As I sat in my metal stand, wet, cold and shivering, I was suddenly startled by a forceful hit that shook the small tree I was connected to. “What was that”?, I muttered. I grabbed the rail for balance, looked down, and there, directly under me, was a huge bear. He had come up behind me, swung a mighty paw, hit the tree, and looked up at me with hungry eyes.
It was the last week in May. I had signed up for this Spring bear hunt, not so much to kill another bear. I already had one. But more so, because I learned that a new area had opened up that had never been hunted before, and the thought of being the first non-native hunter to set foot in that place fascinated me. I wondered how it would be to confront a bear that had never heard a shot before and had no fear of man.
Imagine ! In the millions, even billions, of years that earth has existed; in the 2,000 years since our Lord walked this planet; in the 500 years of civilization in North America, no European-type hunter had ever stepped on that particular piece of geography. And to think that I could be the first, simply boggled my mind. Besides, with a name that begins with a V, I invariably wind up near the end of the line, usually close to the last. In the Army, I vowed to add three A’s to the beginning of my last name so I could be first in line for a change. And now, the thought of being the first hunter in a brand new wilderness location became an obsession. I just had to go.
Wolverman Wilderness Outfitters is a familiar place for me. I had taken a 53-inch moose there three years ago and was impressed with the people running it and the location, which is northern Saskatchewan in Canada. The name comes from the plains Indian word, “Kisiskatchewan”, which means “the river that flows swiftly”. Many trophies have been harvested in that province including the world record typical whitetail deer, the Hanson buck, in 1993. The area assigned to this outfitter includes over 600 square miles containing many bears, moose and caribou. Some spots near the camp have become popular with hunters but, in all that space, there are hundreds of places that were not developed. Neil Degenhardt, the Outfitter, is always searching for new spots and now reached into his farthest region for virgin hunting grounds.
Prior to the hunt, I asked Neil “How do I know if the bear is big enough to shoot? Should I mark a tree to see how tall he stands? Do I look for the size of his ears, like the magazines say? I respected his knowledge and 20 years experience as a bear hunter and outfitter. Surely he would know. “Don’t look at the ears”, he said, “that doesn’t tell you anything. The thing to look for is the crease in his skull between the eyes. Sows don’t have them. If you don’t see a crease, it’s either a sow or a young bear. The older and bigger the bear, the more pronounced the crease will be. Use that as a guide.”
Neil flew me to a picturesque strip of land lying between two lakes. It stretched about 200 yards long and about 50 yards wide, and had a fair number of stunted pine trees, both standing and blown down. Visibility was short and intermittent, but a well-worn game trail with big round footprints got our attention. The outfitter had just erected a ten-foot metal tree stand attached to a small pine. At first, I objected. I didn’t plan to be in a stand. To me, this smacked of civilization. I wanted to rough it... to be on the ground...searching and exploring. But Neil persisted, “You’ll see better from here. Use the stand”. In showing me around, he pointed to a beaver hide he nailed to a tree for bait about 30 feet in front of the stand. “These bears are hungry, “he said, “maybe this hide will keep him here long enough for you to get a shot”.
Neil helped me up the ladder, handed me my back pack and camera bag and flew off to help other hunters. As the sound of his plane faded away, the great calm that all hunters relish came over me. But, along with the peace and quiet, came the rain, gentle at first, then more pronounced, and finally, a steady, heavy downpour. My canvas outerwear gave protection for a while, but after four hours of wind and rain, I was soaked, cold and shivering. Not just parts of me, like feet or hands, but all of me. Cold that started inside of me and worked its way out in all directions. My violent chattering not only rattled the metal stand, but also sent sympathetic vibrations all around me that even made the tree limbs tremble. By now I had pulled the hood over my head and cheeks limiting my visibility. I could see everything in front, but found it hard to see the narrow strip of land along the lake behind me. I thought any bear in the area would move in plain sight to my front. Little did I know that bears, however big and clumsy, could make themselves quiet and stealthy when tracking down a prey.
