2025 Bear Story - “It’s the Hunt…”

[Sliverslinger]

2025 Bear #1 “It’s the Hunt”
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“It’s the hunt…..” she said, “that’s why they do it.”

There’s a wonderful woman I work with and we talk often about the different things going on in our lives. Whether it’s her kids and grandkids or my young daughters, the funny quirks of our families, or the recent little trips we’ve been on, usually for a few minutes each week we catch up.

Last week she relayed a conversation she had had recently with her son where he had told her about the hunters he knew.

“Mom, they’re obsessed. They invest all this money and time in gear, and clothes, and looking at maps, and then hunting for days on end. I don’t get it.”

“It’s the hunt. Shad’s like that. It’s a drive deep down inside them and people either have it or they don’t,” she said she had replied, “that’s why they do it.”

We had a small laugh and I confirmed that it’s an inexplicable and innate part of who I am. Except, I live in Washington which is not typically where hunting dreams come true. I’ve discovered where opportunity is lacking I can often make up for it with effort.

The evening of August 22nd, 2025, found me in one of my favorite and most hated spots. It can be absolutely miserable to get to, and several painful souvenirs are often collected along the way. A perch point cliff with a view for miles, overlooking a swath of huckleberry bushes below. Only, experience has taught me the bears are rarely down there for whatever reason. They are always on the uppermost corner far above the lookout on an opposing ridge.

A strong heat wave was on and I was pouring sweat and spitting out a rancid concoction of pine needles, cobwebs, and a mosquito or two when I finally reached my spot. Sometimes you just know, and I knew without a doubt I’d spot a bear. I dropped my minimalist overnight gear which consisted only of a tarp, sleeping bag, a couple freeze dried meals, and five 48oz bottles of water, knowing I’d find none. Then I shimmied very carefully up to the edge of the cliff where it dropped off on all sides.

When I arrived I set up my rifle, pointed it at a particular opening I know, took the range, and got everything ready as if I was going to shoot. I already knew where the bears would likely pop out. My record was set last year, spotting a bear from this point on my first glassing sweep of the ridge. This year was a close second. Within about 10 minutes my confidence was affirmed. On the very top of that far ridge I saw a head and ears over the brush rooting and ravaging the nearby huckleberry bushes. It was less than 50 yards from where I predicted. There would be no opportunity to rest after the hike in.

I watched the bear off and on for 10-15 minutes. He was ~570 yards away meandering up the mountain going slowly from bush to bush. I would only see his back or a head most of the time. I shot one of my bears over there last year and I knew what the pack out would entail. It was a very bright and hot evening and the forecast called for temps in the high 90s to 100 the next day. I had already planned that any bear I shot would be an all night pack out.

I looked hard for any sign of cubs and when the bear finally passed a small opening where I could fully see it, I knew it was a good boar. I moved from my binos to the rifle which was ready to go and slowly chambered a round.

I ranged an opening ahead of the bear’s path. 563 yds. A double check of the kestrel and the slight wind called for a 3/4 left MOA hold. I dialed the elevation. I knew in February I’d be taking this exact shot from this exact location to that ridge and I practiced often for it. My intuition from shooting a ton from 500-1,500 yds this last 6 months in different weather conditions told me there were likely thermal updrafts between here and there so I added that to the equation. I needed to anchor the bear where he was to avoid him running down and then dropping into the abyss below.

I settled in and calmed my breathing, watching the bear slowly enter the  left edge of my scope walking along the reticle line, each hash mark representing about 6 inches. That’s a BIG bear! I flipped the safety off. He slowly paused at the exact bush I was aiming at and as my finger felt the smoothness of the trigger, time slowed down. I checked my level, I was solid as could be, with only my heartbeat causing a faint, rhythmic bounce in the reticle. As I exhaled my next breath, I thought, “here was go…”

Twisted Sister roared and the Berger bullet was on its way. I was back on the bear almost immediately as I heard a distant “THWOCK!” The bear didn’t move a muscle. I chambered another shell, certain I could not have missed. I was back on the bear again just in time to catch a flash of black and a lot of brush moving in a straight line just below where he had been standing. I pulled my ear plugs out to listen for a death moan and scanned the area. Silence.

I breathed a slow sigh and took in the sight, knowing I better steel myself for the night ahead. Just getting over there to that ridge is always a task. I took multiple videos talking myself through where he was standing, what little tree he was next to, lining up my spot and a unique distant tree, etc… knowing it would all look different from that side.

