Spring Bear: The Hunt Begins

With the first weekend of our bear hunt upon us we met up at James’s ranch and fine tuned the Ruger .30-06 M77 that we would serve as our primary firearm. Early on James had sighted in the rifle for himself but being unfamiliar with this particular gun I felt I would have been doing myself and any bear an injustice by not putting in a little extra practice in. So we set up in an open field and began sending lead downrange. As we shot the afternoon away I think we both fine tuned our shooting and by the end we were confident with where we stood. The final preparation was complete.

We headed out late last Friday to the same area in which we had stalked elk the previous week. We still didn’t have any real idea of where to camp but having Farley in tow, as I had no one to watch him, getting up high where we could check on him throughout the day was important. When we arrived in the woods we were met with several road closures and washed out two-tracks. The immediate signs were less than inspiring but plugging along we arrived on a small ledge, high up in the tree line, and even though the darkness covered our view of the forest, we decided to set up camp and settle in.

Camp that night was makeshift at best but that was just fine with us. We were high above the wilderness, had a soft ground of pine needles to bed down on, and the weather was mild at worst. Farley was let out and was quick to run the area, no doubt wanting to stretch his legs after a long car ride and tap into his feral roots. As we set up and pulled out our sleeping pads a slightly disturbing white cross was found on the ground etched with the name of someone who passed long ago. We look at each other for a moment and then concluded that while sleeping on someone’s grave would not be the wisest of choices, this was still a good place to settle down. Why would someone put a cross all the way up on this random ledge if not to show that that person had a great love of the outdoors? We both decided that if that man was looking down on us right now it would most likely be to wish us luck on our journey. The cross, buried underneath leaves and dirt, was brought up and placed against a log, where it should be. God speed my friend.

The rest of the night was filled with a meal of noodles and elk meat, Farley running up and down the hillside, and a few drinks under the stars. With our alarms set we both settled in for the night and at 5:30 the next morning we would stretch our legs and begin our search.

When my phone buzzed early the next morning I slowly opened my eyes to see the morning light. The blue, white, pink, and orange sky radiated over the eastern horizon and I knew the sun would soon be shining. The lower foothills were clouded in fog and while there was a slight bite to the air, the morning was beautiful. I slowly strolled out onto the ledge that we had only been able to barely see in the night and the view was spectacular. Forest land as far as the eye could see and every so often, breaking the silence of the morning, you could hear blue grouse, high in the trees, fanning themselves in the early hours. What a way to wake up.

Soon after, James was up and about giving Farley some quality dog scratches and taking in the view for himself. What we couldn’t see the previous evening was a large rocky outcrop to our north, only a quick hike away that looked like a great place to get in some early morning glassing. So, with the dog along side, we grabbed the gun and walked over to check out the view. Upon arriving the sun was shining on the hillsides and if bears were anywhere to be found, the open slopes around us were perfect. We glassed up and down, side to side, just as we had heard was the strategy. However, the morning silence and glassing was interrupted when the little brown dog knocked a boulder the size of a smart car down the slope in front of us. Breaking into a least ten pieces on the way down the dog, initially frightened, was soon off to investigate the noise at the bottom of the canyon that he still didn’t realize he created. Idiot. We laughed for a moment and then made our move to explore the woods, armed and ready.

We traveled much of the day through open country and were able to view large expanses of forest. Along the way we bumped into many deer, all apparently under the influence of a long winter as most of them simply stood broadside to us through the trees. Elk, on the other hand, were never seen up close but were once or twice heard crashing through the woods, with about as much grace as a teenager at their first dance.

For me, and I think James, one of the coolest parts of being up in the woods was hearing ruffed grouse perform their mating display throughout the day. Standing on a platform, preferably a log, the birds will beat their wings, slowly at first, and then in rapid succession to create a very deep-toned thumping in the woods. The noise can appear faint at first but no matter what you are doing, if the bird is close, the sound will quickly fill the air around you. Every so often we caught a glimpse of them but quick to move these birds were often gone before we could find them. It was an unexpected treat that would remain a constant throughout the weekend.

