Bear Hunter | a short story

By Anthony Dorsey

I’ve pursued spring black bears three out of the last four years, but I wouldn’t call myself a bear hunter–not yet, anyway. 

Many serious bear hunters use bait, especially if looking for a trophy boar. I prefer spot-and-stalk, which only makes the task that much harder. That’s not to say baiting doesn’t have its own challenges. Baiting requires time and dedication to consistently monitor and restock bait sites–buckets of grease and piles of stale doughnuts. This equates to not only time spent in the field, but also money spent in preparation for spring bear season. Like most, I’m limited on both time and money. In this regard, spot-and-stalk has an advantage.

I’m a Utah resident. But with a smaller black bear population and slightly more complicated hunting opportunities, it’s easier for me to head north to Idaho in pursuit of bear. I’ve been packing my horses into Idaho’s Sawtooth Mountains. Getting as remote as I can, leaving people and civilization far behind. It’s a good feeling, signing the wilderness ledger, letting the world know you’re headed off-grid.

I still consider myself a novice bear hunter, even though at this point in my bear hunting career, I’ve successfully harvested one black bear with an over-the-counter tag. For me, it’s a mixture of guesswork, research, and intuition. Half-blindly stumbling through country that doesn’t forgive the green or the cocky. I’m learning it slowly, methodically. One ridge at a time, one creek at a time, and one avalanche chute at a time.

I often hunt solo, even when heading to remote wilderness locations. High and wild places tug at my soul. I welcome the solitude. That is, until the lights go out, and I realize while lying snuggled inside my sleeping bag, that I’m in the middle of bear country, alone... Even the bravest of men start to second-guess their decision-making. The lonesome solitude strips your ego and leaves you with the wind, the rocks, and the chance at something real.

The first year I hunted black bears, I didn’t see a single bear. Not one. I walked and rode miles of Idaho backcountry, boots chewing through mud, snow, and scree. I glassed ‘til my eyes burned, but the hills stayed empty. Then, late one evening, a wolf emerged from the shadows like a ghost, curious and quiet, before disappearing over a log as if carried away by the wind.

Year two, I took a blonde bear. "Color-phase," they call it. The coat was bright and golden like the color of wheat on a sunny day. “Aim small, miss small,” I told myself before squeezing off a shot with my “three-hundred-win-mag.” A short while later, I was running my hands through the golden fur, like touching a piece of the mountain’s soul.

This year’s different. Three days in, camped high where the snow still clings to the peaks, it’s been lean. Mornings, I hike ‘til my legs turn to lead, I glass, and then I glass some more. Hours bleeding into each other, the binoculars a second set of eyes. Yesterday, I spotted a cinnamon bear too far to shoot. This morning, I watched a blonde cub, black-muzzled and small, bounce around the rocks and pick at the berry patches until it eventually climbed some rocks, out of sight. Too small to shoot. There have been two sightings this trip, no shots. But there’s still tonight.

The sun’s slowly setting beyond jagged peaks. The air turns sharp, knifing through my layers of wool and windproof shell. My hands stiffen as I stow my “knockers.” The horses are down the draw–I hear them shuffling around, tied briefly to some trees while I hunt this evening. Snorts and whinnies fill the air. I’ll saddle up soon, pack the gear, ride out under a sky gone black. It’ll be a long haul back to camp, the trail twisting through pine stands and creek beds, the world shrunk to a headlamp’s glow and the steady clop of hooves.

I take a final sweep of the basin. Shadows pool thick in the hollows, and somewhere out there, bears are stirring–black, cinnamon, maybe another blonde. They’re night creatures now, padding through the timber, living their secret lives. My boots crunch shale as I start down, rifle slung easy on my shoulder. The stillness hums, alive with what might’ve been.

I reach the horses and get to work–cinches pulled tight, packs squared away. Trigger, old reliable, he’s a 21-year-old Tennessee Walking Horse. His two companions are Rip, a Rocky Mountain Horse, and Lightning, a Missouri Fox Trotter. All three are known as “gaited” horse breeds because of the special walk, or gait, that they each have. Gaited horses walk faster than your average Quarter Horse, and they are a lot smoother, too.

Instead of bouncing up and down during a trot, you can glide down the trail while Trigger performs the run-walk that the Tennessee Walking Horse is known for. Another benefit of gaited horses is the fact that, in addition to covering a lot of country in a hurry, my gear doesn’t bounce all over the place like it might if I were trotting down the trail on a Quarter Horse.

As I ride back to camp, the high country falls away, and the tug of the flatland world below brings my thoughts back to reality. The trail drops sharply into a creek bottom, the light from my headlamp reflects off my tent, and I spot my campsite. I’m hungry and looking forward to dinner. But before I can eat, I have to unload the horses, hobble them so they can graze freely, and put away all the tack. After taking care of them, I fire up my stove to heat some water and make my own dinner.

My mind wanders, and I start to think of the reality of daily life and all that comes with it. Emails and phone calls, corporate responsibilities, the drone of cars on asphalt. But it’s not all bad. It also means I’m headed home to my family, home to the ones I love, my wife and three children. 

It’s a good life. Even if I’m not quite yet… a bear hunter.