After twenty-nine days of hard hunting, the author finally fulfilled his life-long dream of taking a grizzly bear in Alaska.

Long, Winding Road
My hunt started with a ninety-mile snowmobile ride over tussock-covered tundra and paper-thin ice. Spring had come early and the snow was gone, so we abused our bodies and snow machines to get to his sheep camp deep in the Alaska Range.

On the way, we crossed some scary ice and sunk the snow machines a time or two, soaking ourselves and our gear. At one point, I had to change clothes after riding my sinking machine straight to the bottom of a small creek. The icy water sucked the breath out of me so fast, I couldn't make a sound. Fortunately, I had some extra clothes in a small, waterproof duffel bag. I changed quickly and we soldiered on, taking eleven grueling hours to cover those ninety miles.

We originally planned to hunt farther west, but a lack of snow forced a change of plans. Eric knew where several bears denned up in his sheep area, but had never hunted them in the spring. The warm weather and lack of snow limited our options. We hunted hard each day in the areas we could access in hopes of catching up with a bruin. There was no shortage of bears in the area. In fact, we cut the trail of three big-footed brutes on three consecutive days. The tracks led from their dens at the heads of three small valleys toward a major river, but none of them stopped within the confines of Eric's considerable area.

With the weather getting warmer by the day and snowmobile access increasingly limited, we called in a plane and flew to Fairbanks. After a day on Virgil's satellite phone and a short commercial flight later, I landed in the sleepy little Athabascan Indian village of Kaltag.

I don't know why I was so optimistic when I landed in near-whiteout conditions that morning, but I was. I guess it was the promise of increased access and easier tracking held by the new snow. Still, I can't say my optimism held for long once we started the thirty-six-mile ride to camp on an even rougher trail than the one we left behind.

Spring hunts target bears that have very recently left their dens. This makes there whereabouts very difficult to figure out and requires great optics.

After such an arduous ride, our little camp was a welcome sight. Nestled in a small stand of trees, the motley assortment of wall tents, blue tarps and snowmobiles in assorted colors and varying states of disrepair stood out like a sore thumb in the snow-filled valley. Smoke billowing from the stove-pipe was a welcome site, and the promise of a hot cup of coffee put a spring in our step.

Inside, guides and hunters lay scattered akimbo on the large sleeping area, laughing heartily as they relived their successful hunts. Outside, two big, blond bear skins lay stretched under a tree to serve as testament to the skill of the hunters and guides.

While dangerous to travelers, cave-ins provide a great source of cold, clean, drinking water.

Unfortunately, the weather was not in my favor. The fresh snow was much appreciated, but the heavy cloud cover was sure to keep the bears snuggled up in their dens. The other hunters, both of whom also shot bears with Virgil in prior years, shot their bears on sunny days. No one seemed too optimistic about our prospects for the next day or two, but I had no choice but to go out the next morning. We didn't see a thing.

A bright, clear sky greeted us the second morning. The change in everyone's mood was marked. The guides were laughing and joking, and soon their optimism wore off on the rest of us. Tommy, one of our helpers, confidently proclaimed that our success was assured. "It's a beautiful day, boys. We'll get a bur today," the stocky guide assured us.