THERE ARE NO MORE BIG BEARS THEY SAY
By Bill Katen

There was a low overcast and light drizzle coming down as my guide and I worked our way up the mountainside to our lookout point. The wind had dropped off to a light breeze, a welcome relief from the wind that had been pounding us the last two days. We had seen three bears in the last two days, but I wasn’t looking for any bear. This was my second trip into this area and I knew what I was hunting for. Billy moved ahead, picking his trail carefully. We wanted to come out on a grassy hillside overlooking the valley floor, then move across to a small rock outcropping that gave us a protected view of all sections of the valley. I was just coming out of the alders into the high wet grass when Bill stopped in the trail ahead of me and quickly motioned for me to ready my rifle. Sitting in the alders, not 50 yards away was a bear, sitting with his head up and alert. He must have heard us, because the next thing I knew he had swung around to look. Faster than you can tell it, he was on his feet and coming straight for us. As he ran his flesh rippled with the motion of stored-up fat and he came through the alders as easily as if they had been the grass we stood in. I grabbed my rifle, threw off the safety and was ready to fire, when he stopped. Now, just yards away, he stood shaking his head and snorting. Still I held my fire, hoping I wouldn’t have to shoot. I remember thinking how long I had waited to make this second hunt and how I didn’t want to end it by shooting an animal out of necessity. Then, just as suddenly, he turned and ran like Hell! We watched him run until he left the valley. Billy had estimated him to be 8 or 9 feet in size.

Hunting this area started with a phone call in December. I had been to Alaska on several previous occasions, hunting with the famous bush pilot and guide, Don Sheldon, in the Talkeetna area. Unfortunately, Don had passed away in 1975 and his airtaxi license had been sold. I made a call to his wife, Roberta, to ask her if she knew of anyone she could recommend as an outfitter now that Don was gone. Her answer was to give me the phone number and address of Larry Rivers and the suggestion I contact him immediately. I did so and was able to book a hunt for the Cold Bay area, scheduled for the following October.

In October I flew to Alaska and was greeted by Larry and soon had transferred my baggage into a trailer, located a few hundred yards from the airport. After a quick lunch and change of clothes, we packed the supercub and departed for spike camp and my long awaited bear hunt. About 30 minutes out, Larry pointed out a camp pitched at the edge of a partially dried up lake. As we set up to land he point out the landmarks I would need to know. My guide was waiting for me as Larry touched the tires to the sand and taxied to a stop. "Bill, I would like you to meet Billy". Larry said, as I climbed out. "He will be your guide on the hunt." Billy was about 26 years old, 5’7" and a solid 155 pounds. He had grown up in Boston, but lived the last several years around Alaska, mainly in the small tents and cabins he used on his trap line. "Come on, let’s get this gear into the tent, so Larry can get back into the air." Billy quipped. We soon had my gear unloaded and as Larry and Billy discussed the last minute details, I had a chance to look around.

We were on a small shallow lake, located on the floor of a large valley. The lake was perhaps 100 yards across and 2 feet deep. It had partially dried up, leaving a strip of semi-dry ground between the water and the four foot high bank that marked it’s outer limit. The strip was about 300 feet long and 20 feet wide, with small knots of tundra growing across it in some areas. Climbing up on the bank, I could see several miles up the valley to a point where it turned sharply to the right and went out of sight. Later I would learn that this was a pass through the mountains to the Pacific Ocean. Looking down the valley a mile or two, I could see where it came to an end on a bluff overlooking a large bay. Beyond that was flat lowland, that ran for several miles and ended at the Bering Sea. The valley was about 1 ½ miles wide, with the sides being mountain ridges rising approximately 1000 feet above the ground we stood on. The valley floor was almost flat, made up of 18" high rows of dark green niggerheads, broken by sections of grassy muskeg. Numerous small lakes dotted the landscape and drained into one large stream that emptied into the Pacific. The only brush and alder was located on the western wall, about 2 miles away. The day was overcast and the breeze from the north carried with it the fresh clean smell of ocean beach grass and rain. I was excited and pleased to be in such a beautiful location. "Bill", Larry called, bringing my attention back to camp, "Billy seems to have everything under control. We are expecting some weather to come in, so I’ll be back in three days to check on you. Good Luck!"

