Hunter55
Well-known member
My First Bear
The problem with trying to write a story verses telling a story, lies mostly to do with the expression of passion. It’s akin to sitting in the pew listening to a good preacher, but he preaches without passion. He may be a highly educated and a great orator but, lacking passion to drive his message across the isles of Sunday listeners and bringing them to the altar where the real help awaits. And on the other hand, there’s a born gift, in a story teller, a true auditor than can rise members to their feet, bring them to tears, and approach the altar as the humble servant that they are. A story teller can reach deep inside of you, almost touch your very soul because of the “sincere” passion and compassion that dwells deep within the core and soul of the story teller.
It was nineteen and eighty nine and I was thirty fives years old. As an avid hunter and fisherman living in the South I had always wanted to go out West. I loved those crisp fall mornings sitting in a deer stand waiting on a big ole buck or being on the lake as the sun rising over the mirrored water, looking for that glistening school of bass breaking the water. As much as I loved those days and years it just wasn’t enough there was a depth of wild, wilderness, adventure, and unending expanse that was waiting for me in the Rocky Mountains and the foothills leading their approach.
It was early September and I had just found me a job in Wyoming, I told the fellow to give me a week and I’d be there. A week followed and there I was, wow what a change of life. Vast rolling hills mega miles apart from another town, antelope seemed to be everywhere and as I topped a hill overlooking a basin, I stopped to count over one hundred antelope grazing in that huge basin. Herds of Muleys with enormous horns left my jaw dropping and in disbelief, I was mesmerized. Man this was ten times better than the Field in Stream and Outdoor magazine that I had read for years.
When I got to town I found me a motel until I could find a place to live and went to work the next day. A week passed and I had a couple days off so I set my sights on camping on Muddy Mountain. Man maybe there other things I should’ve done but I couldn’t wait to get into the timber and check out the mountains. I threw my camping gear in my ole seventy eight Ford four wheel drive, my twelve gauge shotgun in the rack behind the seat and I hit the dirt roads with the dust a flying. After about an hour and half I found a place to camp pulled in and starting setting up camp for the weekend. It was near dark before I got my fire started and pitched a two man pup tent. Finally I was able to just sit back, take it all in and have a cold brew. The September mountain air was crisp and clean as you exhaled you could see your breath almost crystallize. Finally I started getting hungry and a burger sounded good, as I had stopped at the grocery and supplied my ice chest with a healthy portion. I reached into my cook kit and displayed my trusty ole cast iron skillet; because I knew my burgers would fall through the grating on the fire. My burgers were coming along nicely as I opened a can of pork and beans and was rummaging for my hamburger buns, ketchup and chips when all of a sudden I heard something. Sounded like it was pulling up small trees or something, darnest thing I ever heard and it wasn’t far off at all. So I reached for the door handle of the ole Ford slung the door open and grabbed the twelve gauge, chambered one up slammed her home and grabbed the Coleman lantern for a better look. It was dark, I mean no moon you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Those hamburgers were mine, and come hell or high water I wasn’t sharing. The noise grew louder, more intense and closer, and then it sounded like something smacking its jaws. I was determined a man with conviction, unwavering and not bending. Then, a loud ear shattering roar, deep, so deep it masked my voice as an adolescent. Then another roar and I could almost smell the breath, nasty, foul breath. And then “reasoning” appeared between my cave man ears. Reason, man it’s so dark this thing is going to have me down and in bite size chunks before I could even get a round discharged from my shotgun. At that moment there was controlled, evaluated fear, a fear that was just as crisp as the mountain air, head to the truck, backwards and one step at a time. Carefully, don’t trip or stumble and as I jumped into the ole Ford and turned on the lights and fired up the engine, slammed her in reverse and starting looking for that bear. For about ten minutes I stayed in the truck with the lights on spotting for that bear. My hamburgers were burnt to a black hard crisp and Mr. bear didn’t even want a burnt up burger. Things settled back down and the night was long but, I’ll never forget my first bear.