while mopping up a messy job of shooting by other people. Years ago, when bear hunting meant going into a sporting goods store and buying a license. There was no need for a lottery draw in those days. Few people hunted bruins back then.

One of those kills was a bruin that had been shot in the hip, breaking the leg bone. The hunter was frightened and asked if I'd help. I said I would if he agreed to stay behind so I didn't have to listen to his nervous jabbering.

He agreed, and I went after the bear with a 3-inch magnum 12 gauge shotgun stoked with five No. 4 buckshot. I saw the bear at 40 yards, and hit him. He went down at the shot, got up, came running toward me, and four more shots were taken with the last one at six feet. It finally killed the pain-crazed animal.

I'd read stories as a kid about African hunters shooting a leopard or lion, and then having to dig them out of thick cover and kill them at close range. This was pretty heady business for me, knowing full well I'd never go to Africa. I'd have to settle on killing wounded bears that other people had severely injured but were scared to finish the job.

Another bear led me on a two-day hunt that covered a small swamp bordered on one side by a tiny creek. I had lost any blood sign but had found where the bear had bedded down three times. Finally a drop of blood was found near the creek. I crossed the creek and followed a faint blood trail slowly up a steep hill.

The shotgun barrel preceded me, and bent blades of grass pointed out the path taken by the wounded bruin. I'd just topped the hill when I spotted the bear three feet away. It moved and I shot, and that mess was over.

Take a step, stop, listen and look around, listen again and be silent

Bears have provided me with some hair-raising thrills. People talk about brown bears, grizzlies and polar bears, but more people are attacked by black bears each year than many people believe. Black bears are most common, and I've had some close encounters when armed and unarmed, and it's a thrill most people would prefer to live without.

Only once did I go after a wounded bear with another person, and it was a friend whose skills were legendary. We got that bear, but every other time I've done it was alone. And that was the way I preferred it.

Frightened people talk, make noise, and generally get in other people's way when some serious work must be done. Wounded bears often are shot at very close range in thick cover, and I didn't want anyone nearby for fear they would create a greater hazard than already existed.

I'd move slowly if the going was tough, stopping often and looking around. Of the six wounded bears I've dispatched, none had injuries that would have been immediately fatal. All animals were moving, and often the dirty work was done within an hour of sundown. It meant moving fast and quiet, getting close enough to the animal for a deadly shot. Of those six, only the one noted above required more than one shot.

It isn't something I'd do now because my vision is so poor. Back then I could see well, and there is a major adrenalin rush when the wounded animal is first spotted. Then it means staying downwind and trying to get close to the bruin without spooking it.

Doing this nasty piece of  business was never fun but whenever I went after a bear it was because the hunter couldn't or wouldn't do it. It meant putting an animal out of its misery as quickly as possible. I never advertised my services, never went looking for this kind of work, but for many years I always seemed to be in the area where bears were being hunted and trouble always seemed to find me.

This type of adventure offers more than enough for most people

I did it because someone had to. Otherwise, a frightened hunter may walk away from the problem or wait until the next day and not be able to find the bear.

This string of memories came back to me like a recurring bad dream. This wasn't Africa, and it wasn't a wounded leopard or lion at the end of a blood trail, but they were wild black bears that would be lost or may live long enough to become a danger to someone else.

It offered some hair-raising adventures, and the adrenalin rush was rather addictive to this small-town sportsman. And trust me, these were adventures I'll never forget.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

Unseen midnight stranger on a darkened river

Big browns like this come along often.

There are times when I've had my act together. One special night on the Sturgeon River between Indian River and Wolverine was a very good example, and it occurred after the major insect hatches had ended.

I'd waded down through a deep, slow stretch of water during daylight hours because I'd seen a big brown raise to the surface like a lazy whale broaching the surface, drifted downstream and submerged. His approximate weight at 15 yards was at least 10 pounds, possibly a little bit more.

Home for this brute was an overgrown edge of brush on both sides of the river. At its deepest point, the water was seven to eight feet deep, and a big stump was wedged on bottom in mid-stream. The current picked up some speed as it split and flowed heavily around the obstacle, and on my side of the river, the water was about four inches below the top of my waders.

The snag-filled hole was the perfect spot to find a big native brown trout.

The deep water shallowed up a bit on my side but deepened in midstream as both current flows merged like the entrance ramp to an expressway. The water flattened out, and it was here I felt the brown would feed that night.

I wanted to cast a big bushy white mouse pattern, but the brushy banks and overhanging tree limbs made fly casting a bit hazardous after sundown. If my fly hung up on the opposite side, there was little hope that I could wade across to untangle it. I settled on a No. 9 Rapala in black-silver finish and 8-pound line with a spinning rig and a smooth drag.

One thing that years of after-dark fishing has taught me is to always be prepared. When fishing for big fish, after sundown, it pays to use a large fly or lure, and line heavy enough to give the angler some semblance of equality. A light tippet in such places is just asking for a broken leader and a healthy measure of heartbreak as well.