As for the main reason we were out there, we had not seen any bears but more over, we had not even found any sign. We were beginning to wonder if we had chosen the right habitat and slopes to be in. We’d often get to a spot and see the early spring green up that we had read about but we were missing something. There was some element of this forest that we just weren’t seeing clearly.

We adjusted midday and moved across the main road corridor where we decided to get back to some high ground and scan back on the slopes we were on the previous night. Despite this, we were once again, out of luck. The only thing we were finding with almost disturbing regularity were ticks. James, known for having an aroma that draws the tick masses to him, was reaching to his neck seemingly every five minutes to pull another of their assassins off. It was soon joked about that they must be diving off the trees, almost like kamikazes, sacrificing themselves for the good of the species. I’m not going to lie, it’s amazing how many James picked up. He was easily to ten ticks before I found my first. But so goes the game and apparently, James and I were not winning. By the end of the two days we combined for an even 58 of them; it must be spring.

After we scanned into the evening we finally submitted and headed down for the day. After a quick strip down and once over for remaining ticks we set up camp and built a fire. The flame was just what we needed after a long day. Settling in much lower in the forest this night the temperature was ideal. We reminisced about the discovery of fire and how even after all these years we are still completely mesmerized by the flames. Warmth and light, a wonderfully successful winning combination. James polished off a glass of whisky and with the stars out above, we bedded down for the evening.

The next day we decided to change our strategy and search the lower foothills. Traveling through much thicker brush we figured it couldn’t hurt and realizing that we hadn’t seen any bear sign up until this point, we had to adjust our thinking. We called on a few prey calls, weaved our way around and while a bear was not to be found a coyote did decide to grace of with his presence.

With James up ahead I could see him raise his rifle. In that moment I thought he was on a bear and my heart started to race. As he swung his rifle around I pulled out my bow, nocked an arrow, and waited. Then, out of nowhere, I heard a sound I am all too familiar with, a coyote’s bark and scream. Apparently seeing James behind a tree this coyote was not too pleased and made sure to show us his disapproval. The barks were loud, the yaps deafening, but it was still a pretty cool moment. Standing less than 30 meters from James the canid soon got frustrated and left. I will say, it wasn’t bear, but those few minutes were fun.

The rest of the day did bring us one small pile of bear droppings but it was from last year and we were once again stumped. As the weather turned and the sun got stronger we soon found ourselves laboring to stay focused. Our first weekend was coming to a close and while we were happy to be in the woods the overall trip, in terms of bears, had not provided what we hoped. From here, we continue to learn the landscape, continue to cover ground and glass slopes. Although we didn’t find what we came searching for it was, as always, just fun to be in the woods. Bumping into and hearing elk, deer, blue and ruffed grouse, and a coyote made the weekend memorable. Next weekend we head out again, hopefully to learn something new and catch our first glimpse of a black bear, protected and sheltered, hidden within the forest’s fortress. Here’s to hoping.

A Triumphant Day

When I woke up this past Friday morning I had a belly full of wild turkey and plenty of good memories to carry me through the day. We had celebrated the success of James’s turkey hunt with a loosely organized baking operation in my trailer and James and myself, along with our good friend Laci, had managed to cook his bird, make it taste pretty damn good, and have fun all the while. So, when Friday morning rolled along I can’t say I was up first thing but the night had inspired me and I knew that before I could head off for our first spring bear weekend I had to make one more attempt at getting into the woods. I had to come face to face with my adversary once again.

It was nearly 9:30 when I began to grab my gear and ready the truck. Since opening day I had managed to put myself in the woods many times and with the help of a co-worker, I was now armed with a shock call, an old turkey vest, and a box call. I suppose it wasn’t readily apparent to me how exactly to put these pieces together but the more time I spent in the woods the more I began to understand the turkey’s patterns. Now, I was primed to put these tools to good use and put myself in a position to be successful.

As of that point most of my hunts had been several hours, they included leaving early in the morning, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, and sneaking into the forest under the cover of darkness. Today was not like those days. I woke up late, fooled around at the house for a while, and drove to my spot in full daylight. When I left my truck to begin it was already 10:18.

