In Pursuit Of Alaska’s Top Predators

The following appears in the November issue of Alaska Sporting Journal:

BY SCOTT HAUGEN

I’ve hunted black bears in many places, but never in the heart of Alaska, where the terrain resembled more like a hunt for Dall sheep.

After flying into spike camp in a Super Cub – the runway barely longer than my driveway – I was relieved we’d found flat ground, not only on which to set the plane down, but also to pitch our tents.

It was mid-August, and with daylight coming at 4 a.m. and lasting until nearly midnight, racking up the hunting hours wasn’t a problem. Calling, however, was. I was intent on trying to call in one of these mountain-dwelling black bears with the use of predator calls, but I had a source of competition that proved too overbearing: blueberries.

The locals had warned me of the bumper crop of blueberry patches looming in the hills, and that it would be next to impossible to pull the bears off them. They were right; either that or my calling just wasn’t convincing enough.

With bears set on gorging themselves on wild blueberries, crowberries and cranberries, I knew our tags would have to be filled via spot and stalk.

I was joined on this hunt by a good friend from Michigan, Tom Munson. It was both Tom’s first time in Alaska and his first bear hunt. As for me, I’d lived on the North Slope most of the 1990s – also one year in Hyder – and have traveled the state extensively over the past 34 years.

We glassed bears each day, but they either weren’t quite what we were looking for or were in unreachable places. We also watched grizzlies – their silver coats shimmering in the summer sun – as they frolicked in berry patches; one boar stayed in the same spot for eight hours. Finally, we found a bear Tom wanted. It required a hike of nearly 1,000 vertical feet to reach.

Just as Tom crawled into shooting position, the wind shifted. To witness a bear running up a shale cliff, all while covering the distance of a football field faster than any human can on flat ground, gives you another level of respect for these predators.

We kept climbing since we were intent on seeing what was on the other side of the mountain. Once on top, we found Tom’s bear over a mile away. As we watched, another bear joined it and they began walking in our direction.

Figuring they might be heading back to the berry patch, we sat, watched and waited. Nearly an hour passed and the bears were now within a half-mile and still moving closer in our direction. They’d stop, eat grass, wrestle, spar on their hind legs and chase one another, but they kept moving toward us.

When they disappeared into a valley below, we lost sight of them. Then, movement less than 40 yards away caught our eyes. Seemingly from nowhere, both bears appeared, walking down the same trail we sat on. There was no brush to hide behind.

Quickly, we cranked the power all the way down on our scopes. Tom took the lead bear straight on. The other bear just stood there, and I dropped that one. They had no idea what hit them. Sometimes patience pays off. And a little bit of luck never hurts.

CANINES GALORE

One October I hunted along the blustering shores of Bristol Bay southeast of the village of Egegik. A brown bear drew me here, but the area’s red fox caught my attention also.

During the years I lived in Point Lay and Anaktuvuk Pass, I hunted and trapped for Arctic fox, wolf, wolverine and lynx. All were predators I only dreamed of pursuing as a kid. I also trapped a few red and cross fox in the Pass. With winter fast approaching, the Bering Sea that flanked the village of Egegik was the perfect place for bears and foxes to amass winter weight by combing the beaches.

Since I’d arrived in camp early, I had a couple extra days before the brown bear season. That’s all I needed to fulfill my urge to hunt small predators.

On my very first set I positioned a FoxPro Fury in some tall, sparse grass. I called into a slight crosswind, figuring any approaching fox would come in directly downwind. I was shooting a 12-gauge shotgun.

Increasing the volume with the hand-held remote, the sounds of the rodent in distress intensified, carrying loudly across the grassy flat. Only a few minutes passed and before I knew it, there was a glowing red face staring me down. The fox had come in from the side and approached so quickly I didn’t see it until he was within four paces of where I sat. It was too close to shoot. I waited. The fox trotted off and I stopped it with a mouth call. That was it. Later that afternoon I called in another dandy red fox.

PICTURE PERFECT

The next day I was back at it – this time on higher ground and near some willows. Letting the Fury cut loose with some rabbit distress sounds, all felt good. Within five minutes, not one but two red fox approached, both from different directions.

