SHEENJEK

              I gripped my rifle firmly and looked at Winston. “Are you ready to bite the bullet. We have procrastinated long enough. Night is coming on fast” We could shortly come to face with a big, mad wounded grizzly in the brush.

            Winston snubbed out his cigarette, ground it beneath his boot, and picked up his rifle. Yeah, I guess. Ready as I will ever be.”

            “Hie on Rock,” I urged my Chesapeake. You learned lots of tricks on driving bear from old Anvik River Brute. Now find us a bear.”

            We were on the Sheenjek River above the Arctic Circle. The final leg to our destination was reached by bush plane from Fort Yukon. Fall was advancing into winter. Still pools of the River were frozen. Soon the Porcupine and Yukon Rivers would be running Ice.

            We had flown many miles up the Sheenjek looking for good moose habitat. The catch was that the area had to be in proximity of a gravel bar that we could use as a landing strip. We had finally found a likely bar among the braided River channels.

The landing went OK. We quickly unloaded our gear. Our pilot did not wish to linger.

“Good luck,” he wished. “Temperatures are falling. Going to be cold, well below 0 tonight. See you in about three days.”

Night was coming on. It would be a long one. Days were brief in the Arctic this time of year. We hastily put up a tent. The next important task was to round up a huge stack of firewood. Fortunately finding wood was no problem. Much driftwood had been deposited along the bar by spring floods. We were soon sipping hot tea sweetened with schnapps and toasting in the warmth of a blazing fire. Northern Lights played overhead.

“Listen to all that splashing from the creek,” I remarked. “This is a major spawning area for Yukon fall chum salmon. I bet that there are grizzly and wolves nearby. Our pack dog might have to be a bear dog before the trip is over.”

Rolling out in the frosty mid-morning was hard. Embers of last night’s fire still smoldered.

Breakfast was made on hot tea and oatmeal. We went over plans for the day.

“You know,” admitted Winston, “ I would not mind taking a nice grizzly.”

“I guess a man is entitled to one,” I allowed. “I took a beautiful bear from Chichagof Island several years back. Bear and I now have a kind of understanding: live and let live. All I want is a good eating bull moose but if we come across a bear and you want him I will back you.” 

“We are not too far from the foothills of the Brooks Range and could run across Caribou,” Winston added to the prospects.

“That would be exciting,” I allowed.

The short day passed quickly. We learned the countryside that seemed so open from an aircraft was in fact very difficult to hunt. Dense stands of alder and willow fringed the gravel bars. Back from the River black spruce grew in profusion. Within the spruce stands, there was much blow-down. Going was hard and noisy.

“Its going to be hard to get up on a moose here,” concluded Winston.

“I haven’s seen much fresh spore,” I admitted. “The only moving wildlife I have seen is a lot of spawning salmon and the many ravens which are dining on spawned out carcasses. I think were are here in time for winter.” Ice flows were now abundant in the rapidly freezing River.

The day was waning as we approached a large open-water side channel.  Here upwelling springs moderated the water temperature and kept it from freezing. This was the habit salmon sought out for spawning. Spawning salmon were very abundant and active. Gravel bars were littered with partially eaten salmon carcasses. Many had obviously not died natural deaths. As we advanced, in some places fresh salmon blood coated the rocks. Rock was now very alert smelling the air and watching the brush. He started to surge ahead.

“Heel up here now Rock. I think that we have a bear very near by.”

Suddenly there was a crash in the brush just ahead. A big, dark, boar grizzly surged into sight. He stopped on the bank about 50 to 60 yards ahead. He looked in our direction. We froze in place.

“There’s your bear,” I whispered to Winston. “Take him if you want.”

Winston raised his 270. His weapon would suffice with perfect bullet placement but was surely not the caliber of choice for a big grizzly.

The rifle crashed and the bear charged ahead. My philosophy is that as long as a bear is moving you keep shooting. I raised my 308 Norma Magnum and took a backup shot. The grizzly crossed the stream throwing up a geyser of water. He was quickly up the far bank and out of sight in brush.

“Now we have our hands full,” I groaned. “Quite possibly a wounded grizzly is waiting for us in the brush and night is coming on.”

“I’m sure that I hit him good but maybe not good enough,” worried Winston. “Want to go after him now or wait until morning?”

I pondered the decision. “If I have to worry about going after that bear in the morning there will be no sleep tonight. Smoke yourself a cigarette. We will let him lie awhile and then follow. I will send Rock ahead. Rock will let us know when the bear is close. A bear cannot catch a smart dog unless the dog closes. Hopefully, Brute taught him well.”

We worked the bolts of our rifles making sure rounds were chambered. Crossing the stream was expedited by the hip boots we wore. Rock shook his now ice-covered coat. We advanced slowly and methodically with Rock leading the way. Every piece of cover ahead was scanned in the failing light.

I recalled a similar situation a few years back on Baranof Island. A brown bear had killed a logger. I found myself on a posse. I recalled human blood waist high on tree boles at the site of the attack. 

Rock disappeared into a particularly nasty piece of cover. There was no barking or growling. As we advanced he came into sight. He was standing over a very still grizzly bear. Winston and I heaved sighs of relief. I heeled Rock and Winston put in an insurance shot.

“This will be my last grizzly hunt,” I vowed.

There was much celebration around the campfire that night. We knew the bear was big but did not realize how big until the skull was later measured for Boone and Crockett Records. He missed making the record book by a fraction of an inch.

The next day was one of much activity. The bear was carefully skinned and the skin packed about a mile to camp. There was little time for hunting moose.

Our third morning we slept in. Finally the call of nature roused me from my sleeping bag. Having satisfied this urge, I fetched my rifle and toothbrush from the tent. The rifle I leaned on a nearby log. I proceeded to brush my teeth.

Bear hunter Winston crawled to the tent door. I heard his frantic hiss and turned to see him gesturing down the open gravel bar. I slowly laid down my toothbrush and picked up my rifle. About 200 yards away a nice mulligan bull moose was standing gazing in our direction. He appeared to be about to bolt. He stood very near a heavy patch of willows. A couple steps backward and he would disappear. The magnum roared. Winston backed me up. The moose stood moments longer then walked a few steps forward. He suddenly fell in his tracks. We had our winter’s meat supply! We would have a full planeload in the morning.

The rest of the day was spent dressing and packing. With two of us the pack was an easy one of just 200 yards along a frozen gravel bar. Rock not needed for packing had it easy. He gorged himself on moose scraps and defended his moose from camp robbers “Canada jays”. The young bull was in excellent condition as indicated by much internal fat. He would be prime eating.

 That night we celebrated with a big bonfire, consumed the rest of our schnapps supply, and dined on moose loin. Rock having consumed pounds of meat had no interest in Dog Chow. He curled in contement by the fire.