I started off by moving quickly into the trees, attempting to get to the high ground, and view the now familiar country from above. From my week’s experience I knew that the high ground would provide me with a distinct advantage. I knew most of the turkeys I had encountered up until this time had been on the lowland slopes and while there was not a whole lot that I was certain of, trying to sneak uphill on turkey I had learned, was not advisable.

Reaching a hilltop above the lower meadows I gave a wail on the shock call and waited. There was no response. Without hesitation I slipped to higher ground, looking for a drainage that would simultaneously provide me with a natural funnel for sound and plenty of area to scan. On my next blow of the call I heard a faint gobble. It was far off but whether it was up or down I could not tell. I pushed slightly farther and gave another wail; gobbling in the distance. The sound was becoming more familiar to me and while it still got my heart pumping faster every time, I now based my decisions off of strategy and less off of pure adrenaline.  However, despite this, I could not figure out what direction the gobbling was coming from and with a 50-50 shot, I began to work my way downhill. As it turned out, that would be a decision to look back on and smile.

After hoofing it down a steep drainage and over onto an adjacent ridge I decided to sit down against a tree and call with the box call. I still wasn’t sure where the birds were but being a little nervous, I knew that blowing another shock call would only serve to hurt me at this juncture. So I yelped with the box call, “Yelp…yelp…yelp...yelp, yelp, yelp, yelp”, and wouldn’t you know it, a gobble rang out across the forest. It was beautiful noise; I had made the right decision.

After several minutes I decided to yelp again and within a second or two I could hear the gobbling again, loud and clear. At this point my best guess was that the turkey was downhill from me, around 150 yards. I positioned myself a little better, took my safety off, covered face, and began to wait. It was based on my previous experiences that I decided to be patient. I had worked hard to get after turkeys and while I had come so close, closing the distance and getting a shot was still just beyond my reach. So I waited, I sat there, breathing slowly, making sure that there would be no rushing in or lack of patience.

The minutes seemed to pass by and the silence that accompanies the forest was now alive with the sounds that define it. Birds were chirping away on branches, crows were screaming in the distance, and the wind was blowing through new spring tree growth. Then, without warning, the silence was broken.  A turkey gobbled loud and with enthusiasm and had without a doubt cut the distance between myself and him by more than half. I figured at this point he couldn’t be more than 50-60 yards away and knowing I had the uphill advantage I weakly yelped once more and the response was immediate. I could hear his call flow uphill like a freight train and with him moving up on my left I shifted my position and swung my gun over. The anticipation now had my heart racing and each breath was thick with tension. I could feel my moment was coming.

The next thing I saw was not one, but two males, crest the lip in front it me, full strut, both searching in every direction for the source of the noise I had been making. Obscured by several grasses and a couple of sagebrush shrubs I could only see the color of their heads, swaying back and forth, ever vigilant. Another gobble rang through the air, this time so close I could feel the vibration in my body. Their movement was steady and there was no indication that I had been exposed. I couldn’t believe it. My moment was here and I was not about to hesitate.

As the two of them came into full view I didn’t sit there and pick which turkey I wanted to shoot, I simply wanted to take the shot I felt most confident in and with one turkey in front of the other, my mind was made up. I took aim, lined up my barrel with my end bead sight and the second I could see the whole of that turkey’s neck I pulled the trigger. Instantly, the sound I am all too familiar with shook the forest and I had officially taken my second shot at a turkey. This time, I had hit my mark.

As the smoke was wisped away by the prevailing wind I could see the turkey in the back fly off down the next drainage and the one in front, the one I had focused my attention on, was on the ground, moving in a way that lets you know, you did it, you got him. I had just shot my first turkey! I was ecstatic! The next minute was full of pure joy. I have always made fun of those guys that yell and holler when they kill something, taking it to be over dramatic and borderline idiotic and insensitive, but in that moment I found myself triumphantly yelling to the sky, looking at the beautiful bird I had just taken.

The colors were magnificent. The wings were gigantic. The tail was beautiful. What an impressive bird. I had worked many days chasing these guys, studying the country they lived in, listening for their daily calls, and learning how to maneuver within the forest undetected. In the end, it all paid off. I had left my car at 10:18 and I now had a bird in hand, less than 40 minutes after I had started, go figure.

