There’s an old hunting adage from the time of flintlocks and coonskin caps that states: Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you! For pioneers with single-shot rifles that were prone to misfire, hunting bear for food could go either way. Even with today’s high-power rifles, hunting some species of bear is a dangerous undertaking and the old saying still applies.

For the most part, however, sportsmen use the aged bear proverb to describe an outdoor event gone awry. When an outdoor adventure goes smoothly and is successful, then you “eat the bear.” But when torrential rain raises and muddies the river and ruins a fishing trip, or snow or fog keep hunters campbound, or equipment failure costs an angler or hunter a trophy, then the “bear eats you.” A broken fly rod, a shell or gun that misfired, a boat motor that won’t start, and essential gear forgotten or lost. Every outdoorsman with a few years’ experience has dealt with “the bear.”

Spring bear hunt

My first-ever spring bear hunt last May was also my premier outing for black bear in New Brunswick. An all- around enjoyable and successful experience for my cousin Steve Hitchcock and I motivated us to book another hunt on the spot. As it turned out, we would have the same dates and be the first and only hunters in camp again this past May. Joining us this trip would be Steve’s son-in-law, Isaiah Cooper. The only stumbling block was that due to unforeseen and unchangeable circumstances, we would only have two days to hunt.

Kim Jardine, head guide at Orr Pool Lodge, had been baiting for only two weeks due to extremely wet weather making many sites inaccessible. Despite the shortened preseason, bear were hitting all the baits regularly, and several sites displayed paw prints from multiple bruins, and a few were trophy-size tracks. As we packed my truck full of hunting gear and equipment on the morning of May 22, our trio was alive with anticipation and excitement. Our first stop was at Canadian Customs to take care of paperwork and purchase permits for our rifles, and then we headed for the infamous Renous Highway.

Desolate, remote, and rough as corncob, the uneven, pothole-packed Renous road is the shortest route between Aroostook County and the Miramichi River near Blackville, New Brunswick. Wandering through deep woods with no houses or stores and the possibility of a moose or deer on every corner, the two-hour trip is always an adventure. During the roller- coaster ride, we got the first signs that our hunting was in jeopardy. The sun disappeared and low dense clouds settled in, the temperature dropped noticeably and, worst of all, a steady brisk wind began whipping the trees around.

We arrived at camp an hour before lunch, with time to unload and move belongings to our respective rooms. Then it was time to sit on the screened porch overlooking Orr Pool, the splendid section of the Miramichi that Ted Williams once owned and fished, and get reacquainted with Kim and Faye Jardine. As usual, Faye cooked a delicious multi-course meal that required short breaks and belt loosening between servings, and Kim entertained us with stories of last fall’s big bucks and insights about our prospective bear stands.

Windy weather

By 3 p.m., Steve, Isaiah, and I were in head-to-toe camo with guns and gear ready to head for the tree stands. I was the first to be dropped off, and as I sprayed myself liberally with scent shield, Kim baited the site. As I climbed up, settled into my 15- foot ladder stand and attached my safety harness, a sprinkle of rain began and the wind continued.

Kim climbed up to secure a couple of small fir trees to the stand to help break up my form, and stated very bluntly the weather was going to make the bear spooky and reduce their desire to move about and feed. Black bears depend on a sharp sense of smell and acute hearing to survive, and wind interferes with both senses, making them less likely to travel and producing very poor hunting conditions. After a calm, sunny weekend, weather on the first day of our hunt was abysmal and the make-believe fantasy bear from the old adage reared his ugly head.

As the guide’s truck drove out of sight, two things were very apparent from my lofty, swaying perch; insects weren’t going to be a problem in the gusting wind and I might need a motion sickness pill before the evening hunt ended. I waited, watched, and hoped, all the while sitting immobile and quiet, but at times my tree and seat undulated and leaned as much as three feet in one direction, then another. When the sun went down, so did the temperature, but if anything, the breeze seemed to freshen. Light rain, windy, and 37 degrees, I’m sitting in a swaying tree stand and the bear are under cover, and they say animals are stupid!

At 8 o’clock I heard one shot in the distance and hoped it was Steve or Isaiah, but had my doubts considering the conditions. About 10 minutes after it was too dark to see my sights, Kim arrived to pick me up, and solid ground never felt so good. Like myself, Steve had seen no bear, but in the pickup bed was a coal black 165-pound bear with a long, thick coat. Although he had hoped for a bigger bear, weather prompted Isaiah to be less selective, and his .50 caliber Thompson muzzleloader dropped the bruin where it stood. All was not lost and tonight we were on the good side of the old bear adage.

