The Story is the Treasure of a Bear Hunt |

“Now it is pleasant to hunt something that you want very much over a long period of time, being outwitted, out-maneuvered and failing at the end of each day, but having the hunt and knowing every time you are out that, sooner or later, your luck will change and that you will get the chance that you are seeking.

” – Hemingway 

Sensing my presence amid the rain and the snow, the bruin heaved up onto his hind legs and bellowed out a blood-curling roar as lightning cracked in response and, in the flash, I captured the glint of teeth and claws. My deer rifle trembled in my hands. Has any tool felt so insignificant? The bear eyeballed me down and, standing between me and the safety of the truck, I knew it was either him or me. I looked up to God, prayed for strength, and…

Dad – is this a true story?

Welllllllll, not exactly. I was walking out of my stand and caught him with his head down in a pile of sweet potatoes and blammo.

Cile challenged the veracity of my bear hunting account a few weeks ago while we were chasing turkey in North Carolina. This disrespect wasn’t without sound reasoning as she’s genetically predisposed to dismiss my BS and growing old enough to pick up on its scent. We’d cruised by a secluded green field sheltered from the highway by thin pines where I’d shot a black bear back in November when my false bit of reminiscence conquered the conversation in the Chevy.

In truth, I’d been eager to shoot a black bear for several years and was happy to recount my experiences attempting to do so, hunting from stands over bait and with dogs, the only effective manners of doing so in this part of the world. In other counties in the state, notably Hyde County to the north, hunters dispatch monsters weighing over 700 lbs. that they glass wandering through agriculture fields with the brazenness of a 700-pound bear.

Not in Sampson County, though. These animals favored the thick timber blocks that were patched together with tangles of muscadine vines and blackberry briers a man can’t walk through without being ripped to shreds by the thorns rather than an angry bear. Fifteen years ago, a daylight bear sighting simply didn’t happen unless one was being pursued by the dogs. The population has exploded recently, for some reason, to the point that seeing one isn’t quite as unusual anymore, but they tend to be younger animals with a propensity for disappearing the moment bear season began.

Over the last half-decade, a couple fellows in camp got lucky with bears of their own. I badly coveted an opportunity, purchased licenses, and dutifully invested hours in likely locations or hopping in with the houndsmen when possible. Unlike, say, turkey hunting, there’s not much one can do here that would differentiate between deer and bear hunting, with dogs or otherwise, each species relying simply on patience, persistence, and luck. The deer have obliged, but each Fall I returned home without a new rug or bear roast for the crockpot.

Minus the snow, the weather aspect of my tall-tale above was accurate. We’d arrived in NC for our annual hunt in the midst of a rainy warm front that had pushed up from the south and lingered for several days. Bear season had begun a day or two prior, but the dog hunters were unable to run a trail with the downpours washing away sign. But, nearly all of the cameras revealed bears, as did the toppled corn feeders that were disemboweled and freed of their contents.

With deer more than bear on my mind this trip, I slipped into the Dennis Z Stand our first evening in camp, a gutted porta-potty hoisted upon a wooden platform. Recent bear droppings along the bush-hogged path into the woods were flushing away in the rains, but the fresh gouge marks etched in the rungs of the ladder will endure for years. Black bears are impressive creatures, with their claws and teeth and curiosity for manmade items they discover within their range. More than once, pillows used to cushion hard seats for prolonged hours of sitting for deer had been found ripped to shreds, especially if the previous hunter left food crumbs behind.

To my relief, a bear wasn’t napping on the swivel chair in the blind. To my dismay, wasps had infested its dry plastic insides. Once disturbed, the insects swarmed, reminding me much of a fishbowl stocked with brine shrimp. Sopping from head to toe and armed with a can of Hot Shot conveniently stashed in the corner of the stand, I went to work exterminating the wasps, soaking my rifle and baseball cap with foamy white spray, all while clinging on with one wet hand to the ladder, glancing down occasionally at the reminder of the animal who’d visited this site last.

Once finished, I opened the windows to air out remaining pesticide vapors as I crunched over the bodies of the deceased, stomping out any twitching survivors with enough gumption remaining to scoot up my pants leg seeking final revenge. With all of this ruckus and the odor of bug-killer wafting about, surely this hunt was finished. After a few minutes, surprisingly, a spike buck visited the bait pile, picking up and gnawing on sweet potatoes that were dumped to enhance the pot.

The young, scrawny deer provided fine entertainment over the next hour or so. I needed the venison, but this fellow was all hips and dim awareness. I’d made a decision not to shoot, and once I do this, there’s no convincing me otherwise. The opposite is also true. The woods were silent, save the light rain sifting through the evergreens. With the cloud cover, night was falling fast, and legal shooting light would be a complete black-out among the trees. I reckoned I’d save the last 10-15 minutes of the day to creep over to another stack of yams before calling it an evening, hoping, though, that a shooter buck would sneak out before then to investigate the scene for a doe to breed, as is their routine during that time of year.

And a buck was on my mind when I finally abandoned the spike and the Dennis Z and slipped up to the field to glass the bait pile. A buck is what I initially thought I saw through the water-logged saplings when I noticed a dark shape lumbering around the clearing. But, deer don’t sit down to eat. I hunched over and tiptoed to the nearest tree that would provide a solid rest for a 40-yard shot. The boar toppled over at the crack of the rifle and wildly swung those paws once as the serenity of the falling rain at dusk overtook the commotion of the moments prior.

Not sure that’s how I’d scripted this five-year quest for a black bear to end, but that’s the truth of the story.

(Ledger hunting correspondent Ian Nance can be reached at inance880@aol.com. Follow on Facebook @PolkOutdoors; Twitter @Good_Hunt; and Instagram @inance880)