My first call was to James, knowing that if anyone could understand what I had just done and the emotions that were running though me he would. My second call was to my mom, who joked with me that she had gone from not wanting her son to own a gun to taking great pleasure in the fact that he had just killed a wild turkey. It was amazing!

 I took a moment to reflect before heading off the mountain and then walked out of the woods with a smile on my face from ear to ear. I looked to the sky and what a day it was. The sun was out, the skies were open, and the weight of a turkey on my back was enough to make all my other worries seem light years away. I had done it. I had put myself in the woods and given myself the opportunity. It was a feeling of pure exuberance. It was a morning I’ll never forget it.

A Turkey Situation

With the arrival of spring we now find the woods alive with the sound of turkeys. The gobbling is incessant in the early morning hours and the sounds come from high ridges and meadows alike. It’s a little bit of a curious thing to hear them sounding off in the day’s first light. You wonder what is going through their heads but in the end it may merely be a case of sexual desire. Turkeys, not unlike humans, have urges; it just so happens their time table is slightly more predictable.

With the passing of April 15^th my second turkey season is officially underway and while I am excited as ever, I won’t lie, it got off to a rocky start. I awoke on opening morning only to look over at my clock and see that it was 8:13. After a double take it became all too apparent; the season I had been counting down the days for had come and I had overslept, huh, “Some hunter I am”, I thought. But after making my way into the woods that evening I in part redeemed myself by getting out and scouting around. There wasn’t a whole lot to go off of but with a little persistence I was able to push several turkeys out of their roosts just before sunset. I figured the next day I would start early and see what I could get into. As it turns out, what happened the next morning would end up becoming my first truly tragic hunting story.

I suppose if all I was to write about were James and my successes it wouldn’t be authentic or genuine. The headline to this blog is, “A couple of east coast boys learning to hunt out west”, and without a doubt, that is often the case, especially for me. And so, as luck would have it, my learning when it came to turkeys was to begin immediately.

I arrived at the field I wanted to hunt well before sunrise. I walked out into the middle and with no calls of any sort or any real idea where to start; I stood in there, in the pitch black, tossing ideas around. The indecision must have been blatantly plastered across my face because it wasn’t long before a great horned owl decided to come to my aid. It was almost as if he was looking at me in my half-ass camo and saying, “This guy needs help”. So, to my pleasure he began to hoot, loud and strong, sending vibrations through the woods. It seems that from what I’ve been told and what I experienced that morning, an owl’s call will definitely get a tom to start making some noise. With my owl friend in the back, I began to follow the sounds of turkeys and I had soon found my spot.

I could hear him gobbling away in the trees above me and with the utmost care I crawled on all fours up the side of the ridge I believed he was on. I took my time, moving sticks and pinecones out of my path as I went along. My breathing was heavy but controlled. I knew that if I just worked my way up the backside of the hill I would have a chance and as the cards fell I found myself within 70 yards of about six turkeys. I could see several males in the group but needed to close the distance. For me, not having anything to entice them with I got down on my stomach and crawled. I moved from tree to stump to tree on a zigzagging voyage to the drop off of the ridge I had last seen them along. I could feel the moment and it was full of anticipation.

As it turns out, I was dead on. I peaked over the ridge side and there they were, 20 yards downhill. This was it. I didn’t have the shot yet but all I kept thinking to myself what that I was within 60 seconds of taking down my first turkey. This was going to be great. This was going to be something to write home about. However, what happened next was, without exaggeration, completely demoralizing.

Laying flat on my stomach the turkeys were coming right to me but being on a steep slope and uphill from the group I could only barely see their heads. I raised my gun into position and when one of the jakes moved his head up just above the others I carefully swung the barrel of my shotgun over in his direction. It was at that exact moment that I realized just how well turkeys can see. The gentle swing was immediately followed by one of the group jumping up and in that instant I knew I was dead in the water. I’d never felt more naked in my life. When he fell back to the ground you could see him look at his buddies, as if to say, “Whoa, whoa….hey guys, we’ve gotta get out of here”. This can’t be happening. As their movements began to quickly trend away from me I knew I had to take a shot. I quickly tried to lift my body up slightly, aim my gun, and then, with my heart racing I fired off a shot.  My first shot at a turkey, 15 yards away, wow.

