By Zachary Hanson
“You know, I’d love to get attacked by a bear at least once,” were the words I heard spill out of my friend’s mouth, “Of course, I don’t want to take a full mauling, but just knowing I could survive is something I’ve thought a lot about.”
My friend, an elk hunter and Wyoming native, had a penchant for saying the quiet things out loud. Though I didn’t outwardly express my agreement with his wild assertion, I too, secretly wished for a close encounter with dangerous game.
Though it may seem bizarre to smooth-palmed knowledge workers and suburbanites, I think that desire is what every man setting out into the woods is truly seeking: a sense of adventure, of self reliance, and the chance to test the bounds of his own mettle.
Every hunter fantasizes about the worst case scenario and runs it through his brain during quiet hours lying in bed or sitting in a tree stand. You imagine the space, the creaking of the twigs underneath your feet, and the arm-hair-raising feeling that you’re not alone. You imagine what the charge of a bear, mountain lion, or Cape buffalo would look like with the animal closing distance quickly. You then of course imagine drawing your rifle or side arm with smooth and controlled poise and bringing it to bear like Wyatt fucking Earp.
Yes, every man dreams of being tested and rising to the occasion, but most hunters only get to live those fantasies out in their heads. Rarely does the chance to get tested, and to come out unscathed, ever present itself.
Yet, when it does, it happens fast.
In my own pursuit of the outdoors, I’ve found myself interacting with all manner of dangerous critters. I’ve come across grizzlies in West Yellowstone while elk hunting, dealt with mountain lions on my trap line, and have come face to face with more wolves and black bears than I can count. Though all of these encounters have been exhilarating in their own right, most of them always end the same way, with the animal running off after catching a whiff of my distinct human scent. This is especially true for black bears. The large, mostly docile, dog-like critters that roam the Pacific Northwest woods that I call home.
So, when I came up on two black bears feeding on a deer carcass out behind my cabin on a cool September morning, I wasn’t concerned. In fact, I was excited. It was just after first light and my friend and I were planning on doing a day hunt for deer with a muzzleloader and I just so happened to be carrying my .300 Win Mag in case we saw any bear. As luck would have it, we had two less than 100 yards below us with the wind in our favor.
Taking a half squat on the open hillside, my buddy and I took a few minutes to observe these bears who were fighting over intestinal remains. In no rush, we watched as they circled the downed animal and I made sure that my rifle was in a fireable state.
As we sat there in silent observance, the first tip of bad luck on our scales occurred as the wind made an abrupt change. Feeling it on the back of my neck I knew it was only a matter of seconds before they caught our scent and hightailed it out of there. I had already written off the chance to shoot either of the bears and took the time to slip my rifle safety back on.
Still in a low, Slavic-style squat with my rifle over my lap I looked over my left shoulder toward my buddy who was about five feet behind me and whispered, “Wind switched, but still pretty cool.” Then, in the time it took for me to utter those words and turn my head back down toward the critters, everything played out just as I had predicted … mostly.
Both bears picked their heads up and looked up at us. With perked ears, I was waiting for them to run, but what happened next was that unexpected outdoorsman’s wish come true: a charge.
In less than five seconds, both bears took off toward us at a dead run. With huffs and growls, the smaller of the two bears was in the lead and closing the distance fast. Instinctively, I stood up and had the wherewithal to switch my rifle off of safety and yell as loud as I could “HEY, BEAR!”
At that yell, the larger of the two bears cut a hard left and ran off to my right at about 20 yards. The smaller bear, however, never lost her stride. Somehow, I managed to pull up my rifle and put my crosshairs right on the white patch of her chest. Without thinking twice I pulled the trigger and sent a 180gr. bullet right into her chest plate, through her heart, and out of her right shoulder. Dropping about 15 yards in front of me, she was down without a fight and without the honor of a death moan.
Instant death.
Not quite comprehending what just happened, I racked another round into my rifle and turned my attention to the other bear who was now unaccounted for and somewhere to our right. We slowly backed up a few yards while staying frosty and doing our best to calm our extremely heightened nerves. After making enough ruckus to give even the most seasoned roadie tinnitus, we sat overlooking the scene. Below was a good-sized black bear with a hole in her chest and both my hunting partner and I were in disbelief.
“Did those bears fucking charge us?!” he asked, 10mm pistol in-hand. With only the ability to respond with a head nod we both shared several expletives before deciding to go and see the downed bear to confirm whether we had actually just been charged by a set of black bears or whether it had all just been a weird fever dream.
As I stood over the 200+ pound juvenile black bear I felt a sense of both relief and frustration. I couldn’t understand why the bear attacked, but I was happy with the way I responded. Although I didn’t walk away with claw marks across my back, we did grow an appreciation for what even these smaller animals are capable of in regards to aggression and covering large distances quickly. I may not be a grizzled outdoorsman with decades of experience, but this does put another feather in my cap for wild experiences out hunting and trapping, and ticks the box for the thing we all want but don’t always admit: a bear charge.
