I booked my first-ever black bear hunt for the week of Sept. 8, 1997. After several long months of anticipation, I flew from Ft. Lauderdale, Fla., to Maine, where I hooked up with my guide, Eldon Jandreau. From the airport, we drove to the cabin near Portage that would be home for the week. I would be sharing it with two other hunters.
I arrived at my stand about 2:30 p.m. on my first day afield. It overlooked a 55-gallon drum filled with bait — a combination of doughnuts and hog feed. Nothing visited the free buffet during my watch, but the barrel was robbed sometime between 8 p.m. (when I left) and 2:30 the following afternoon (when I returned). Eldon refilled it before leaving me.
A couple of hours later, just as I was turning my head to look left, I spotted a bear less than 10 yards from the barrel. I was amazed that I’d never heard him coming. I eased my Remington to my shoulder (the scope was at its lowest setting) and aligned the crosshairs on its shoulder.
The bear was small — probably a 125- or 150-pounder. I wanted something bigger!
After only a couple of minutes, junior beat a hasty retreat. And about 10 minutes after that, I saw why. A bigger bear was coming to the bait. Before it reached the can, however, it stood on its hind legs and sniffed the air. Then it dropped down and ran. I thought for sure that it had somehow winded me.
But I was wrong!
Less than 2 minutes later, the biggest bear that I had ever seen in the wild appeared. He was larger than the bait barrel, which meant that he had to weigh at least 300 pounds.
I have to admit that I was a nervous wreck. My heart was beating too fast, and I had trouble breathing. It was the worst case of buck — or bear — fever I’d ever experienced.
When the bear reached the barrel, he was facing the trail that I had taken to the stand. Eldon had told me that bears have poor eyesight, but I’m convinced that this one (from a distance of 40 yards) looked straight at me at least twice.
Once I got my breathing somewhat under control, I started thinking about raising my rifle. Every time the bear went to work on the bait, I started bringing my gun to my shoulder. Whenever it raised its head, I stopped. After the third and final move like that, I was almost ready. But as soon as the stock rubbed against my jacket, the super-sensitive bear swapped ends and hit the gas pedal.
I fired of course, but my bullet whacked a small tree. I was devastated, but relieved that it had been a clean miss. Better to have my shirttail cut than wound an animal.
I didn’t get a second chance that week, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself and assured Eldon that I would return the next year. I would have, too, if my wife’s career had not forced us to move to Louisiana the following summer. Eldon was kind enough to apply my deposit toward the fall of 1999.
It seemed to take forever, but I finally got back to Maine — this time with an unscoped 7mm Mag. A scope is great for deer hunting over open ground, but impractical for the thick woods of northern Maine.
Eldon greeted me at the airport and introduced me to Lewis Hazel of Miami, Fla., who would be my roommate. Lewis and I were among 15 hunters there for the week.
When I heard that 24 out of 33 hunters had scored the previous week, I became excited over my prospects.
That first day was unseasonably warm for Maine, so I wore lightweight clothing and sprayed myself with scent-killer. Eldon walked me to my stand just after 1 p.m. For the next 6 hours, I saw only ground squirrels and birds. In the two years since I’d been there, I had forgotten just how uncomfortable the stands can be.
When it was nearing 7:00, I thought about getting down at 7:30 and walking back to the main logging road. Moments later, however, I ditched the notion as a bear appeared behind the bait barrel. I wasted no time in shouldering my rifle. I was not about to be caught flat-footed again!
As the bear got closer, it seemed to grow even bigger. My heart started racing, and I was on the verge of hyperventilating. I’m sure that he could hear me breathing, but the bear couldn’t smell me. As he moved forward cautiously, I had my sights on him the whole time. The only reason I didn’t shoot sooner was because it was a head-on target.
The bruin stopped and turned broadside at one point, but a tree was blocking his midsection. All I could see was his head and rump. He stayed frozen that way, sniffing the air, for several minutes.
He knew something was wrong, but he REALLY wanted those doughnuts. Blinded by hunger, the bear started toward the sweets. Before he reached them, I fired. Obviously hit, he spun around and charged into the brush. I heard him crashing through the undergrowth before everything fell silent.
After waiting 15 minutes, I got down and started walking toward the logging road to get help. I’d traveled maybe a half-mile when I saw Eldon’s truck coming.
Together, we trailed the bear, which had only made it 15 yards before collapsing. He was a good one, too, weighing in at 375 pounds and green scoring more than 21 inches.
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