When the proverbial smoked cleared I could see all of the birds flushing away, none with any indication of injury. They simply flew off into the distance, and my spirit was crushed. I just had the shot of a lifetime and I blew it. How did that happen? How?

Without delving too much into the frustration in my head I soon realized that I had learned a vital lesson: even if you have taken all the time in the world to get to the birds, even if you have exhibited incredible patience while making your move, if you fail to practice that patience in the last 60 seconds, rush your shot, and become too excited, the game will over in the blink of an eye. In that moment, I rushed my opportunity and came back empty handed. But I suppose, when all is said and done, that’s hunting. What’s the expression, “If it was easy, everyone would do it”. I couldn’t put it better myself.

I called James with the news that day and after he reflected on his morning hunt in which a group of turkeys had given him the run around I felt a little better. I have now been out for three days in a row and had more opportunities in these few days than I did all last season, so, I must be doing something right. I still don’t have anything to call in toms with but my game is to be patient and move slowly. One of these times I’ll get it right.

With any luck I’ll be able to replicate James’s feat this week as he was able to take a turkey down yesterday. Throwing on what little gear he had, a quick trek into the woods soon had a turkey running across an open flat in front of him. He aimed just ahead of the turkey and hit his mark. Tonight he will be over to cook that turkey at my house and with good friends and a few drinks I’ll dream of the day when I’ll be the one bringing home the bird, sending photos around. Until then, the hunt continues, and what a hunt it is.

James Returns From a Successful Hunt:

My Search for a Ruger Red Label: A Decisive Blow

It had now been nearly five months since our trip to Montana and my first exposure to the gun that was to keep me up for endless nights. Since that time I had been able to immerse myself in a full upland bird season and the result was that without question, I loved this. I loved waking up on Saturday mornings and thinking about getting out into sagebrush country. I loved cleaning the oil off my gun, putting it in its case and grabbing my vest to head out. The drive to the field was pure joy and with Farley learning in his own way the entire experience was more than one can ask for.

James and I had both become better shots, we had both learned more and more about the birds we were pursuing, and we were finding new areas to get into, but I think above all it is was the passion that I found within myself that made my dream of owning a Ruger Red Label all the more plausible.

My infatuation with the gun was immediate but I had wondered if a guy like me should actually invest in something that would cost nearly $1,700. I mean, that’s a lot of money, and with my lifestyle and current income, living large is usually not on the table. It’s day to day, meal to meal, hoping the brown dog doesn’t run out of food. But this past bird season changed all that. I knew now, more than ever, an investment in such a firearm would be well worth it and pay dividends for years to come. And so, without any more hesitation, I was ready to commit myself to the gun. However, the one final hurdle to overcome was one of a physical nature, being that I had never even held the gun I wanted. Mike had a 12 gauge but I knew I wanted a 20 and the last mental stair to climb was getting my hands on one, looking it over to feel the weight, the wood, and the barrels. And then I found out, with a single phone call, I would get my chance in Las Vegas.

Mike called me that week and told me that he wanted to invite me to the SHOT Show in Vegas, a massive convention sporting the latest in firearms and outdoor gear. All the big players would be there; Remington, Beretta, Sig & Sauer, Sako, and to my ears delight, Sturm, Ruger & Co. This would be my time, a chance to not only talk with others about the gun but more importantly, hold it in my hands and make the last step towards fully committing to the idea.

I started my trip on a Sunday afternoon and the two day drive down was almost unbearable. After meeting up with Mike and James the conversations about all we would be seeing over the next week only served to make my rest uneasy. When we arrived at the Show I was given a floor plan with hundreds of booths laid out and an index that would tell me exactly where things would be. There were banners draped over I-beams, lights shining down on displays, and free beer if you knew where to look, but I only wanted to get to one stand, I only wanted to see one thing.