The August evening was dark, the moon that curious yellow it gets when atmospheric conditions are just right. The evening was warm and the river flowed with a hushed sound that could barely be heard. One step into the current told the real truth: here was water that could be dangerous to an unwary wader.

I stood silently, just upstream of the submerged stump and waited for the sound of a big fish as it began feeding. The river was just a murmur, and I was content until, with some unease, I felt eyes on me in the gathering darkness.

It's a spooky feelings one has when they feel someone looking at you.

The feeling was as subtle as a freeway crash. Someone was watching me, and they were very close. I could feel the intensity of their eyes boring into my back.

Whoever it was stood quietly nearby and was watching me. My senses are fine tuned to such things, and it's something I've cultivated over many years. I had no clue whether this human presence was predatory and dangerous but after two minutes of feeling his presence, I decided to push the issue.

"What's happening?" I asked in a conversational tone, my back turned to the stranger. "Fishing or going for a walk? Walking around here, if you don't know the river, could lead to an unplanned swim."

A chuckle was heard, and a voice from the darkness said: "I can walk up on 99 percent of the people who fish after dark, and they never know I'm there. How did you know I was standing behind you?"

"I felt your presence," I said. "I felt you two or three minutes before I said anything. You fishing tonight?"

Still a conversational tone. Nothing confrontational. Just two anonymous anglers talking while waiting for a big brown trout to begin his evening feed.

"I'd planned to fish here," he said. "You beat me to it. I'll hit another spot down-river. What do you know about this spot? Fished it before?"

"Know it's got at least one big brown. Saw him earlier today. Guessed him at 10 pounds or so. How about you? What's your take on this spot? I figured this would be a key spot to stand and wait for him to start feeding."

"He weighs 10 pounds," the sneaky stranger said. "I've hooked him twice in two years. Had him close earlier this summer but he got off. It's a big hook-jawed male with spots that look the size of dimes. He's a river fish, not a silver one from Burt Lake."

The unseen stranger knew about the fish and where it held in the hole.

"It makes sense to wait him out for a bit," I said. "If he doesn't start feeding by midnight I'll work a Rapala through there. It's worked for me in this spot before."

"Good luck," the visitor said, and was gone without making a sound. The man moved with all the stealth of a second-story cat burglar.

An hour passed, and feelings of wasting time washed over me as the mosquitoes found new spots to drill for food. A pesky skeeter was boring my ear when I heard the fish move. It wasn't a splash, but more like a heavy ripple a fish makes as he shoulders through the water before gulping down a hapless minnow.

I waited another five minutes before he moved again, and although I couldn't see him I knew where he was holding because my ears pinpointed him. I uncorked a 20-foot cast, and started the retrieve before the lure hit the water. That kept the line tight, prevented the hooks from catching the line, and began the lure working as it hit the water.

The big brown came to me with a hard strike in midstream.

The lure swung in the current on a tight line, and I felt a solid strike, and I pounded the hooks home. The fish ran downstream, and then back up, apparently not wanting to leave the pool. It jumped twice, took line three times, and slowly the battle began to turn in my favor.

The fish was in the heaviest current in this spot, and it took every bit of my concentration to focus on keeping him from going farther downstream without breaking the line. I began steering the fish into a quiet back eddy.

"Need a hand?" asked the stranger just as I felt his presence.

"Nope, this is between me and him. I've done what I set out to do, and that was to hook him. Landing him would be neat but I'd return him anyway."

"Want a look at him?" he asked. A cloak of darkness surrounded me, the stranger and the river, and that's the way I wanted it.

"Saw him earlier today. Know what he looks like. Got a hooked jaw sticking up like a broken little finger. Big male!

"That's him. He's a dandy. Go easy on him now. He likes to bore into that brush close to shore. Get ready, he's going to..."

I didn't want a light on the water. It was just me and the fish, and the stranger.

The fish took me into the brush about six feet away and weaved back and forth and then broke the line. I reeled in the slack line, and turned on stiff legs to climb up the bank.

I waded ashore to meet the midnight stranger. "Hey, c'mon up and shake hands. I'll buy you a beer down at the Meadows Bar."

"No thanks," he said. his voice growing distant. "I know who you are, and wanted to see if you fish as well as you write. You measure up, and we'll meet again on the river and perhaps one day I'll introduce myself. Too bad about the fish, but that one is hard to land here. See you when the wind shifts."

I've known but one man that said goodbye like that, and the voices didn't match.

I don't fish the Sturgeon River as often now as I once did, and I've never ran into the Midnight Stranger again. I've had that feeling once or twice over the year, and once I spoke: "C'mon down for a chat."

A soft chuckle would be heard, but he never responded. It's been one of life's big mysteries about his identity, and one I've yet to solve. I think about it, and feel writing might bring an e-mailed "hello." Time will tell if he'll speak again after all these years.

Sharing a night on the river with an unseen stranger might be a bit spooky for some people. It didn't bother me, but it would be fun to shake and howdy at least once with him. Until then, all I can do is write about the Midnight Stranger, and hope he responds with an e-mail. It would solve a longtime on-the-water mystery.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors