With one swipe of his big paw he could have broken Fred's
neck.  But you have to get real close when you're hunting

BLACK BEAR WITH A BOW

SPORTS AFIELD, July 1961
By Byron W. Dalrymple

I sat in darkness on the gallery of the old back-bush logging shack, listening to the hum of mid-May mosquitoes active after the long, northern Ontario winter.  A lot of wilderness, I reflected, lay between here and civilization.

"Main Street" of the camp stretched to the left.  It looked like a movie set.

I had once spent some time in that make-believe business and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were on location.  In a way we were.  We were bear hunting.  But if I felt movie unreality now, it was only a forecast of things to come.  This hunt was to unfold a full-fledged adventure story before we were through.

There was a skeleton work force here, running winter-cut logs down Gull River from Gull Lake to Lake Temagami.  I could hear the crew's subdued snoring from the distant bunkhouse.  It underscored other regular minor night sounds.  From the stables up the shadowy street came the muffled thumping of horses' hoofs as they tried to shake off mosquitoes.  Then, down by the river, there was an unmistakable splashing and cracking of twigs.

I wondered if Chuck Kroll heard it.  I didn't know his position.  He and Fred Bear and I had come up from Michigan to collect a trio of bear rugs with bow and arrow during the Ontario spring season for nonresidents.  We knew blackies were so abundant as to be classed as nuisances.  Fred and Chuck were experts.  I was a rank dub.

From where I sat Fred's outline was barely visible.  He was leaning against a woodpile at the end of the street.  Then abruptly, I could no longer see him.  A bulk blacker than the darkness moved between us.  "I smelled him before I saw him,"  Fred said later.  "He was about 12 feet away."

Once more, now, I had the eerie, mesmerized sensation of being on a movie lot.  The villain had just entered.  The black bulk passed Fred and then swung back so that he once more blotted Fred's position from my straining view.  The bear was facing Fred, staring at him.  Its face could not have been more than four feet from his.

I pictured the muscles in the bear's forelegs.  Have you ever skinned one?  With one startled swipe he could have broken Fred's neck.  Suddenly, the tensely dramatic moment broke.  The black bulk turned and moseyed casually around the corner of a building.  A cracking of twigs, growing fainter, came from the hill behind camp.

"At first," Fred explained later, "he had me pinned down.  Afterward I decided I wanted one that smelled sweeter!"  Chuck and Fred laughed.  I, inexperienced with a bow, was not so certain it was funny.

We spent the next day watching logging operations and fishing.  We had brought in a couple of rods in the little bush plane from Lou Riopel's Lakeland Airways in Temagami.  At the lower end of the river large lake trout, which move into shallow water for a couple weeks each spring, were swarming.  In the swift current they fought wildly.  We caught enough to provide fresh fish for the whole camp.  We were to wish desperately for one of those fish later on!

Bear trails crisscrossed the surrounding territory, making it a perfect place to prowl.  In spring, when blackies first come out of hibernation, they feed on grass and green shoots.  Clearings around long camps — most camps are abandoned by bear season — are perfect places.  In the camps are oats around the stables, buried refuse to be snuffed at and grass growing in the streets.  Here fresh grass shows with the first warming days of May.  The season is from April to mid-June and there is no limit.

There are scores of old camps back in the bush.  The bush airlines that have supplied them all season know the locations and which ones have plentiful bears.  Generally, the larger the camp, the more bears there are.  Hunters without guides can get along very well, and inexpensively too, by dealing with the bush lines and their pilots.

Although morning and evening are the best times to hunt, in the spring a hungry bear may wander and graze all day.  There are several methods an archer may use in taking a prize blackie.  By day he may prowl the old log trails.  At dawn or in the evening he may take a stand by a grass patch where there are signs that bears have been there.  Or he may set up a more or less permanent stand in the heart of an abandoned camp.

Chuck decided we should do some walking.  It's not difficult to walk spring-damp log trails quietly.  One must watch the wind most carefully, however, for the black bear has an expert nose.  He is ordinarily awesomely shy, one of the most difficult of all big-game animals to match wits with.  However, we knew of a party of four archers who had operated a bit farther north and killed four in ten days while skulking log trails just as Chuck was doing, or sitting when they saw a good location.  Sure enough, that evening Chuck picked a spot, watched a group of three bears come in and shot one through and through.

I felt more at ease with my bow after that.  Of course I knew hundreds of big-game animals had been killed by archers.  Nonetheless, it was comforting to me, the dub, to see someone shoot an arrow through a bear while I was on the scene.

We had agreed that Ron Speer, the pilot who had dropped us, would check on us the third day.  When the little plane came in, we decided to move.  There were bears here, but the nature of the country had made the search for Chuck's bear tough and unsuccessful.  An arrow-shot animal usually travels some little distance.  The country was up and down, with many cliff-like hills, and since it had been freshly cut, it was littered with tops and slashing.

We flew back into Temagami to pick up sleeping bags and a tent.  The next morning we soared over the bush once more, headed for an abandoned camp.

Ron put us down as close as he could and agreed to wait while we checked the camp.  We found sign of only one bear and decided it was not good enough for a three-hunter party.  Ron hurried us to a second spot he had in mind, afraid someone would beat us there.

We loaded quickly.  The plane bounced across the choppy lake, and took off.  Soon we were coming down once more.  As the drone of the plane faded, we were setting up our tent on shore.

Since the log camp where we planned to hunt was abandoned, any bears near it would now be unused to humans.  Thus we had not wished to disturb them by camping there.  When everything was finally in order, we started hiking the mile to the camp to see what we had drawn.  We were immediately uneasy when we struck the trail.  There was a fresh boot track in it.  Some hunter had been there ahead of us.

Bear sign, obviously made by a number of bears, was everywhere.  But to our chagrin, near the camp we found a freshly skinned carcass.  Chuck guessed that the bear had been killed that morning, probably by some native or hunter from one of the islands far up Lake Temagami.  Undoubtedly he had come in by boat, since the waterways are mostly connected.  This was most discouraging.  Possibly the bears were spooked.  But we could do nothing but stay put.

By now, it was 5 p.m.  We selected favorable-appearing spots and sat down.  The bush was completely still.  I watched a whisky-jack fly from tree to tree.  I peered anxiously through my screen of brush, imagining I heard monster blacks approaching.  Oddly, a bear can move with great stealth when it chooses.

I heard a loon in the distance.  I fell to thinking about an old Frenchman we'd met on the Quebec border.  He had killed over 500 black bears.  He bountied 28 one recent year, 33 last year.  Beaver, he told me was a favorite bear food, a killer bait for him when he traps.

"Also years-old bear," he said, "Shoot years-old bear; leave carcass and watch him.  Old bear eat him."

By "years-old" he meant a yearling.  He insisted no bear would eat an old one.  Too strong.  I began to wonder why I had not thought to sit up with that fresh carcass.  Quickly, all musing was wiped from my mind.  A very large black bear was working his way up the side of the hill toward our strung-out positions.  It appeared he was going to move into range for Chuck.

The sun was down.  This is the time of day when wind direction is apt to be whimsical, with fitful swirls springing from calm air.  The bear now turned below us and started toward Fred.  I knew instantly what was going through his mind, for a breeze had sprung suddenly and was hitting the back of my neck — right into the bear's face.  If Fred got a shot, it would have to be a fast one, before the big fellow got wise.

I saw Fred make a swift draw.  I wanted him to drive his razor-head home so badly it was a taste in my mouth.  But the bear was still in brush, the archer's worst enemy.

The big brute whirled, suddenly apprised of human presence by the breeze.  The bowstring hurled the shaft.  I heard the arrow strike brush, saw it barely graze the brute's backside.  He let out a startled squall.  He was running.  He crossed in front of Chuck.  Again there was the futile sound of the shaft rattling against brush.  The crashing of the bear faded.  All was still.

After a long time and full dark, with only a weak moon, there was the sound of a rummaging bear somewhere back along the tote road.  I thought again of the old Frenchman, how he had lectured me on the importance of patience in bear hunting.

"We go for bear," he said.  "Pick place bear goes.  We sit.  Sometime he go."  He had struck a match and lit his pipe to emphasize that was all of it.  We sit until bear goes.

"How long?" I had asked.

He laughed and his eyes twinkled.  "Maybe one day, one night.  Maybe t'ree, four.  Sometime."

"When do we eat?"

He laughed again.  "Get bear first."

Discouraged, we slogged back in darkness to our go-light camp by the lake, and fixed some grub.  We ate, but Fred was still hungry.  He pawed around looking for more.

"Chuck," he said, perplexed, "there isn't any more!"  Chuck had packed the food.

"Sure," Chuck said.  "I figured we wouldn't want to make a fire, and that we might have to carry gear a long way.  I thought we'd skip lunch and just eat one cold meal to go as light as possible.  We'll be picked up early in the morning."

Fred laughed wryly.  We were royally fouled up.  He had also made the arrangements with the pilot — to pick us up two days later!

It was cold that night.  It was colder still before dawn when we rolled out and prowled the mile back to the hunting area.  Fresh sign lay in the streets of the "ghost town."  The bears certainly weren't spooked.  But we hunters were mightily starved by midmorning.

We held a whispered conference.  The long walks back and forth were strenuous and the cold nights also burned up energy.  If Ron didn't show until late tomorrow afternoon we would be a shaky lot indeed.

Then Fred remembered.  "I brought my casting rod," he said.  "I'll catch grub."

In high spirits we went back to camp.  Fred got out the rod and a spoon and started casting.  Lake trout would not necessarily be here.  But ordinarily, in the Ontario bush, one can catch pike at almost any time and place.  Though pike are considered by many bush natives trash fit only for dog food, we weren't particular.  Fred worked for two hours.  Our spirits ebbed.  It was no go.

We decided to make one more trip to the log camp on the small chance some grub had been left there.  After much poking around, all we found was some salt in the horse mangers.  It had been licked by the horses and turned brown, but we took some with us anyway.  We were becoming desperate.  Chuck found the camp dump, scrounged around and came back grinning.  He had an old pan, rusty, but quite usable.

"We need grease," he said.

It hit us simultaneously.  The bear carcass.  It didn't look inviting.  It was badly bloated, but it had been a fat bear, and the lard was thick.  It was lying in the shade, and the night had been frosty.  The outside had stayed cold.

We sliced off several slabs of fat, rolled them in birch bark and headed back for the lake.  Another two hours of hard fishing.  No use.  Fred swore and threw down the rod.  He walked away, the walked back, picked it up and made one last furious and frustrated cast.

He had a solid strike.  The rod bent beautifully.  With heads splitting from hunger and knees shaky, we didn't care what kind of fish it was.  Finally he beached the most lovely looking pike I ever hope to see.  It was about eight pounds.

Chuck and I had scoured the old pan with sand.  We had a fire ready.  We looked the other way and held our noses and dropped the bear fat into the hot pan.  It sizzled.  We sniffed.  We did a double-take.  It smelled heavenly.  In went slabs of pike.  On went the brown, horse-licked salt.  Presently, gorged to the teeth, we lay back and took our ease.  We had it made.

There was a current of excitement running among us as we headed back for our "movie set" late that afternoon.  Main Street consisted of two rows of buildings.  At one end was the stable and blacksmith shop.  Farther along were the remains of a portable sawmill brought in on the ice to cut lumber for building the camp.  There was the big kitchen.  There were long bunkhouses, smaller cabins, the office, outbuildings and sheds.  This had been a large camp housing perhaps as many as 200 men.  Now, with the grass in the street and the hush upon the place, I could picture the perennial scene from hundreds of Westerns — the deserted street, the populace silent behind drawn blinds as the bad man rides into town, and somewhere the hero waiting to stalk him down.

We approached in complete silence, keeping low and at the edge of the trail.  We came sliding up behind the stable.  Fred peered out, ducked back, motioned for us.  A hundred yards away, behind the last cabin at the end of the street, a very substantial-looking bear was engrossed in rooting after some tidbit.

Fred indicated that I was to have it.  I shook my head vehemently.  It was his bear.  He shrugged and swiftly notched an arrow.  Crouching, he slipped out the other side of the stable.  He stalked down Main Street, close to the buildings, fading behind each one as he came to it.  There was soft, wet sawdust scattered thickly everywhere near the shacks.  He made no sound.

The bear lumbered into sight.  It raised its head.  Fred flattened motionlessly against a building.  There was no breeze.  We barely peeped from our hiding place, breathlessly watching.  Then the bear turned away.

The bear's head swung back.  It faced us now.  It came nose down, snuffling along, right down the middle of Main Street.  It veered and passed from sight between two buildings on the other side.  Fred slipped out, swiftly covering 20 yards.  He came up against the small porch of a building that faced the street.  The rough two-by-four porch railing was supported by several uprights.  From our position we plainly could see the bear on the other side of the porch, and we could see Fred, crouching low and moving in.  The two were separated by no more than 10 yards.

But now we perceived the difficulty.  To get the shot, Fred had to send an arrow between the uprights and below the railing.  If he stepped out, the bear would whirl behind the building before he could shoot.  We saw Fred stoop and draw.  In the next instant the arrow whisked through the opening and the bear was down, squalling and scrambling.

It didn't stay down.  It was instantly on its feet tearing madly down Main Street.  For some reason the arrow had not gone where Fred intended.  It had hit just above the backbone, almost missing, grazing the upper portion of its vertebrae and only momentarily paralyzing the animal.

There was nothing paralyzed about the way it ran.  In its path lay some treetops and stumps pushed back by a bulldozer to make clearance for a cabin.  For a split second the animal got fouled in this jam pile.  We rushed now into the street in excitement, appalled at the ill luck after the dramatic sequence of the stalk and the shot.  But in the small second during which the bear slowed, Fred had a second arrow on the string.  It hit with a smack, ranging clear forward through the bear.  The brute tore off out of sight.  But we knew now without question that he was ours.

We gave the bear half an hour, as archers usually do.  Meanwhile, Fred was fretting over that first, poorly placed shot.  Presently he noticed that the notching point on his string had somehow slipped down almost an inch.  That explained it.  In his haste for the second shot, however, he had instinctively placed the arrow in proper alignment.

Now we fanned out and took the bear's trail.  We quickly found it, dead, about 200 yards away.  While Chuck and Fred did the skinning, I prowled the trails, hunting.  I knew when Ron came in the next morning we were going to have to go.  Our hunting time was ended.

I saw nothing.  Away from the others, I took a few practice shots.  I didn't do very well.  I decided maybe my bear had better stay in the woods until I boned up some and could go back again.  I didn't much mind going home trophyless.  I wouldn't for anything have missed that meal of pike sautéed in old bear fat, or the show with the ghost town bear.