However, despite the burning desire to press forward I decided to wait even longer. I decided to let the anticipation build, let myself experience the rest of the Show before diving head first. As such, I walked the floor, holding shotguns worth $100,000, looking at the latest boots from every company one could possible think of, learning that I really knew absolutely nothing about bullets, and just having a down home, backyard bonfire good time. What a place to be.

As the morning shifted to afternoon I decided now was the time. I knew exactly where I needed to go and as I approached Ruger’s booth I could see their massive banner hanging over head, calling to me like a siren’s song. I moved through the crowd with ease and entered the display section with the excitement of a toddler. I had finally reached my destination.

As I scanned the display racks I saw many beautiful guns, polished and finished for all to see and hold. The booth was crowded, one of the most visited at the Show, but that didn’t bother me much. So I kept enjoying and moving around. Soon afterwards I had circled around the booth but when I realized I had made my way back to where I started I had to stop and look around. I thought, “How did I miss the Red Label section”? So I began scanning the signs: “Rifles”; “Pistols”; “Semi-Automatic”; but no “Shotgun” sign. I concluded that I must be missing it, it must be in the back somewhere and not wanting to search any longer I asked one of the Ruger salesmen where I might find one. His short and simple response was, “We didn’t bring that gun with us this year”. What?!? Wait a minute here. What is going on? What did he just say? Why wouldn’t they bring it? Why wouldn’t they bring their only shotgun? Has this guy been drinking too much of the free beer? I need to find someone else. I need to ask someone else. What was happening?

From here, without going into the over dozen conversations I had with their salesmen, I learned that in an unceremonious end, production of the Red Label, Ruger’s only shotgun and one that has carried a following for almost 40 years, had ceased. My heart sank. The wind that had fueled my sail for nearly five months was in an instant, gone. My spirit was crushed and I was dealt a decisive blow.

There were many sentiments shared amongst our group and others around us but nothing we could say or do would change the fact. I now had to think about where I would get the money. Soon there would be no more new guns out there. They would now become a collector’s item, the prized final few, the last years of production. The price for one would only start to rise. I didn’t know what to do.

I walked out of the convention that night defeated. Where do I go from here? What is my next move?  Is my dream over? The emotional rollercoaster had just dropped me off an edge and there was no end in sight. However, the next day I would be nudged by hope again, not by Ruger, an America company, but by Beretta, made in Italy, with a hunting heritage and history thicker than morning gravy. “Wait a second”, I thought, “What am I talking about? I don’t want a Beretta; I want a Ruger". Right?

Our Last Day of Scouting

In a blink the scouting period has come to an end and James and I are making our final preparations for the season. No one knows what the coming weeks will have in store for us but we are optimistic and, with the weather in our favor, the anticipation couldn’t be higher. As usual, both work and life have gotten in the way of James and me getting out into the woods, however, with the arrival of April and several hunting seasons upon us, getting out in the woods has become a necessity.

This past weekend began with the sun heating up eastern Oregon and, in honor of Easter, we decided that the only logical thing to do was, well, scout for bear. The weather was ripe, the mountain snow was melting, and this weekend, being our last before the season, there was only one choice. Today, we were hoping for something tangible, some point of reference, and hopefully some bear sign to go off of. The realization that we will soon be spending our weekends chasing black bears is beyond exciting.

We started out our day by entering the Starkey Unit, once again, from the north. Within a few hours we had found several areas that looked promising but with limited visibility through the thick woods we realized that we would practically have to bump into an animal to have any chance; definitely not a way to make a living. After a short discussion we concluded that finding an area where we could glass vast, open forest ground would exponentially increase our odds of at least seeing a bear, which, in the end, is really half the battle. And so, we began driving two tracks and off-shoot roads to see what we could find.

We were able to get out and head off on foot for a short while but the results were no different. Any spot that looked good for bears was more often than not, exactly that, a spot. An area where sure, if you set up a tree-stand every day during season you might have a bear walk into that watering hole, but sitting still is something neither of us fancy too much. However, we do realize that this season will take some patience, slowly glassing hillsides from east to west and then going back over them again. It will take determination, especially with the abundance of burnt tree stump and logs throughout the area. I have to admit that by the end of this day I was almost willing such inanimate objects to sway back and forth. Alas, it was only my mind playing tricks on me and before I knew it I was back to reality.

