It was August of 1960 when an agitated juvenile grizzly inserted a five-daggered paw through a car’s open passenger-side window and swatted the young woman seated there across the back of her head. At eight months pregnant, she slumped to the floor unconscious, sporting a nasty scalp wound. Her husband, situated outside the vehicle and photographing the bear feeding, was so startled by the sudden turn of events, he shakily documented the exact moment it transpired. Foolish? Perhaps. But at that time, it was common practice for tourists to feed wildlife along the “buffet” corridors entering Yellowstone National Park. A frantic trip to the nearest medical facility revealed all was well, with no permanent head trauma to the expectant mother. One month later a bear hunter was born...me. Unfortunately, the jury is still out regarding my mental stability. 

I’ve always wondered where my deep passion for bears and hunting came from. After surviving polio, the Depression, and WWII in Europe, my folks emigrated from the rural alpine cantons of Switzerland to America in the 1950s. They had no exposure to the meager and privileged European hunting and fishing pursuits we take for granted here in North America. Did my fondness for bears get thumped into my head while in the womb, or in centuries past when Ursus roamed freely across the European continent where my ancestors hunted? I’ll never know, but the hunter’s fire within me grew as I grew and the ethics of hard work my parents instilled in me would pay big dividends throughout my outdoor life and beyond.   

With a Wildlife Science degree, I went on to fulfill my dream working as a fish and game law enforcement officer in both Oregon and Washington state. Working with wildlife biologists and contacting bear hunters in the days of hounds and bait stations provided me with a wealth of bear hunting knowledge (the anti-backed voter initiatives of 1994 and 1996 did away with Oregon and Washington’s ability to hunt bears via baiting and/or hound hunting, so still-hunting, spot-and-stalk, and stand hunting were our only means available thereafter). In the days before cell phones, computers, and limited two-way radio contact due to work area seclusion, a “game warden” was often alone and had to work in close proximity to clients when gathering evidence. Consequently, my job also shaped the way I hunted: solo, up close and personal. 

After retiring in 1999 and living within the confines of a National Forest in Oregon’s Coast Range mountains, I threw myself into the bear hunting lifestyle. Always solo and DIY on Oregon public lands, my scouting, patience, and perseverance culminated in the harvest of 50 bears in the past 24 years—a testament to the wonderful bear hunting opportunities Oregon still has to offer. Aside from locating main food sources and travel corridors in bear country, the most important lessons I’ve learned regarding close-proximity bear hunting are 1) pay close attention to wind direction; the bear’s sense of smell is unsurpassed in all of North American wildlife, 2) a bear’s eyesight is not as bad as most will have you believe, and their ability to detect movement is uncanny, and 3) never ignore the subtle sounds you hear, or think you hear, in the bear woods.  

In the spring of 2023, my 50th millennial bear was taken. It all began when I arrived at bear camp in early May. My spring bear areas on the east side of Oregon’s south Cascades were still buried in over 3’- 6’ of snow, so I strapped on snow shoes and entered some of my most popular areas. Yet all I found were a few tracks of bears traveling in desperation trying to find what little food they could. I did run off a medium-sized chocolate phase black bear standing on a 6’ snow drift, but snow shoes on crusty snow aren’t the quietest mode of travel while hunting. Under the current conditions, the best option was finding exposed meadows with a little green grass and set up for a stand hunt. There was some good news; the temps were forecasted to hover around 80 degrees most days my first week. The snow packs were receding and the grass that was exposed seemed to grow a half-inch a day.   

I did have one ace-in-the-hole: a small 2-acre exposed meadow at a lower elevation that bordered a huge wetland on one side and a thick dog-haired pine forest on the other. I still had to snowshoe the trail leading into the meadow, but the field itself was just starting to show green. I focused my first week’s efforts there.   

The first evening produced three coyotes that entered the meadow just before dark and passed in front of me at just 10 feet. As I sat motionless against a large ponderosa pine, two song-dogs stopped directly in front of me to urinate and defecate, and then spread their scent by kicking dirt between their legs. Like that bully in those old comic books by Charles Atlas, they nearly kicked dirt in my face. I was hunting bears so I let them continue on their way, appreciative of the encounter.   

Two days later I was set up at the base of a different ponderosa, three hours before nightfall. A half hour before shooting light ended, a very large cinnamon phase black bear materialized 30 yards directly to my right and was sniffing the exact spot where I sat during the coyote encounter. This bear had the most flawless hide of long flowing hair—one of the prettiest bears I have ever seen. Being a right-handed shooter and somewhat exposed, I couldn’t turn my body to take a shot without being detected. The bear was on edge and surveying the meadow carefully before committing to the open ground. All I needed was for him to travel 20 yards straight out in order to get my crosshairs on his vitals. He made his move, and I was seconds from a sure shot when the breeze switched and carried my scent past him. He froze mid stride and stared right at me. A second later, all I saw was his bear bottom flying through the meadow and back into the swamp. 

Knowing that mature cinnamon boar would probably not return during daylight hours, I left the area to seed for a few days. When I returned three days later for another evening hunt, I noticed the prevailing breeze was opposite than normal so I set up against a large pine tree on the opposite side of the meadow. Right at last light, I heard a single twig snap in the forest behind me and to my right. Bears often use this tactic to announce their presence to other critters before entering an area. That single, subtle sound gave me the time I needed to turn and set up for what was coming. I continued to listen for the possibility of multiple branches breaking, which might indicate that it was a herd of elk instead of a single animal. In less than 10 minutes a very large black bear came into view 50 yards away and immediately started to graze on the succulent new grass. He soon presented a perfectly broadside shot opportunity, which I took. He ran straight at me and stumbled twice before going down for good 20 yards away (all within a couple seconds). Of all the hundreds of black bears I have seen in my career, this had to be the meanest looking critter I’d seen, and possibly the oldest. His face and most of his body was covered in new scabs and old scars, his ears were split, and his lip on the left side was ripped away and healed over. All his teeth were worn down to nubs, broken off, or growing out the front of his split gums and broken lower jaw—all strong indicators of an old bear and a true warrior. His spring weight was well over 350 pounds, and his paws and wrists were so big I had a hard time moving him into positions to process. I managed to get him quartered and the first load packed out by midnight. I secured the remaining meat-laden game bags high into the trees over snow and retrieved them the next morning after I cleaned up the area.   

It seems like more than a coincidence that this 50th black bear just happens to be the largest I’ve taken over the years (20.375” skull). However, I know this isn’t the end of the quest. As the ravages of time and age will undoubtedly take their toll, I will continue to pursue these magnificent creatures in the name of management and sustenance and, who knows, maybe I’ll finally find that missing shade of black—the elusive blonde.