I covered my rifle and camera bag with my poncho making any quick movement awkward at best. Not to worry, I thought, because I’d see any approaching animal and would have time to uncover and get ready for a shot. Time dragged on and my mind began to wander. I noticed a soaring hawk and marveled at his ability to see the smallest mouse in the tangle below. Later, the flap of wings caught my attention as a raven passed overhead looking for something to eat. “Maybe he’ll have to settle for a few bitter cranberries in this bleak environment”, I thought. Then, after a few hours of this pleasant misery, as I sat soaked, cold and shaking, something hit me like a ton of bricks. Wham ! A hard strike at the tree I was attached to almost knocked me out of my seat. My daydreams vanished as I grabbed the rail around me for balance. “What the hell ?”, I shouted. I looked down and saw a huge reddish-brown bear at the base of my tree and cursed for not seeing or hearing him approach. Now panic set in. Would he climb up the ladder? No. He ran to the tree that held the beaver pelt. In a flash, he stood up, grabbed the beaver in his jaws, yanked it off the tree, and began running like a football star, around trees and brush, to the right, up and over a hill, and out of sight.
In the few seconds that all of this took place, I threw off the rain covers to get a shot. As he stood on his hind legs to grasp the beaver, I raised my rifle, only to hit the guard rail of the stand with the barrel. Damn ! I finally maneuvered it up to my shoulder, looked through the scope and cursed again. In the excitement, I neglected to lift the lens cover shielding it from the steady rain. I flipped it up, but it was too late. The bear was now streaking through the bush, in and out of sight, over the hill and gone.
Now, disappointment and frustration really set in. How could I explain this to Neil? How could an experienced hunter admit he was caught off guard? Being cold and wet is no excuse. But it all happened so fast. And I didn’t see or hear him come up behind me. “I know what I’ll do”, I thought, “I’ll just lie about it. I’ll tell him it was a sow with six cubs. He knows you can’t kill a sow with cubs”. Then, I thought better of it. He’d never believe me anyway. Then I thought of another scheme. “I’ll just tell him it was Bigfoot. I’ll just tell Neil, as I put the crosshairs on this huge monster, I wondered if his season was open. And how do you cook him anyway? Is there such a thing as braised brisket of Bigfoot? And what wine would you serve, burgundy?”
As I grumbled over the events that had just happened with half a smile on my face and an ache in my heart, I saw a flash of brown through the bush at the top of the hill. Then another. Could it be? Could the bear be coming back? Maybe he’s coming back for another attempt at the hunter. Maybe the taste of that beaver generated a more severe yearning for warm flesh. Sure enough ! Here he came, over the hill, running directly at me like a laser beam. This time I was ready. As the bear ran closer, I put the crosshairs on his spine just behind the head and squeezed one off. The 300 grain bullet from my .375 H&H Mag anchored him there. He fell less than ten yards away.
I straightened up and breathed a deep sigh. I thought how lucky I was to be in the stand. If I were on the ground as I had originally planned, he could have killed me quickly with one blow, reduced me to quivering protoplasm and dragged me off for his next meal. The rescuers would find drag marks in the dirt. Somehow, I was no longer cold and miserable. I climbed down from the stand, cautiously approached the bear and examined the wound. The bullet entered behind the skull and went directly down to his heart. In skinning it out, Neil estimated he’d go over seven feet and weigh about 400 pounds. Actually he was pretty lean. Neil said, “Normally there’d be an inch of fat under the hide. But the blueberry crop failed and the bears went into hibernation hungry. If conditions were right, he’d probably weigh close to 500 pounds.”
When all the excitement was over, I did what I came to do. I walked and walked and walked. I saw gnarled trees knocked down from a history of storms, burned tree trunks from ancient forest fires, snow-like moss that grew on the hills, and hopefully, I set foot where no man had ever walked before. Imagine, a guy who’d been close to last almost all his life, was now the first and perhaps even the only human to leave a footprint on this virgin soil. I was finally satisfied that I may have been the first hunter in this northernmost wilderness area and even more grateful to be alive. The bonus, of course, was to have a trophy bear that came back to make a second effort at the hunter.
 Special to the Press-Herald
Vince Vella pictured with the estimated 400 pound, seven foot long bear he killed.
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