The Grizzly Hunt Part 1

Earlier, I alluded to our hunt that makes it difficult for Rebecca to shoot scoped rifles.  The following story illustrates what happened.

 The third day of our Alaskan sheep hunt found us reaching what we called ‘River Camp’, a pretty spot right next to a boisterously loud stream.  Two years prior Rebecca had shot a cinnamon colored black bear from this camp – her first big game trophy.  Our hunt area was south of the small Alaskan town of Copper Center.  We left our pickup at the base of the mountains at our friend’s place, spending the first day hiking steeply up an established trail to a small lake on Mosquito Creek.  From there the next day we bushwhacked and sidehilled along, spending time cutting a trail through alders and moose brush.  After spending a night perched on the side of a mountain on the only flat spot large enough for a tent, a morning’s walk put us at River Camp.  It was a bit early in the day to stop, but the next segment of travel would take a complete day, so we decided to make camp.

 We’d just put up the tent, when I looked over my shoulder to the big ridge we’d descended from less than an hour earlier.  Walking along the top edge was a grizzly.  My immediate question was “Do you want a grizzly?!” 

“Yes!”  

 Rebecca carried her .358 with the scope stowed in her pack, so I grabbed my 30-378 Weatherby I’d built on an old M70 Winchester.  We had a small hill to climb, and then we’d be in position from its top to shoot.  From earlier trips I knew the distance was 250 yards.  After throwing my pack down for her to rest the rifle on, she lay down behind the 30-378 and got ready to fire.

 I was desperate for her to take the shot, as the bear was nearing the place where we’d descended.  I knew the instant it hit our scent trail it would react.  No shot.  Suddenly the bear spun around, leaped back several yards, spun around again, looking intently where we’d come down.  I knew time was up.  “SHOOT – SHOOT NOW!” I hissed!   Finally, as my blood pressure was exploding, she fired.  

 At the shot, the bear rolled, regained its feet, and raced downhill.  I had her .358 (now iron sighted only), which I got ready to use.  The bear had disappeared below us and could be in our laps if it chose to run uphill towards us.  In a couple of seconds, I raised up slightly and saw it racing down the cut below us, heading to our left.  Concentrating on the bear, I did my best to keep it in sight as I ran along above.  Losing sight of it momentarily, I kept going.  A few more steps and I saw a patch of motionless brown.  Had to be the grizzly.  Quickly I sat down and put a .358 round into it.  No reaction.  OK.  This is good.  

 I shouted for Rebecca.  No response.  Maybe she didn’t hear me.  Another shout.  No response.  This is worrisome.  I quickly headed back toward where I’d left her, more shouting.  Nothing.  Now really worried – I couldn't figure out what could be wrong!?  Finally, I heard a weak “I’m here.”   Still running as fast as I could in the rough terrain and gasping for air, I saw her.  Now things again got dicey.

 As I approached, I saw her cupping her hand in front of her face and it was full of blood.  Since she was shooting uphill, the butt of the rifle had slipped off her shoulder, and she had taken the entire recoil of a 30-378 (near a .458 Winchester’s recoil in that light sheep rifle) on her eyebrow.  “This is really bad,” I think to myself.  It cut her eyebrow completely in two, blood pouring down.  The impact made her a bit lightheaded – no great surprise.  I lead her back to the camp, where I got some water in our cook pot, added soap, and began to clean things up.  Direct pressure had slowed the bleeding, but the gash obviously needed closing up.  

I always carry as small roll of electrical tape, so, using my knife, I cut some small butterfly bandages from it.  Starting at one end of the cut, I put three butterflies on.  That wasn’t right – I ended up with a big pucker of skin at the end.  Off with the butterflies, now putting one in the middle for correct adjustment, and one on each side.  This looked better.  With some Advil for pain, a covering bandage over my butterflies, comforting from me and our Bernese Mountain Dog who was along, and things began to look better.  So much better, in fact, that after an hour she felt good enough to go back and check out her bear.  It was quite dead where I’d left it and turned out to be a sow grizzly.  After taking some pictures, we skinned it and headed back to camp, which was only a few hundred yards off.  

What the Dog and I saw

Looking a bit grim!