Saying that the weather would be bad, was an understatement! The first day out the wind and rain were terrible, but we took an excellent bull caribou at a range of about 200 yards. The second morning we spotted another 20 or 30 caribou and two wolves far out on the valley floor. About 11 a.m. I spotted a bear feeding up the valley and my heart really began to beat. I had come for a bear and now I was looking at one of obvious large size. The conditions were right and we soon had worked up to within 30 yards of him. At that point, we found that he was feeding in the bottom of a small creek. If I stood up, I could see the top of his back, but could not get a shot. It would have been foolish to move closer, so we had to wait for him to move up on the bank. The next 20 minutes seemed like hours, as we sat and waited. At last we could stand it no longer and we stood up to look. He was gone! A quick and careful search turned him up about 150 yards away in thick brush, then he seemed to vanish into the grass. We were never able to locate him again.

The third day the wind really began to howl, it seemed to be blowing 100 miles an hour and raining something fierce. Still we got out and managed to take a white wolf a few miles from camp. The trip back will be one I will always remember. We were leaning into a wind, so strong, that when it momentarily quit we would fall to the ground. Several hours later we arrived at camp, exhausted. The fourth morning we dried our gear, had good breakfast and headed back into the field. We had only been on the hill a few minutes when Billy leaned over and pointed to a large brown shape moving at the edge of the alders, about a mile and a half away. He reached across my pack and picked up the spotting scope to have a better look. I continued to watch through my binoculars, awaiting his decision. "Looks to me like the best bear we’ve seen," he finally whispered. "Probably go well over nine and a half feet." That was what I was waiting to hear. While Billy watched the bear, trying to decide what he was up to, I was busy putting my gear back into my pack. It would be a difficult stalk, using every low area and creek bed for cover. Four hours later we were still several hundred yards off, with the bear feeding along the base of the mountain, that made up the west side of the valley. It was mid afternoon and we expected him to lay down at anytime, allowing us the chance to move in for a shot. As the wind was blowing steady at about 15 knots, in our favor, we were not concerned about him scenting us and the rush of the cool ocean air was covering up all sound. Still, I could hear something in the distance that was nagging at my attention. Suddenly it occurred to me that this was the day that my outfitter, Larry Rivers, had said he would return to check on my camp and the sound I was hearing was the drone of his supercub! I looked in the distance and saw the small aircraft headed up the valley. My thoughts were yanked back to the ground, as Billy tugged on my sleeve and pointed to the bear now standing up and looking in the direction of the aircraft. From the corner of my eye I could see Larry turning away, his engine cut to an idle. Apparently he had seen the bear also and was trying to leave as quickly and quietly as possible. I had no time to think about it any further then that, for the big bear dropped to the ground and started walking back up the mountain toward the alders we had seen him come out of earlier in the day. It was now obvious where he was going and just as obvious that he was set on making the trip as quickly as possible. It would be a long shot for my .375 H&H, but I know that it was now or never. I would have to take the best shot possible and hope that my hours of practice would make up the difference. Billy was right beside me as I threw myself on the ground, lined up on the bears’ shoulder and fired. "You hit him!" Billy exclaimed. "Bust him again!" I quickly followed up with two more shots, that I felt sure had connected, just before the bear disappeared in the grass. The next time we saw him, he was moving at a steady pace up the face of the mountain! We could see blood on his leg and he walked with a limp that told us he had been hit, but it didn’t slow him down for a minute. By now, he was approaching the top of the mountain and we were moving after him as fast as we could go. The remainder of the day was spent looking for his trail, but tracking was impossible on the rocky mountainside. When we made the top of the mountain we could see into the next valley. It was about 2 miles long and void of brush, yet he was no where to be seen. I was unbelievably disappointed. The tracks that we had seen indicated he was a bear well over 10’ in size. Needless to say, it was not a very happy camp that night. Larry came in the next morning and after hearing our story set out to locate the bear.  He looked by air for several days and climbed through the alders of several mountainsides to check out anything that remotely looked like a downed bear.  It was all to no avail, the big bruin had left the country.  In the end he decided to move us to another valley.

