Be it ever so humble: Spike camps may not look like much, but they are a welcome sight after a long day in the saddle.

Our optimism manifested itself in our riding. We raced across the pristine powder, swerving back and forth, cutting our own trails and laughing like little kids. Our carefree ride carried us over the next pass and onto a lookout, where we spotted a nice set of tracks leaving a freshly-opened den. Unfortunately, my friend Mark Scheurer and his guides had already found the tracks. Always a bridesmaid...

We rode up to the guys and wished them luck, then watched them ride off to the west. Shortly, they parked just below the crest of a hill and started hoofing it along the bear's tracks.

The bear just meandered along the spine of the mountain for a mile or so before stopping to bathe in the sun. It was still sleeping when they caught up to it, but it heard or spotted them before they got a shot. Fortunately, curiosity got the best of the bear; it stopped to look back at them after a hundred yards or so. Mark dropped the bear with a single 200-grain A-Frame from his .300 Ultra Mag.

After we heard the shot, we rode over to give them a hand and admire Mark's bear. It was an old, barren sow that measured close to seven feet with a magnificent blond coat. I would've been proud to shoot such a bear. Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow will be my day.

Success At Long Last
We got a bit of a late start the next day--my twenty-nineth day of grizzly hunting in twelve months--once again the guides were optimistic. Earl Esmailka, Virgil's chief guide, put his arm around me and told me not to worry. "We're going back to town tonight, my friend. We'll get your bear before lunch."

Again, we left camp in a fine mood, leaving wild ski tracks in the virgin powder as we raced toward our morning vantage point. From there, we spotted the two sets of tracks that led to Tommy's premonition and rode to the bottom of the valley in search of my bear.

Spring weather and melting snow made trail conditions dangerous. Cave-ins were a constant concern.

We had only walked fifty yards when Earl hit me on the back and pointed. "Bar," he hissed.

I dropped to a knee, rested my Mossberg .338 Winchester Magnum on a log, finding the boar in my scope. He was ambling up the spine of the mountain with the distinctive, rolling gait that marks a truly big boar. I estimated the distance, held accordingly and touched the trigger. The first shot rocked the bear, but the big, heavy slug didn't slow him down a bit. I found him again, swung ahead and touched off another shot, sending him rolling down the mountain in a cloud of white powder.

Breaking down could mean a long walk to camp, or worse if conditions turn suddenly for the sour. Mechanical aptitude is a must.

Walking up on that bear was the most emotional moment I've ever experienced as a hunter. I don't know if it was the relief that comes with snatching success from the jaws of defeat or the joy that comes from the realization of a dream, but I was overwhelmed. When I recovered, I asked for a moment alone to admire the magnificent bruin.

I was in awe of the boar's massive head and hump, and amazed at its hubcap-sized paws and thick claws as long as my fingers. His cape was thick and exactly as I envisioned when I dreamt of grizzlies as a young boy--chocolate-colored with lovely blond highlights. I couldn't have been happier with my bear or the way I hunted it, but I must confess to feeling a twinge of pride when I learned that it would probably make the B&C record book. More importantly, I came away from the hunt knowing I truly earned my bear with twenty-nine days of suffering through not-so-luxurious conditions, freezing temperatures, and worst of all, time away from my family. No, that bear didn't come cheap, but the sacrifices I made to get it made my eventual success oh so sweet.