I arrived over there on the steep hillside 45 minutes later, sweat and bug spray pouring into my eyes and my ears pounding from the exertion in the heat. There was no blood. No hair. No nothing. I inched back and forth, uncertain I was in the right spot. A quick check of the videos showed that I was very close. I stood where he stood - nothing, no sign of him. The sinking feeling gnawed at the edges of my mind. Did I miss?

I felt there was no chance I missed a bear sized target at that distance, but there was no sign of anything. I spent 20 minutes working down the hill, parting the brush and searching for blood, hair, a scuff mark, anything. There was nothing.

 I rewatched the video of me talking myself through where I had seen the bear going down the hill and realized my angle was off. I went back up to where he had been standing and glassed carefully down the hill slightly over from where I had been looking. I spotted a small depression in the sea of 3-4 ft tall huckleberry bushes 30 yds below, one bush appeared pushed up against another. I bet… as I inched closer,  I caught sight of a tiny bit of black hair.

The bear had died on his feet where he stood without taking a single step, he had simply fallen over and rolled down- the shot was as perfect as it gets and I quickly realized that he was a brute.

I huffed and heaved to drag the bear down the hill to a little open area on a cliff I knew of. I got some incredible pictures and started thinking about the night ahead.

As I processed the bear, the warm wind began to pick up until I had to place rocks on all my gear. Dust and ash began flying everywhere with each step around the bear and as it got dark it began downright howling along the ridge top I was on. I came to the understanding the entire bear needed to get all the way down the mountain that night, and it was the largest bear I’ve ever harvested.

I know that mountain well. It is a dark and nasty hellhole of vertical cliffs, chest high interwoven devil’s club and other unnamed sticker infested bushes designed by satan himself, followed by a maze of braided vine maple and scrub brush with bear tunnels through it, all on one of the steepest grades I’ve ever been on… and that’s just to get down to the old trail that leads up and over another ridge and all the way down to the truck. It’s a true jaunt that feels like it never ends. I’ve done this enough times now to know that sooner or later it would if I just kept going.

I finished caping the hide and shuttling quarter bags along the cliff top over to the timber. Up here this far from help, everything from the knife work to every step calls for complete carefulness. I was in no rush, knowing I was spending the night on  the mountain no matter what. I had  6 meat bags - 4 quarters, a head and hide (which was the heaviest), and a bag with everything else, plus my rifle, tripod, and over night gear. Leap-frogging was the only way I decided. When everything was done, I strapped the first load of 3 quarters on. It was brutally heavy and the hillside so steep that each step required absolute focus. I was recently told I had a torn meniscus in one knee and patellar tracking disorder in the other which added to the mix.

As I began the first leg, I planned out my drop points. 1) To the bottom of the first cliffs, 2) down the shale slide - hug the right side and do not start a rockslide, 3) top of the knife cliffs, 4) bottom of the knife cliffs, 5) bottom of the devils club field, 6) bottom of the bear tunnels through the vine maple chutes, 7) back of the far swamp. Then it’s only a couple miles to the truck with a ridge in between. Every one of those sections held their own unique misery and peril, and I wasn’t looking forward to any of them.

The thought of the following day’s heat kept me moving. Navigate painfully and very carefully down the hill and drop a load, hike quickly back up the hill and pick up a load. Repeat. Then disaster struck, on the second leg my trusty pack broke, the frame stays split out the top of the frame from the weight. No more suspension, no more support, all the weight was on my shoulders now. I rigged up the best fix I could with 550 and duct tape, but it was miserable and it went on for hours.

Around 3am I found myself in the bear tunnels of the vine maple chutes. Every step was parting brush, grabbing rappel limbs, or sliding on my butt down the ridiculously steep hillside. Everything was cramping. My back, my fingers, my triceps, and legs all alternated locking up. My abs were on fire and my headlamp was growing very dim, but the brush was so thick I couldn’t see 6 feet ahead anyway. I dug my heels in and leaned back against the hill to stop for a breather and to check my track, knowing I had to follow a very specific route down to avoid being cliffed out.

I quickly realized that even though I had stopped, the brush nearby hadn’t.

Something’s over there, very close… Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me… It’s probably nothing…
No, that’s more brush moving… it’s shaking violently now. That’s VERY close, maybe 40 yds… The wind is slightly blowing down the hill, whatever it is cannot smell me…

I held my breath, every fiber of my being trying to hear over my never ending tinnitus.
The brush paused and the soft whuff and popping of jaws told me the answer.

