John is concerned about the smells from the camp drifting about. They might warn off the grizzly.
It seems that Alaskan bears are more cowardly than Canadian ones. There, we were always afraid that one would ambush us, but here we are worried that it will run away.
In the morning we divide up the ridge where we landed into two parts; our tents are pitched on one side, and I can watch the valley from mine, while John keeps watch on the other side of the ridge.
It's cold, the wind is blowing, and the air is damp.
Alaskan weather.
I spot a moose far off in the distance. I run over to John immediately, to borrow the spotting scope, but by the time I get back, it has gone. There's no point in starting to hunt based on such a vague sighting. Instead, we keep on watching. After 30mins. John runs up: there is a black bear on the next ridge! My rucksack is packed and ready, I throw it over my shoulder, and we set off.
The terrain is not easy here, either. My feet sink into the carpet of moss, which is 8ins. deep in parts. At first I thought it was a pleasant surface to walk on, but I soon discover the drawbacks.
The wet moss sucks in my boots, like a swamp, and sometimes I have to really tear myself from the grasp of this over-friendly plant. There's not as much as 10ft. of flat ground: it is alll uphill or downhill. That sums up the whole trek. The ridge where we landed, and the ridge where we saw the bear, form a horseshoe. The baribal is on the opposite arm of the horseshoe and we should be able to catch up with it in the curve. We haven't got an easy job, that's for sure. The difficulties come from the terrain's rough surface and its inclines and the fact that we have to move quickly.
The bear disappears from view, descending behind the ridge on the other arm. We speed up -
this sort of pace is called mountain running in Hungary. We have a short break to take off a few
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clothes. We are very hot from running, but we soon start off again. We get to where the bear should be.
But it is nowhere to be seen.
Some difficult hours are coming.
We systematically check out all the hills where the bear might be. With no success. We are battling against mountains, wind and occasional rain. We have no food with us; we left so quickly there was no time to pack any. We finally give up the search. We stop because there simply aren't any hills left to climb up. The black bear has disappeared somewhere in the depths of the undergrowth.
That's the end. It's over.
We head back to camp, looking forward to some food and a bit of a rest. Just out of habit, we take a look at the hill on our ridge… there is another bear there! It is also a black bear and is much larger than the one that got away. Back to camp! It is another merciless march, carrying our rucksacks, during which we keep a constant watch on the bear and on a few other promising sites, using our binoculars. If we do see a grizzly, we'll stop our black bear hunt and go after the bigger one. But we don't have to make the decision. We could put up a sign saying " Grizzly Free Zone" anywhere around here.
During our march, sweating profusely, John explains the difference between a travelling bear and a feeding bear. A travelling bear is on its way from one place to another. Nobody knows where it is going, or why. Shooting it is almost impossible, unless it is heading towards the hunter. The first bear was one of these. We tried; we chased it and we failed.
A feeding bear is just that: one that is eating. It is rather like me: it won't stop eating unless there is a reason. It will stay in the same place, happily munching on something, for hours. The second bear that we saw is a feeding bear, which makes this hunt look promising. Finally, after many steep hills, and a lot of struggles, we are back in camp, but we don't stop for a second. We run past the tents, going along the ridge. The bear is quite far from the camp. The only part of the ridge that is flat is the place where the planes land. As we go on, we come to a craggy section, full of steep elevations and drops. Having no other options, we steadily keep climbing these small peaks and crags. We must be within 2000ft. of the bear, and turn down to pick up its trail. We choose a good lookout place and sit down to discuss our chances. The black fur is clearly visible on the hillside. We should approach it from above, but the wind direction is not good from there.
But that is our only option, so we have to do it, and hope for the best. We creep towards it, using bushes and any cover to hide behind. But we can't get very close as the terrain becomes completely open. Another council of war. The final decision is: we shall go down the other side of
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the hill, move along under cover of the ridge, and overtake the bear that way. Then we will climb over the ridge and look for a good shooting position.
And that is what we do.
John is constantly throwing blades of grass into the air to check the wind direction. It is not very favorable, but it never seems to be up here. It will be even worse when we get there. Anyway, we'll give it a try - that's why we are here. Meanwhile, the bear is on the move, probably because the blueberries have run out - so we have to make several changes to our route. After our final maneuver John peers forward... there it is, right in front of us, no farther than 150ft.! We change places, I get out my gun... I take another look... and there it goes, running away; it got wind of us.
I stare after it through the reticle, but I can only guess at its whereabouts as the undergrowth is so dense...
I can't see anything.
Shoot, says John.
I'm not going to.
It's moving so fast, I can barely make it out; the angle is so bad, and the bushes so thick, that I won't let fly with the SST. We sit down to see if it turns up somewhere else, but we are not that lucky.
I'm disappointed.
Should I have fired? I have no idea. I didn't fully grasp the situation. If I had managed to hit it, it would have been pure luck. But if I had shot it, I would now have a bear. And how pleased I would be! But if I'd missed, or, even worse, just wounded it, I'd have lost my chance to have another try as wounding counts as bagging. And the bear might have died in terrible agony, perhaps not for several days! No-one should ever do that to a bear, or any other animal. As I write these lines -
my netbook hasn't been working for a long time - I feel good that I didn't shoot. It was the right decision, and John's sounds of disapproval were all in vain. If I hadn't been using a fast expanding, plastic-tipped bullet, but, say, a .93 Swift A-Frame, perhaps I would have.
Back to camp, once more… A cruel hike in bitter wind and damp, sweaty clothes, feeling cold, hungry and exhausted. We don't speak much, which is never a good sign. The harmony of our team seems to be evaporating. The hunt is not shaping up well.
We haven't even seen a grizzly or a moose.
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