NO ONE SHOT BEARS
- by Martin Rigoletti

The morning of May 13, 1984, heavy rains and very high winds, the typical stormy weather that the Alaska Peninsula is known for awakened us. My outfitter, Larry Rivers, had warned me in advance that the weather would probably be extremely harsh at some time during the hunt and now only three days later, it had arrived. My guide Mike Cowan, had gotten up a few minutes before and looked out the door of the tent to check on the conditions; in hopes that it would actually be better than it sounded, but we already knew that there would be no hope of getting the "Big One" today. It would be a morning to relax in the sturdy little dome tent that was our refuge from the storm. Outside the winds were picking up to 80 or 90 knots and the rain was moving sideways across the Aleutian mountain valley in which we were camped. The tent was standing firm and we laid comfortable inside discussing the past few days of hunting. For several months I had been looking forward to this trip, planning every detail. Everything had gone smoothly up to this point, with the possible exception of my flight out of New Jersey, which had been canceled. Even so, I had arrived safely and on time in Cold Bay, Alaska, at which point I was met by Larry and was introduced to the other hunters who would be in camp while I was hunting; Larry Whitlock from Maryland, Ed Frazer from Nevada and Dr. Holmes from Pennsylvania. Larry then transported us all out to base camp, where I first met Mike Cowan, busy packing our camp to be flown out that same evening.

The following two days were spent on a ridge above spike camp, looking over a large valley and bay that extended in from the Bering Sea. There was nothing but mountains and ocean as far as the eye could reach in any direction. Below us the ocean slapped gently on the beach as the seagulls circled and glided up and down the coast. Their calls reached up to us on the fresh ocean breeze as scattered gray clouds floated by overhead. Those two days certainly had not given any omen of what was to come. The only indication that the weather could get worse was the way that Mike tied down the tent and packed everything away in the morning. It was obvious that he didn’t think this would hold for very long.

We hadn’t seen much the first two days. There were numerous caribou, but other than that we saw only a wolverine, a couple of fox and a single small blonde bear, which had come traveling down the beach past our tent. He ignored our camp, so we let him go undisturbed.

That was quite a contrast to the situation now. As we lay in the tent we could hear the wind coming over the mountain like the roar of a freight train. Big gusts kept slamming into us and about 9:30 a.m. Mike started crawling out of his bag. "I think we had better go out and tighten up the lines that are holding us to the mountain," he called over the storm. Crawling out of the tent he set about the job and was just finishing up when a great gust came up the valley. We could hear it coming a long way off, and when it hit it pulled everything loose. Up the hill I went in the tent, guns, food, duffel and I went around and around like clothes in a dryer. Things were pretty messed up when I finally came to a stop. Believe me, we didn’t waste any time in getting the tent tied down and back into order. You might say it was the focus of our concentration. Once again we were just finishing up and I had crawled back inside when the gust turned around and came back down the valley, only this time I’m sure it had gotten a run at us. When it hit, the tent simply came apart! This was a brand new extreme condition mountaineering tent, built to take the worst weather in the world, but in our case it failed. The entire floor simply tore to shreds. Equipment was blowing everywhere and we were grabbing everything we could and stuffing it into large plastic bags to protect it from the rain. This was without a doubt the worst weather I had ever experienced. Still, I had traveled thousands of miles to see it and to hunt the huge bears that live here, and I wasn’t about to let it dampen my spirits. Once the gear was packed, we found that we had come out fairly well. The only thing of value that we had lost was our two raincoats, and they were nowhere to be found. Our attention was now focused on finding a new home to hunt from. In just a few minutes Mike had located a large boulder down in a small ravine, somewhat protected from the wind, and behind it was a flat spot that we could use to spend the night. By now we were pretty well soaked, so we pulled our pads and sleeping bags out, covered them up with a plastic tarp, and climbed into the sack, wet clothing and all. Thanks to the top quality fiberfill sleeping bags, we were able to warm up and get a little rest. A few hours later the wind finally started to abate and the rain quit. It was a relief to crawl out and rustle up some grub to eat! The day was already edging its way into the evening so we had little chance to do anything other than clean up gear and crawl back into the sack for the night.

On Monday and Tuesday bear hunting was put on the back burner while we cleaned equipment. Fairly strong winds were still coming in off the Bering Sea, so we used them to our advantage in drying our gear. We were actually quite comfortable in our niche behind the boulder and on occasion we even found the time to stop and glass for bears, just in case one would make itself available.

Larry was supposed to be in any time to check on us and resupply our camp, but the ceilings were so low and the wind so strong that we really didn’t expect to see him for a day or two. In the meantime, we were staying pretty close to the gear and glassing the edges of the bay and mountains for fresh bear tracks. It was Tuesday evening about 9 p.m. when Larry was finally able to fly over. It was the first opportunity that the weather had allowed him to get in and he flew right over where our camp had been. After a couple of passed we realized that he could not see our small retreat, so we moved out and opened up the remains of the tent to catch his attention. By this time he had begun to suspect that we had moved camp, so he climbed high and circled all possible locations for some sign of us, with no success. At last he dropped right down to the water and flew the beach line looking for any sign of our passing. When he circled again and tipped his wings we knew that at last he had seen us, but still he didn’t land. Instead his circled one or two more times and headed off over the mountains. A few minutes later we realized why he hadn’t landed. The tide was in and there was no landing strip remaining. Later we learned that he had seen the flapping tent and thought that we were breaking camp. Seeing that we were OK and busy moving down to the landing area, he climbed up and disappeared over the mountains, intending to return in the morning to pick us up. So we returned to our "Green Room" for another evening under the Alaskan sky.

The next morning Larry was back in camp by 9:00 a.m. to pick us up and only then was he aware of what had happened. After a few minutes of packing he and I were in the air, returning to main camp for a new tent and grub to carry us through the coming days of hunting. While I was putting together some dry clothing and selecting various items for the grub box, Larry returned to pick up Mike and moved him into a new camp on the Pacific side of the Peninsula. An hour or two later I arrived with the fresh gear and we set up camp, in the protection of a very large alder patch next to a clear, fast flowing mountain stream. It was a fine camp and we rested well. The following morning found us up early and fresh for the hunt.

The next few days went by without event, we saw a small number of caribou, but the bears just weren’t coming out of their dens like we would have preferred. On a bright warm day its not uncommon to see several bear working the mountainside, but our weather was very cool and overcast. It just wasn’t the type of weather needed to move the bears. The second day out we noticed that the birds were feeding on some large dead animal about two miles away. It was located on the flank of the mountain where the snow gave away to the oncoming summer growth of the lowlands. We were curious as to just what it was, but knew we didn’t dare go up to check, as our passage through the area would have had a good chance of alarming any bear that might be residing in the country between. We hadn’t seen any bears, but they were about in the brush. We crossed their tracks as we moved to our glassing points. On one occasion a large bear strolled down the beach, turned up the creek and ran right past our tent and we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him. In fact, we didn’t even see the tracks until after Larry landed that evening to check on us. Walking into camp he asked "Did you get that big bear that came past your camp today?" "Nah! There weren’t any bears by camp today, we were up on the hill watching all the time," I replied, thinking he was joking. "No, really. About a 10-footer came down the beach, then turned and ran up the creek and into the alders right by camp. It couldn’t have been very long ago because the sand hasn’t even dried where he kicked it out." We couldn’t believe it, and hurried down to the beach to see. Sure enough, there were the tracks with a front pad that measured just a little over 9" across. How could we have missed anything of that size? There certainly wasn’t any question now. "There wasn’t any bear on the beach when I came in," Larry continued, "but it sure looks like something scared him about the time he got here. Has there been any other air traffic?" That rang a bell. About 15 minutes before a US Fish and Wildlife aircraft had flown down the beach at about 100 feet above ground. The bear must have heard that plane and headed into the brush. Needless to say, we were encouraged to know a bear of that size was out of the den and somewhere in the area. Now we only had to find him. That is sometimes easier said than done. The next day we were up early and out late, glassing the mountainsides with a fresh determination.

A couple of days went by and we hadn’t spotted any bear. The weather had turned beautiful, the sky was blue with white fluffy clouds floating overhead and there was only a light breeze. (Back home we could call it a wind, but by that time is seemed like only a breeze.) We were leaning back against a rock, curiously glassing that large object we had seen when we first arrived, ever more certain it was the remains of a large animal. I was back on one elbow visiting, when I noticed Mike stiffen up just a little and slide into a more steady position. "There’s a bear coming down the side of the mountain headed for that dark spot in the snow!" Mike exclaimed, with a burst of energy in his voice. "Boy is that a big bear!" By that time I was scrambling for my binoculars. When I finally found him, he was walking down the hill in belly deep snow, headed directly for the "dark spot". He was about two miles away and moving steadily. "You start packing Marty, while I watch him for a bit," Mike told me. "We want to know where he is going, but we don’t want to waste any time either." I quickly put together the few items we would need and about the time I closed up the pack Mike got up and slung it across his shoulders. Another look at the bear and we were off. Ahead of us were two miles of open country and not a bush in sight. The only cover we would have would be the terrain itself and the wind was such that we had no choice but to go straight towards the bear. We moved quickly across the country using the rolling hills for cover, stopping only to check on his progress. The bear had continued down the hill to the "dark spot" and was apparently feeding. By the time we had closed the distance to a half mile he had finished and was laying in the snow sunning himself, seemingly asleep.

At this point we lost all possible cover. There was nothing to do but move across the open ground and hope for the best. Mike paused for a moment and turning to me he whispered, "drop in close behind me and try to stay there, so that we make only one silhouette. Don’t worry about watching the bear. Just move and stop when I do and no talking, not even a whisper." Without further discussion we started to move, stopping occasionally to briefly check out the bear with the glasses. On one occasion, we were crossing a particularly open section, when the bear suddenly lifted his head and started looking around. Mike dropped to his knees and I was right behind him, with my heart in my throat. The bear kept his head up for the longest time, his nose in the air and he seemed to be studying every detail of the country around him. I was absolutely sure he had winded us. Even from this distance we could see his nose working the breeze, but at last he lowered his head and again we began to close the gap.

We knew that the slightest mistake on our part, or a minor change in the wind would blow the entire stalk. A this point we were using every bit of cover, no matter how small, to help conceal our movement. Finally we moved up on a small outcropping of rock and Mike lowered himself the remaining inches to the ground. "I don’t think we dare go in any closer," he whispered in my ear. "Do you feel comfortable shooting from here?" I eased my head up over the rock to get a feel for the distance. "How far is it?" I asked, wanting to be sure I was estimating the range properly. In that country of great proportions, it can be quite difficult to estimate ranges even after years of experience. "About 175 yards," Mike returned. "Just put the cross hairs low on the shoulder and squeeze one off, when you are real sure you are ready." "I’ll have one in the chamber in case it’s needed, but don’t count on me. It’s your bear, so you take him. Just remember Larry’s number one rule, no one-shot bears. You keep shooting until the bear quits moving." With those words in mind, I chambered a round and got ready to shoot.

The first shot hit him square in the shoulder. Mike saw the dust fly, but to my surprise the bear jumped to his feet and started running across the slope to our right. I tried to run a second round into the chamber, but nothing was there! Looking down I saw that the floorplate had come open and dropped the remaining rounds to the ground. I attempted to get it closed, but had no success and the bear was moving away fast. "Hit him again!" Mike was insisting, as he watched the bear through the scope. Grabbing the rounds from the ground I started feeding them into the chamber one at a time. I got off several shots, but the bear had moved nearly out of range, up the side of the mountain. It was time to move and move fast. Taking only our guns and a box of ammunition we headed up the hill at a run. Once we had closed to about 225 yards, I again dropped to the ground and fired another three rounds. With each shot, we could see the bear sag and finally he went to the ground and stopped moving. I was beginning to understand why Larry didn’t want anyone to count on a single shot. He feels that the "one-shot" bear is mostly good for the ego and insures that sooner or later you will be trying to run down a wounded bear. Probably sooner.

At last I had time to get the floorplate closed on the gun and fill the magazine. Even now Mike was impatient. "Come on Marty, we’ve got to get on up there and be sure he isn’t going any place." It turned out there was no cause for concern. By the time we got up to his position, he was down for the count. A handshake and congratulations were in order. We had taken beautiful Alaskan Brown Bear.

Now that we had finished the business at hand, we had some time to analyze the situation. Back down the hill was the "dark spot" that had intrigued us the past several days. From our position we could now see that it was another very large Brown Bear. Walking down to him we found that he was about 10’ in size and had died in the snow. There was no sign that he had been shot, or even in a fight. There was no damage to the hide at all, other than one hind leg that had been ripped open. Apparently we had been watching when our bear first discovered the carcass and came in to feed. At least that is what it seemed from the small amount that had been eaten.

Returning to our bear, we spent an hour or so taking pictures, followed by two or three hours of skinning. By the time we were done we had 9’10" of bear stuffed into Mikes’ pack, which translates into perhaps 130 pounds of hide. It took us about four hours to walk to camp. When we arrived, we were tired and hungry, but it was the end to a perfect day.

The next day was another day of perfect weather, and we stayed around camp while Mike fleshed and turned the bear. Half expecting to hear the drone of the cub, but it never arrived. "Larry will probably be in tomorrow, if the weather holds," Mike surmised, as we settled down to a happy evening and early rest.

The following morning we were having breakfast when Larry flew over. He was making his camp rounds and we signaled for him to land. He made a sweeping turn and settled in, gently landing on the sloping beach and taxied up to camp. The door dropped open, as he came to a stop. He listened to our story from the seat of the plane and once we were through he started restructuring his day. Ed had gotten his bear yesterday and he still had to go across and check on Doc Holmes. Since he was already in the area he would pick up our extra grub and take it along, in case it was needed in another camp and he would return for us on the way home. With that, we quickly packed the plane and Larry was off to Doc’s camp down the beach a few miles. After about an hour he came back and landed on the beach, but this time the back seat was occupied. Walking up to the plane we saw that the passenger was Doc Holmes and that he had a large bear stuck in behind the seat. Larry had stopped in just to check with us and let us know he would return in a few minutes to pick us up and pull our camp.

That evening we were all together again, with the exception of Larry Whitlock, who had caught an early flight home after an early success. That evening we fixed up a large supper of crab, pork loins and ice cream. We ate and ate until we couldn’t eat any more and still there was food left. The following day was especially busy as we shot numerous photos, packed and made our way into the airport for the trip home.

That afternoon, we all went in different directions, but with a common experience. We had had successful hunts and we were all doing home with great trophies.

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