I was in the middle of the shuttle where my rifle was still far up above me with the hide and last load of meat. I couldn’t see anything beyond what was right in front of my face as I had been crashing through the brush.

It thinks I’m another bear and is definitely not happy, it’s probably catching hints of that hide up above us - gotta be that sow I had on camera. “Hey Bear!” “HEY BEAR!”  “GET OUTTA HERE!!!” My best intimidating yell was in good form after my cougar experience a week and a half ago.

Only, the bear didn’t leave. I heard it pounding through the brush moving down, then come right back up, pacing and stomping around. It was the first time I can remember ever being legitimately worried about being mauled. It was a moonless night, in brush over my head, and  my dim headlamp was good enough to see only where I was stepping, which I frequently couldn’t see anyway. I had planned to swap batteries at the next stop. I couldn’t drop the meat to go get the rifle for fear I wouldn’t find the meat again in the super thick brush. I slid on my butt straight down the hill to the next opening and paused. The bear is still up there.

Apparently the cover of complete darkness and no moon gave courage when every other bear I’ve been around except one has run off. I dropped the meat as fast as possible and charged back up the chutes as quickly as the hillside would allow. It was a 10” of duff, climb over those tree and under that one, take two steps and lose one, grab the vine maples and pull yourself up - super steep, thick, and nasty. My legs quivered from exhaustion. “Get back to the rifle now! The trekking pole ain’t going to cut it,” I kept telling myself while yelling into the darkness.

The bear was right there in the brush with me a little further away now but not gone, despite my yelling, calling it some disrespectful names, and the like. I can only wonder if she had a cub somewhere in there with her.

I moved both loads post haste down through the lower swamp to the backside. It was 4:15am. I needed a physical and mental break. I had been completely locked in and focused on every step all the way down the mountain and was utterly exhausted. The worst was now past.

I hung all the meat in the trees for airflow and got a snack. At 4:45am I decided a power nap was in order. I was so exhausted and soaked in sweat that I just laid down in a deer bed with a bug net over my face that I keep on hand for just these occasions. The first hints of light were just greasing the horizon.

I was only 300 yards down the mountain from where the aggrieved bear had been letting her displeasure be known. Despite my exhaustion, I hadn’t yet recovered from the adrenaline and sleep was fleeting. I finally dozed off for about 20 minutes before  waking. I laid there staring up at the stars and silhouettes of the trees against the dark blue pre-dawn sky. The sun was soon to break the horizon and I could feel the warmth growing in the breeze. Getting the meat out was my only thought - time to move.

At 9:03am I set the last load on the tailgate. I shot the bear at about 5:37pm the night before. All in there were three 5 minute breaks and a 20 minute power nap, and the rest was hauling 120ish lbs of gear, meat, and hide all night long.

On the long drive home, I thought about the conversation I’d had at work. I reflected with pride and satisfaction over the hunt, the preparation I did for that exact shot and the shot that I made, how I’d taken care of the animal and the meat, and the effort I’d put in to make sure none was wasted.

I earned that.

The cuts, bruises, and every muscle in my body bear testament to that. Effort indeed makes for opportunity, and a year’s worth of bear smash burgers and tacos, not to mention a memory for a lifetime are worthwhile rewards.

“It’s the hunt” indeed…

[Kingofthemountain83]

Great hunt!!! Congrats...

[ghosthunter]

Excellent

[brokentrail]

Congrats!  Great hunt and a great story, thanks for taking the time to write that up!

[redi]

Good story congratulations

[ganghis]

Congrats, you really worked for that one!! 

[passman65]

Wow, very nice

[pd]

HUNTER!!

There is no other way to describe you.  Congratulations.

[lewy]

Bada$$! Nice write up, brought me back to a couple similar experiences. Always think its crazy the stuff us hunters do and when we tell people at work on monday "got a bear this weekend" they don't have a clue of what it takes sometimes lol. Great work

[storyteller]

What a great recount of the hunt and getting out.   I  could not do that, but great that  you were able to.   Congrats.

[tgomez]

Congratulations and good shooting.

[hunter399]

Heck ya ,congrats👍

[Boss .300 winmag]

Wow, just wow.

Your story had me reminiscing about my successful bear hunts, and all of them had me packing out in the dark, which adds an element that’s not easily described unless you’ve done it.

But you Sliverslinger have accomplished just that. Nicely done.👍

[trophyhunt]

Great write up, love it.  I'm exhausted just reading your story, congrats.

[Barodir393]

Great bear. Funny how far you will go when you find a consistent bear spot.