It was now early evening, and we were all gas’d out: hunters, hounds, and bears. The dogs were stopped again in the head of a sharp canyon that was littered with blow down, heavy scrub brush, and large boulder fields. The boar had taken us back to his core area. We were slowly creeping down a rock precipice that dropped into a tight draw with heavy blow down. The dogs had him stopped at the base with now sporadic barking as exhaustion set in. Ten more yards and we’d be looking straight down onto them within twenty-five yards. With a slight wisp of wind on the back of my neck, I heard the dogs’ excitement rise and knew the old bruin was making a break for it again. 

Nine hours earlier, this hunt began when we cast the dogs through a canyon that the old boar had been passing through every couple of weeks. We no sooner dropped through a notch in a cliff band when Tread, a four-year-old Plott, started opening along the base of the cliffs. She was soon followed by the sharp barks of Kit and Reba, two Walkers of my good friend Ryan Baker, and then lastly my son Easton’s female Walker named Beta joined in. All indications of them being lined out and headed to the steep canyons of Idaho were falling into place. I had all the females today because a couple were starting their heat cycle; Easton had the males in a different mountain range looking for his own bear to run.  

We were at the start of a five-day spring bear hunt at Heart Mountain Outfitters in southeastern Idaho. My client was 17-year-old Austin, a good young man with limited hunting experience. His dad Shane was accompanying him and riding shotgun with Tim Thomas, the outfitter. It was bound to be a good week with some nice weather in the forecast. Since Idaho is liberal with its bear season, our daily plan was to run the dogs in the mornings and if the target bear was not caught, then we’d get into the backcountry and sit on active baits in the evenings. I always love this time of year as winter is slowly seeping into the ground and bringing color to the dullness. Life seems to be sprouting everywhere—in the grasses, birds, and ungulates. 

As we climbed back out of the canyon and made our way back to the vehicles, we could hear the rumbling of the pack going over a saddle. I knew the canyon well, and it was gnarly. It would take us some time to get up and around the top end, but fortunately there was an old mountain road that led us there. 

As we got to the top about an hour later, we descended down a ridge to a small knob where we could hear more clearly what was happening down below. Before we reached the top of the knob, we heard the dogs coming towards us and, no doubt, they were looking at the bear. I told Austin to get ready as we were about to get our opportunity. He just looked at me in disbelief accompanied by nerves. We hustled down to the saddle they were heading for to cut them off. I could tell by the hounds’ barking they were slowly walking/baying him. As always, I throw a lot of caution into shooting a bayed bear; whether it’s with a beginner or seasoned hunter, this situation always elevates the excitement and adrenaline. Unfortunately, I’ve seen it go south way too many times. But with all the bravado of a senior on prom night, I strutted down to that saddle knowing we were about to make short work of this old mountain bear. Just like the senior, I was wrong. 

Set up just off the edge of the saddle, I saw glimpses of the dogs, then glimpses of the boar. They were coming right at us. With Austin set up on the sticks and me talking him through the situation, they keep coming. 100 yards, 90 yards, 80 yards…then the bear stops in a snowbank to make a stand. I see him lift his head and whirl, then drop into the canyon and make his way to the top of the next one with the dogs at his heels. This is repeated for the next several hours and miles with us making several attempts to drop in and end it. But he was always one step ahead of us.  

Around noon, as we were sitting on a ridge listening and trying to plan our next move, we heard the bear rush the dogs. The dogs made a lot of noise followed by pure silence, then the clamoring began as the bear started moving away from the dogs and, in unison, they defiantly barked and followed in behind him. Suddenly, Kit’s collar stayed in the spot of the rush, showing treed and unmoving. Deep in my stomach, I felt a knot tighten. I knew I had to get to her as soon as I could. We dropped down a few hundred yards as the rest of the pack and bear were headed to a sagebrush saddle. I knew it’d be a good place for an ambush. We made it just in time as the boar lumbered out of the dark timber with hounds half mooned around him. Austin elected not to shoot right then, which was a great call. 

I knew I had to get up and out of there to get back to Kit. I clambered out of there, leaving Austin and his dad with Tim, then headed a mile down another ridge towards Kit. With the temperature rising, I knew our chances were dwindling but I needed to get to her. I frantically tried to get a hold of Easton to come help me with Kit or bring fresh dogs. Luckily he was in the only spot with service, but unfortunately he was in the middle of his own bay two hours away. I told him the situation and he said he’d pull his dogs and head my way.  

As I closed the distance, the Garmin told me I should be right on her. I felt deflated when I saw her—she was sprawled belly down like a seal on a dock. I started screaming “Kit! Kit!” with zero response as I closed in. I was dreading calling Ryan since I assumed the worst, but when I stepped over her body, she looked up at me. She was alive! I checked her over before I scooped her up and headed for the shade. I gave her some water and packed her out. By the time I got to the truck, she was more alert and settled in the dog box, and I was the one feeling like going belly up! But now, it was game time.  

I raced back to the guys and loaded Austin up. The next three hours were spent blowing drifts open in the truck—which Austin thought was awesome—and trying to get to the dogs. A few more failed attempts and then finally at 4:30 p.m., everything changed. 

I heard the bear and the dogs break toward a small opening in the timber to a boulder field across the canyon, then I told Austin to get ready. Like a well-oiled machine, he kneels on the outcrop and Shane sets up his shooting sticks. Right then, the dogs shot past me in a blur towards where the bear was headed. In the heat of the moment, I thought it was odd the dogs came up the cliff to me and headed back in, but dismissed it when I saw the dogs and the bear through broken timber. Their tempo had risen, and that’s when I could see a brindle dog and a couple of other dogs working the bear. I hadn’t sent any brindle dogs in there and then it clicked: my male dogs had arrived.  

The bear sprinted up through some large boulders with the dogs right behind. As he made his way into the shooting lane, he made a brief stop and looked in our direction. I told Austin to “take him”, then the rifle broke and the old bruin slumped. What an outstanding shot in a tense situation! Just then we heard Easton, Tyson, and Hunter, my nephew, yell, “Great shot!” The dogs that zipped past me in the heat of the moment were ones they had cast in as they descended the ridge to us. They had found us and were nearly there when the shot broke. We had all pushed the limit. 

The next hour was spent looking over the beautiful old bear with admiration and respect. We took some great pictures while swapping stories about our eventful days. We then got to work breaking him down during a classic Idaho evening—the sun was shining and close to setting while large snowflakes drifted down. I felt very thankful that I had four 17-year-old boys there to experience the country, the game we hunt, and the hounds that are born and bred for it. Oh, and to pack the bear also.