Night two

On our second and last night to hunt, everything was status quo – light rain, heavy wind, and the same stands for Steve and I. Our hope was that since the bear refused to feed last night, they would be hungry and opt to brave the weather for a snack. By 3:30 that afternoon I was up a tree with my safety strap on and swaying in the breeze once again. Isaiah would help Kim bait sites for next week’s hunters and check on Steve and I intermittently, hoping to see a ribbon of fluorescent tape that one of us had walked out and placed along the road to indicate we had gotten a shot at a bear.

After two hours of rocking in the treetop and trying to scan the woods around the bait site without undue movement, my eyes ached. I leaned my head back against the tree and rested my eyes for a minute, listening intently, but knowing you seldom hear a bear before you see it, especially with dripping rain and rustling leaves. Paw prints in the mud proved there was a big bruin visiting the barrel, more than 300 pounds, and two more pad and toe impressions were of bear in the 200-pound class. I’d stare, scan, and scrutinize the woods for 15 minutes, trying to make a big black ball of fur materialize, close my eyes for a few seconds, and then start peering about again.

I’d had my eyes closed for perhaps a minute, maybe a minute and a half, musing about the frustrating, uncontrollable weather, but this time when I slowly opened them a bear really was present. Thirty yards away, in the open woods to my front right watching and sniffing the air, was a very large black bear with a chocolate nose and face. As always I was amazed at how silently such a big animal can materialize in rough, noisy terrain, and more than a little surprised to see a bear at all in the miserable conditions.

Cautiously the bear ghosted through the trees toward the old tote road where the bait barrel was set but kept moving to my right where Kim had hung a hunk of meat high in a sapling. Scanning the entire area as it slowly made its way to the meat scrap and closer to me, the bear’s attention kept me from reaching for my rifle in its rack right next to me. A pair of thick evergreens partially blocked my view to the right and would have prevented a safe shot anyway. Frustrated, I thought to myself, “that hunk of meat was just for attractant scent, the barrel right in front of me is in an open area and full of food.”

Black bear don’t get big by being stupid or careless, and this one was extra cautious. Finally, the bear reached the alder where the meat hung suspended as high as Kim could reach. He circled the bush, then turned his back to me and stood up, easily reaching the food and higher – this was one big bear! Suddenly the bear snapped his head toward the road we arrived on, dropped to all fours and streaked past me down the old skidder trail. Hesitating for a couple of heartbeats at the end of the trail, the bear looked back toward the highway and ran off into the woods.

I checked my watch and saw I had only an hour left to hunt, and I found out later that night that what scared off that bear was Kim and Isaiah driving into the end of the road at that exact time looking for my alert ribbon. I had never picked up my muzzleloader, couldn’t have gotten a shot anyway, but was still crestfallen at the big bruin’s sudden departure. Ten minutes later, I’m cold and swinging in the breeze, still commiserating about the lost opportunity on perhaps the largest bear of my life, when another good-sized bear appears across the tote road.

This bear was more than 200 pounds, just as wary as the first, and slowly made his way to the meat in the sapling. The bruin stood quickly, grabbed the food from the limb, and ran back into the woods with it. I could see him stop about 60 yards away, just a jet black blob among the trees and bushes. As he ate his prize, I slowly and quietly picked up my T/C .50 cal. .209 magnum and rested it on my leg at port arms. After 10 minutes the bear came back through the wood, slow and easy, and entered the tote road to my right, again allowing no open shot.

Step by slow, deliberate step, the bear moved in front of me along the trail and I sat frozen in place. A sudden gust of wind rocked the trees, and the bear spun and was gone into cover in the blink of an eye. A few minutes later I spotted a black shadow making its ways through the leaves and bushes. Dusk had arrived and shooting time was short. Finally the bear stepped onto the road, took a couple of steps, turned and looked up in the tree right at me. I held my breath and never blinked an eye. The bruin turned down the road, took two steps, and quickly snapped his head toward me again, as if to catch me moving. Luckily, I was not.

Until the bear stopped at the barrel to feed, I wouldn’t even raise the rifle, let along chance a shot. But the bear walked right past the bait barrel, ignoring it completely. There was another scrap of meat in a bush 20 yards beyond the barrel. It was a 55-yard shot, longer than I anticipated. I slowly shouldered and steadied the rifle, aligned the fiber-optic open sights on the bear and waited for it to stop and stand up for the meat.

The bear ignored the hunk of meat in the sapling and kept on walking, angling off the trail. Then just for a couple of seconds, right before entering the bushes, the bear hesitated. It was a quartering away shot at the left front shoulder. It wasn’t what I wanted but it was all I had and it was near dark. I aimed behind the shoulder at the lungs, held my breath, and squeezed.

Two very bad tings happened at once. In the split second between the trigger squeeze and the Big Bang, the bear suddenly stepped right and a gust of wind tilted my tree and stand left. End of hunt, end of story, no bear for Bill. Steve never even saw a bear. The weather beat us and in this case, as in the old adage: the bear ate me.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com