This time I’d swapped the shotgun for a still camera. Wildlife photography is a big part of how I’ve made my living as a full-time outdoor writer for the past 25 years. One fox, the oldest of the two, would have nothing of the photo session. The other circled me several times, allowing me some great opportunities before it finally headed into the willows.

Later that day I was back by the beach calling with various bird distress sounds. When a flash of gray moving in tall grass caught my eye, a surge of adrenaline shot through my body. “Wolf,” was my first thought and what I hoped for; I had a wolf tag in my pack.

But it was a coyote, which totally caught me by surprise. It came within rifle range, but all I had was a shotgun. Had it come another 30 yards closer, the prime-pelted coyote would have been mine, but its keen nose got the best of me.

Later, buddy Chris Stewart joined me. He brought his rifle in the hopes to see a coyote. We didn’t call in a coyote, but we did see a dandy wolf. We watched it from over 2 miles away. It laid down on the tundra and slept for five hours in the middle of the day. It was surrounded by swampy tundra and we had no way to reach it. When it got up, it started coming our way. Eventually it crossed a small river and walked within rifle range. Stewart connected on the shot.

I shared stories of my wolf trapping days in Anaktuvuk Pass while skinning out the animal. I also reminisced about some of my fondest fox hunting memories, like the time I called in a dandy silver-phase red fox on Kodiak island and shot it with a bow. And the time we got blown off the ocean on a king eider hunt on Saint Paul Island and I went out calling for blue fox, and I found one.

ALASKA’S ULTIMATE PREDATOR

In 2009 I was no longer an Alaska resident. That fall I hunted brown bears with Bruce Hallingstad, owner of Becharof Outfitters (becharof.com). I went into this hunt with the hopes of calling in a brown bear with the Fury while I was hosting a TV series for a major outdoor network at the time. Unfortunately, excessive winds of over 40 miles per hour prevented calling, and though we tried when we had a break in the conditions, it just wasn’t happening.

Instead, we went after the bears on foot in tall grass. We spent an entire day following one fresh track across the beach, into the tundra, across sandy creeks and into the tall grass. It was a giant track.

Finally, with only a few minutes of daylight remaining, we found it. Looking at the brute through binoculars, it appeared every bit of a 10-footer. Unfortunately, there was no way of reaching the boar by dark.

We spent the next two days looking for that bear, but never saw it again. But we did find another bear, this one feeding in the chest-high grass; it was barely over a mile from where we sat.

Grabbing our rubber raft, we pulled it through a quarter-mile of tall grass, hopped in and paddled across a tiny river. We trudged through knee-deep mud at the next crossing; I think I’d still be stuck there if it weren’t for the raft I leaned on for leverage. It was the stickiest mud I’d ever set foot on, and it greatly slowed our progress. It made all those horror stories I’d heard of hunters in Alaska who fall victim to mud and big tide swings; it’s a bitter reality.

When we popped out of the creek bottom the bear was nowhere to be seen. Continuing toward where we last saw the bruin, we figured we were within 500 yards of it, so the glassing began.

When the distinct, dark chocolate back of the bear rose from the yellow grass barely 100 yards from us, Bruce and I looked at one another. I set up the Bog Pod shooting sticks and wasted no time settling my Remington .375 H&H comfortably into the V. But the grass was too tall, covering the bear’s vitals. In an effort to head off the bear, we started to make a move. Just then the bear stopped, stood on its hind legs and stared straight at us. I wasted no time and put the glowing green triangle of the Trijicon AccuPoint scope on the bear’s chest. No sooner had the blare of the muzzle cleared the air when back came the report of the bullet hitting the mark.

Though I’d taken tundra grizzlies in Alaska – I unsuccessfully bowhunted coastal bears before – this was my first brown bear. It wasn’t the 10-footer we’d hoped for, but I didn’t care. The quest for a 10-foot bear meant I could come back; I did five years later. But that’s another story for another time, which I’ll share in the next issue of Alaska Sporting Journal. ASJ

Editor’s note: To order signed copies of Scott Haugen’s best-selling book, Hunting The Alaskan High Arctic, visit scotthaugen.com.