A short time later we were landing on the beach, with the surf breaking a few feet away. We set up camp behind the first dune and set about anchoring down the camp. We hunted this area two days, seeing sows and cubs and smaller bears, but the winds were again picking up and it was difficult to hunt. The third evening Larry flew over at high tide and dropped a note. The weather pattern that year had been unusually bad and another strong system was moving in. The weather was supposed to get worse and he want to get us out of there. We would have to walk about 1 ½ miles to a flat behind the sand dunes where he could pick us up with two planes. We took only what we would need and headed out. We worked our way across country, through the alders. They were just packed with fresh bear trails and sometimes we couldn’t see 20 feet. Billy was confident though, and we soon reached the stream that separated us from the airplanes. The stream though, had turned into a raging river and though we tried twice we were unable to cross. Larry was standing on the opposite bank, but we couldn’t talk due to the high winds. We motioned that we couldn’t cross and indicated that he would need to pick up us on our side. We were standing on a sand strip 10’ wide and less then 100’ long, with tall grass on one end and river on the other three side. He went back to his plain and the next I know was flying over us very low. The cub made four passes over the spot, I guess checking out the turbulence. The last time he opened the door and yelled, "When I touch down, grab the wings!" He came in almost like a helicopter and we grabbed the struts. It seemed like the plane would pick us up with the engine at idle. He opened the door and told me to get in. I did so quickly and we took off from the position where he had stopped. It didn’t seem like five feet. He flew to where the other plane was parked, behind a large sand dune, then returned for Billy. It was really incredible.

I didn’t shoot a bear that year and returned to New York with an unfilled tag and a confirmed booking for the fall of 1981.

A short time later I heard from Larry. He told me that he had found the bear by plane, but that he had moved again during the night. Johnnie Lowe, of Houston Texas, came into camp on the following hunt and took an 11’5" Brown Bear. While skinning it out they found a fresh bullet cut on the brisket and a single .375 H&H bullet lodged in its right foot. When officially measured, the skull went 29" and is listed in Boone and Crockett under #87. I was disappointed, but not beat.

Now I was again in Larry’s camp and was pleased to again hunt with Billy. This time I came prepared for the worst, with plastic bags for my gear, everything was waterproof and even extra long aluminum stakes to anchor my tent. The weather was better this year and I had a full sixteen days to look for the bear for my choice. Regaining our poise, we returned to business at hand, continuing on to our observation point. We saw nothing else that morning, but around 3 p.m. located a small single bear coming toward us, very nervously looking over it’s shoulder. A short time later it was followed by a LARGE bear and we knew it was time to travel. As quick as we could, we moved to the valley on a course plotted to intercept him at the river. He got there ahead of us and we moved into position just in time to see him come out on our side, dripping wet.

He was moving steadily, looking for salmon and feeding on the vegetation along the stream. Upon reaching the bank, he turned and started away from us at a rate that would be hard to follow. I estimated the range to be 200 yards, within the capability of the .338 Winchester I was carrying this year. I laid my rifle across my jacket for a rest and told Billy that I would fire the next time he came out of the creek. In a moment he stepped up on the gravel bank, dripping wet. I fired for his shoulder. There was a sharp splat as the bullet hit that wet hide and he let out with a roar.

Instantly, he started to run for the mountain we had just come off of. I hit him two more times before he reached the slope, upon which he turned and headed straight for us. "This is my last shot!" I yelled at Billy as I took aim. The bullet hit him square in the chest and spun him around in his tracks, but he never went down. Instead, he headed back to the mountain and took refuge in an alder patch. With heart pounding and Billy standing cover, I quickly reloaded. Billy lead the way around and above the patch in an attempt to catch some sight of the wounded bear. All was silent, except for occasional movement of brush somewhere below. After about 15 minutes and no sight of him, we decided to throw in a stone or two, hoping for a response. The first rock thudded into the soft earth and the bear stood up less than 20 yards away. "Bust him!" Billy whispered. I place the crosshairs on his neck and dropped him in his tracks. The shot rolled him down the hill and he came to rest in the swamp. I thought for sure that shot had killed him, however, as we moved down the hill we could still hear him moving around. Carefully we inched onto the swamp. Only a small knoll separated us from the bear less than 15 yards away. About 50 yards out, we moved across until we could see the bear sitting and watching. When he caught sight of us he took off for the mountain at a run. Twice more I knocked him down before he rolled back to the swamp, yet he was still not dead. I had to fire on last shot into his neck to finish him off. It was the biggest bear I had ever seen. Needless to say, Bill and I danced around the swamp for quite some time, congratulating ourselves. It took everything we had to skin that bear, and we had to spend a second day fleshing it before it was light enough that we could pack it out to the beach. I took another fine caribou on that hunt, but the real thrill cam when we squared the hide. It measured 11’3", just 2" less than the bear I didn’t get two years before. It was one of the greatest experiences I have ever had in hunting.

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