9-7-18
I had heard of salmon streams; Streams where adult salmon returned to spawn in the waters where their lives were spawned several years earlier. They had left these very same pools and trinklets when half the length of a ballpoint pen, and now they’d come back after traveling thousands of miles in the ocean. They had congregated at the mouth of the stream where the fresh water meets the salt, their silvery color had slowly turned a vibrant red.
In the ocean they had successfully evaded seals, other predatory fish, and the nets of fisherman; they had survived against all odds. Now they were back home, splashing up the ankle deep water to spawn, to perpetuate their genes and to die. But there was one more major hurdle before they died the the rotted death of a spawned out salmon: Bears.
The fish were easy pickings in the ankle deep water for the big brown bears that waded the streams and pinned them down on the stones of the stream bed with their long claws, grabbed them in their jaws, carried them to the stream bank, bit them in two, ate the bottom half of the salmon and waded back into the water for more. Or if they were a low bear on the totem pole they may quickly eat their meal while still in the stream, casting furtive eyes toward the trails in the tall grass, always alert to the danger that may lurk there.
I had heard of the Alaskan brown bears. We called them grizzly bears when I was a boy. A salmon fed male brown can weigh fifteen hundred pounds or more. His two worst enemies are another male brown bear, or a man with a gun. But no grizzly large or small enjoys being surprised at close range. That may be reason enough to trigger his temper into a instant charge. The results can be ghastly. Every year people get mauled and sometimes killed in Alaska.
So why were we wading up a narrow winding salmon stream after tying our boat to a driftwood log at the edge of the lake?
We hadn’t gone a hundred yards when we saw our first bear, or what the maggots hadn’t yet consumed of its carcass. It was the size of a year and a half old cub; a yearling. It had probably weighed several hundred pounds. What had killed it? Had some person surprised it into a charge,and shot it down in self defense? Probably not. Likely a male bear had killed it.
Down close to the mouth of the creek is the prime fishing spot of the whole creek. It’s where the dominant boars stake their claims. If an adolescent would disrespect him by wandering too close, he’s dead meat. This one was definitely dead meat. It was too decomposed to determine the cause of death just by walking around it and looking at it. We could only speculate…..and imagine the hatred in the eyes of a half ton of infuriated bear, the a squealing of a young bear being shaken like a rat by a dog until it’s struggles stopped. It was a bit sobering.
Why were we hunting in close quarters when a grizzly automatically tries to kill whatever tries to kill it?
We walked farther up the stream. Dead and and dying fish and parts of dead fish littered the stream, the shoals, and the smashed grass on the banks. It smelled to high heaven.
Ravens croaked as they flew over head. I wished I had their birds eye view. But I didn’t.
I walked behind Matt, the brains of our expedition. “I’m not sure this is a very good way to hunt brown bears,” Matt said, his trigger finger caressing the outside of the trigger guard, his 375 constantly at the ready. Andy tagged along, the last in line. Between Andy and I were two 15 year old young men.
Before the hunt Andy had briefed us on what is protocol. I had been a bit apprehensive. I wasn’t hunting,but for self protection I was carrying a short 12 gauge shot gun without ventilated ribs. I was ok with that. But I didn’t want my ribs ventilated by any of the inexperienced and maybe over eager hunters directly behind me.
Andy did a very through job of coaching them on gun safety. From what I saw the boys did a great job of staying in their proper place and keeping their guns pointing in the right direction, but of course I don’t have eyes on the back of my head.
But what would happen if a grizzly charged? I’ve seen experienced hunters, including myself, become unglued just by sighting game.
Honestly, I was almost as concerned by the boys behind than the possible bears before me. It added another bar to the level of excitement. But hey, at 62, I’ve lived my life, and it’s been good. Often life just gets boring. This is a good medicine.
Matt is stocky and very sure footed. I followed slightly behind and to the left. I like to think of myself as sure footed, but sometimes the stream bed seemed like oversized ballbearings. At places the stones in the creek were greased with a dark slime. Was it residue from all the decayed Salmon? I don’t know, but I do know I slipped and slid a lot.
Matt was as steady as a rock slowly walking upstream. I learned to walk on the ribbons of sand if one was available. I usually managed to keep up with Matt without falling in the drink, in spite of the slimey dead fish or the red streaks of panicked spawners ramming my feet.
When we went around a bend in the alder lined stream, we took the outside corner. That usually gave us an extra 10 yards if a bear happened to be right around the corner, but 20 yards is still way too close to any griz.
On the straight stretches we could see for 80 or 90 yards. The head high tall grass that bordered most of the stream had bear trails running to the water. I couldn’t resist the temptation to climb the bank to get a better view if it seemed to be an advantage. Huge bear tracks decorated the muddy sand bars.
A huge cottonwood leaned over the stream and then straightened toward the sky. It was a well used tree. Old brown bears can’t climb trees, but cubs can. This one must have been a sort of safe haven for the cubs while the momma bear fished. The muddy bark was worn smooth at the bottom where the tree was almost horizontal, and claw marked as it straightened where only cubs could climb.
We sloshed up stream till there were no more salmon spawning in the creek, then turned around and went down stream. We found a couple of places where we had a good view and lots of bear sign. Matt and his son Shane, watched one spot, while Max,( the other 15 year old boy,) and Andy and I guarded the other. I laid back against the grassy stream bank. I turned to the right; I had a clear view of the stream for 90 yards. I turned to the left; I could see for 60.
The afternoon sun was warm. My eyes closed for a few seconds and woke up. Andy looked like he was getting comfortable too, but Max was at full alert. Evediently he preferred to be awake before being consumed. I personally thought it would be a lot more exciting to wake up with no warning, just water flying from a charging grizzly roaring up the creek. But there didn’t seem to be much chance of that with Max on watch. The slumber of a laboring man is sweet, but I probably checked the creek, (both directions) every 10 or 15 min. Andy was taking his cues from his old man, but Max was always alert. We seemed to be in good hands.
An hour into our watch, I was rolling over to check the 90 yard stretch when Max said: bear, bear! The cobwebs flew out one side of my head, but caught on the other side when I swiveled my head too fast. It took a second for my eyes to get synchronized again, but in the mean time, I joined the whispered chorus of bear, bear, bear! and sure enough. There was a bear in the creek. Another one was already ripping apart a salmon on a sand bar.
Bewildered, Andy snapped out of a dead sleep to full attention. “There’s three of them. They must be cubs,” he said looking through the scope of his 270 rifle. They looked to be around 300 pounds, about the size of the dead one we’d seen on the way up creek. No momma bear showed up. They must be yearlings we decided.
Only adult bears without cubs are legal to hunt. The bears seemed to detect that we weren’t part of the normal floral arrangements and discreetly retired around the corner from where they’d come.
Two hours later they were back. We watched them catching and eating salmon. For years I’d been wanting to watch bears fishing for salmon. Now I was actually watching the m in really life. Andy put his rifle scope in front of his camera to draw them in closer. He took some good pictures. Max was also snapping pictures.
The three youngsters slowly fished their way down the stream toward us. We didn’t want to surprise them at close range. After fifteen minutes and they were 50 yards away. They were close enough.
“In bear language, standing up on its hind legs is an aggressive, dominant posture,” Andy said.
I stood up on my hind legs in plain view.
The bears were concentrating on fishing.
Max stood up. They fished closer.
Andy stood up. One cub looked up, turned around and fled, almost crashing into its sibling in its dash to the creek bank. They were gone. The show was over.
By Pete Stoltzfus
