WOLF AND THE BEAR

a true hunting tale for around the campfire

The rain had ended sometime in the early morning. Before the rain it had been freezing sleet
around midnight. I had woken once to hear the icy droplets shattering on the roof of the cabin.
The weather— caught between two minds during the prior days —had kept changing from sun
and clouds, to rain, sleet, and snow. But it was May high in the mountains of northwest Canada,
farther north than I had ever been before and they said this was par for the course. Despite the
weather, the spring days were long, the sunlight here pushing well into what I would typically
call night. This meant we could hunt black bears until nearly 10pm.

We had spent the previous day driving old logging roads in search of bears, through the
Canadian Crown land, our northern neighbor’s version of American public land. In most places
these logging roads were more like overgrown two tracks. They wound through endless stands of
Doug fir interspersed with handsome white bark poplar. My hunting guide deftly worked the
clutch of his small Jeep 4×4, navigating the rough terrain. Often the road was so bad or unkept
that we needed to ford small creeks, and deep mud puddles, and it seemed more like off-roading
than anything else. From the passenger seat I kept my eyes peeled for signs of bear, possibly one
peeking through the trees or grazing among the roadside greenery.

The sky looked perfectly clear now as I walked out of the cabin that morning just before
daybreak. I looked around to see if anyone else in camp was up. The air was chilly, but I could
see the bright sun climbing over the trees between the mountain peaks across the lake. Glad to
see the sun and a clear sky, I headed back inside to get ready before making the short walk
through the trees to the dining cabin for breakfast.

“Morning.” I said to my guide who was already there sitting at the long communal table.

“Morning. Weather is looking nice. I got a good feeling about today. Think you’re gettin a big
one today.”

“Hope so!” I said. “Whats the plan?”

“We’re thinking about trying to get the go ahead on a new spot. Dad’s gonna come with us.

We’ll see what we can do.”

I knew I could trust this father and son duo; they had plenty of experience. They knew the entire
surrounding area like the back of their hands having ran this outfit here for generations. More so,
the prospect of a brand-new spot, especially for an operation with that kind of experience,
sounded extra exciting.

Soon we were heading out. Along the way we passed endless rolling hills of poplar and conifer,
occasionally passing green pastures with wooden posts and cattle wire fencing. The bright green
of the pastureland contrasted by the thick, dark, pacific-northwest forest, and the ever-present
backdrop of towering snow-capped peaks, created a breathtaking vista. Our hunts had until then
focused on the public lands where the outfitter had government approved leases for specific and

exclusive guiding rights. This involved regulations on nonresident requirements for hiring a
guide. But the green-up which attracted the bears this time of year was slow so far in most of
their public land spots and the new plan would give us access to more favorable habitat that they
were sure was holding higher concentrations of bears at the moment.
After about fifteen minutes we pulled into the gravel driveway of a well-kept farmhouse. There
were kids playing outside who scurried off as we drove up. My guides hopped out and knocked
on the front door. A young women answered and I watched them all converse cordially for a
moment. Then the guides returned and were both chuckling a bit to themselves.

“Well?” I asked excitedly.

“The rancher’s name is Wolf.” They answered. “We still need to get his permission.”

“Wolf?” I asked.

They nodded. I loved the sound of this. How cool and fitting it was that this wild and remote
ranch tucked far back in the mountains of Northern B.C. was owned and run by a man named
Wolf!

We drove a little farther down the dirt road speculating about what Wolf would be like. Soon we
spotted a large red tractor on a hill in one of the pastures and did not have to wonder any longer.
We pulled over and waited for the tractor to close the distance on our location there by the
roadside. When it did approach, we saw atop the beat-up old machine, a grizzled, iconic looking,
northwest Canadian rancher. He was everything I had imagined— every bit the off-grid,
homesteading, mountain-man I thought he might be.

Tall, steely, and muscular, with sun-darkened leathery skin. His hair was long and unruly with
streaks of gray that matched the stubble on his unshaven face and neck. In one hand was a
cigarette that burned low, dangerously close to his calloused, dirt and grease covered fingers. I
watched the ember smoldering between them as it burned down low. He did not seem to notice
or be particularly concerned about it himself. Eventually he dropped it, apparently not from pain
of the ember which had certainly been burning his fingers, but simply to light another one
straight away.

The guides approached apprehensively while I stood a few steps back. The first exchange was
tense. Wolf was clearly not one to be trifled with. He was also not one for mincing words. He
spoke rough and bluntly. Thankfully, my guides were seasoned locals and knew how to speak his
language just as expertly as they knew how to hunt. Soon Wolf had softened a bit and began
jovially recounting a story of the last bear he had taken himself off his vast property. He told us
that, after shooting the bear in one of his pastures and assuming it dead, he backed up his pickup
truck to the motionless body and leaned down to lift it into the truck with nothing but his bare
hands and brute strength. Being the legend that he was, he wrapped his arms around the huge
animal to lift it in one scoop. When he did, his ear touched the bears chest, and he heard the heart
still beating!

“What did you do?” I blurted out in absolute suspense.

“Just threw him in the truck and slammed the door.” Wolf said, matter of factly, in a thick
Canadian accent.

Yes…as legendary as I could have imagined.

In the end, he gave us permission to hunt, kindly directing us to a far pasture at the edge of his
property where it crept close to the foothills of the high mountains and met the adjoining Crown
land. We truly drove off road now, through these picturesque fields until the forest closed in and
forced us to continue on foot. Here Wolf’s cattle had grazed between the abundant poplars so
that there was very little underbrush, only grass and trees. It was like something out of a
naturalist painting. Verdant grasses growing among the white barked trees, their leaves
shimmering in the sunlight. I almost forgot we were in the middle of nowhere. A gentle breeze
was blowing and the peeling bark of the trees fluttered like bits of paper nailed to their trunks.
Eventually we arrived at the spot.

We laid on the grass and leaned against the trees, and I listened to the trembling whisper of the
leaves above. I could have sat there all day simply soaking up the spirit of the place. But after
about thirty minutes, we spotted our first bear appearing from out of the forest at the far edge of
the pasture. We sat and watched it feed on new shoots of spring greenery like a scene from a Nat
Geo film. We took pictures and videos, and debated whether it was a boar or sow, and whether
or not to take a shot. In the end the decision was made for us.

Without warning we heard a tree snap and crash to the ground. It was loud and startling after
having enjoyed the idilic tranquility until then. We whipped around to look slightly downhill at
the other far end of the field. There we saw an absolute tank of a boar bear making his way
towards the other bear who we had been watching. After snapping in half what we later
discovered to be a nearly, twelve-foot-high, young fir tree, he took a few plodding steps toward
us. Then he stopped and leaned down tor a moment to graze. I was already in prone position,
Christensen Arms 6.5 PRC rifle ready. The bear was at 180 yards, my guide whispered.

“Shoot?” I asked.

“Hammer him!” He replied imploringly.

I put the crosshairs on his shoulder and pulled the trigger. He dropped instantly. When we finally
walked up on this once in a lifetime sized bear, he had a mouthful of grass still between his teeth.
Ending the day back at camp later that evening, after skinning and butchering the 7’6” brute, we
joyfully told the rest of the crew the whole story. About the legendary, Canadian myth of a man,
who we had met earlier, and about the epic hunt he allowed us to have on his land. When I had
planned the trip months before, I knew we’d be hunting in an area with plenty of bear and
wolves. But I could not have imagined how this story involving both would play out. It is still
one of my favorite memories of being far from home, one I will remember forever. A great one
for around the campfire with a drink and friends— the one about Wolf and the Bear.