We decided to head back north and see if there were some other roads that might get us up high and then, just as it happened the last time I was out, a large herd of elk was high up on a hillside, out in the open, for all to see. As James quickly hit the brakes and attempted to put us out of harm’s way, we began to look over the herd but quickly realized they were too high up to see clearly. So, with only the faintest pause, we agreed we needed to be up there. “Well”, I thought, “here we go again”, and after finding a small turn-out the two of us were on our way.

Unlike the last time I had been out these elk were much higher up, out in a clearing that no doubt provided them with forage and visibility. We had a pretty clear idea of where they were but our main goal was simply to start gaining elevation and try to get around on them. With reference to the uncontrollable elements, the wind wasn’t with completely against us but it wasn’t ideal either. As always, we just had to make the best with what we had.

Ahead of catching sight of the herd it wasn’t long before the both of us realized that we had gotten into something great. As we moved up the hillside and gained elevation we started to notice that this area provided a glassing point for a large portion of the forest and not only that across the road but also the ground directly around us. It was quickly becoming clear that, from these vantage points, if there were any bears in this area it would be hard to stay hidden from us forever. Our last day of scouting was now proving more valuable than ever.

What we did know with some certainty was that if we could remain slightly to the north of the herd we’d have the best chance to sneak in on them. Sitting just below a hillock we debated how much farther it was and then, with a little more stair-stepping and eyes forward James turned and motioned to me, they were just up ahead. Ah, the excitement! In a display that all hunters are familiar with, fingers, hands, arms, and eyes were all used to communicate what was up ahead. You know, I’ve never thought about picking up sign language but wouldn’t that we a worthwhile skill? Ha, but I suppose the ballet of motion is decipherable enough and with a clear understanding that James could see elk I lifted my head, stretched my legs and saw their rear ends, less than 100 yards.

With James moving up, crawling on his knees to an uphill tree I took off my belt, looped it around Farley’s collar and began crawling up myself. It was at this point that I got the look from Farley that said, “What the hell are we doing?”, but I knew if the little dog saw the elk he would inevitably begin to whine and the jig would be up. So I kept his head down, dragged him along, and we made it up with James, 50 yards. A few cows were bedded down just above us and with every glance a new brown shape would appear. They were clearly unaware of our presence and at this juncture I began to reflect on what it must feel like to get slightly closer and draw back your bow on one of these animals. It must be an unbelievable feeling…it gets your adrenaline going just thinking about it.

With a few laughs and some planning, we decided to try and get as close as possible. We slowly backed down the hill to move out of sight and on our chests, crawled along the slope. Again, with hands acting as our only form of communication we made our way about half way to the next set of trees when the crack and rustle of grass below James had several cows quickly on their feet looking downhill. At this point, I was pretty sure that both James and I were low enough to the ground to perhaps be overlooked but the dog, with his ridiculous belt leash, sitting straight up, was without a doubt, the focus of many eyes. But the herd didn’t run, they simply got up and walked away. We quickly tried to get up on the saddle but in the blink of an eye the herd had moved down across the next drainage and was continuing on to the adjacent ridge. Alas, we had been caught, but to be where we were, looking at elk that close, was once again, awe inspiring and a complete thrill. I can’t wait until August.

With the elk moving away James and I both turned to view an incredible landscape and while the snow capped mountains in the distance were amazing, it was the view and ground right in front of us that had us excited. We had finally found a spot where we could glass hundreds of acres. This was what we had been looking for. This was what we needed for bear. We had a place to start, which as of that point, had still been up for debate. We could see country, move quickly along the ridges, and had finally found some spring green-up. The feeling was great. The season had an official trial run.

With smiles on our faces we trekked down the hill, glassed a few more times, and arrived back at the truck. We have less than a week until the season now. We have both agreed to put in a turkey hunt on opening day but after that, the game is on, and we head to the woods in search of one of North America’s most iconic animals, the American black bear.