The King of the Mountain

By: Tommy Sitz, Staff Writer

The sun is a warm yellow that slowly heats my face as it climbs higher in the endless blue sky. The bushes are starting to green as spring slowly ascends its way up the mountain. The tops of the far, ridged peaks are still snow-capped from a long, cold winter. As I look around through my binoculars, I see a chocolate boar grizzly walking up the mountain two miles away across the massive drainage. He climbs up the mountain above the animals below, as if to let them know he is the ruler of this vast domain. There in the highest meadow on the mountain, he beds under a large pine in the middle of the opening. He lies there with a kind of swagger because he knows how much authority he has. He sits there, munching on the newly chartreuse grass to fatten up as the warming of the spring year starts. He probably came out of his winter den about two weeks ago. Now he roams the mountain as though he owns it.

I return my focus to what I am up here to do. Get bear meat. The amazing flavor of bear meat that I want so badly. It is the twenty-third of April, and I am armed with my recurve, a beautiful wooden masterpiece that was passed down to me by my father. It is my go-to weapon, and I have had a great number of successes with it in my hand. Hopefully, it will be my lucky charm today as I try to find a black bear. 

The black bear is an animal now known for having bad meat and diseases. But the bears are highly misunderstood. During the mid-1800s, black bear was a staple meat and preferred across the American frontier. Their meat is excellent as long as you find the right bear. If you shoot a bear that was feeding on fish or a dead carcass, it will taste bad. But here in the high mountains, where the bears are feeding on fresh, green grass, they taste excellent. These bears are scarce and hard to find due to their sneaky nature and scattered populations. You can find herds of 500 elk, but when you see a black bear, there is usually only one, or possibly two. They are mystical creatures, sometimes seemingly impossible to find, but if you are successful, it is one of the most satisfying feelings I have ever felt. 

I pick up my binoculars again and keep looking. I have seen nothing other than the giant grizzly. I can still see him in his meadow, and he is now walking around, still feeding on the grass. As I glass the many meadows on the mountainside, I see a black dot in the middle of the green. I throw my spotting scope onto my tripod and quickly get my eyes on the dot. It is probably a mile away, but very approachable. I am mapping how I am going to get to him. A stump. A burnt stump. Of course, it was just a stump. I do that to myself about every time I come out. I guess it’s probably time to move after sitting in this spot for three hours. 

I pack up my gear into my bag and head down a finger ridge to the other side of the drainage. I want to get up on the other side to see what I can see, but I also want to be careful to stay away from the big boar grizzly. I get to the bottom of the drainage and walk across a down log to get on the other side of the creek. Now the climb up begins. I start heading up a ridge that should take me to a meadow that I had seen from the other side of the drainage. The ridge is rocky and bare, and should not be too difficult to navigate. The meadow is about a mile away from the big griz, which is plenty of room. I start the slow ascent up the steep ridge. It has been thirty minutes, and I am totally out of breath and about halfway there. I think. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, but do not want to turn around now. It is the first really big climb of the year, and I can tell. After about another 45 minutes, I am at the meadow and immediately lie down. I sit there for five minutes, not moving a muscle.

 I decide it is time to start glassing again, so I sit in the comfortable, freshly green grass and grab my binos. Instantly, I pick up a black bear about two ridges over up the drainage from me. I've got to get moving. I practically throw everything in my bag and start hiking. I estimate that the black bear is about half a mile away, so it shouldn’t take too long to get over there. I do not even care about the pain in my legs right now. I basically run over to the meadow and get there in fifteen minutes. I start to slow down. I can see the opening where the bear was 100 yards in front of me. I slowly inch my way to the meadow and check the wind. My wind is perfect. Blowing in my face. Black bears have one of the best senses of smell in the animal kingdom. If something is going to blow a stalk on a bear, it will probably be your scent. I have my bow in my hand, and I nock an arrow. Fifty yards from the opening. When I saw the bear, he was at the far side of the opening, which is perfect because the opening is about thirty yards wide. That would put me at about a thirty to forty-yard shot. Twenty-five yards from the opening. I can taste the bear meat, it's so close. Ten yards from the opening. CRASH.

 In a flurry of brown hair, I am suddenly on my belly, being crushed by an immense amount of weight. The grizzly bear. In the excitement of seeing the black bear, I forgot that I was headed right in the grizzly’s direction. He must have been headed my way, too. I put my hands behind my neck to protect him from ripping it open. My nostrils are filled with his terrible musky scent. I can hear him breathing like a madman, as if he is about to do something horrible. But he just stands there on top of me, breathing hard. I can now smell the scent of death on his breath. My face lies on the ground against the dirt and branches, and I feel them sticking to my face. I can see his hind legs on my right side. I want to groan in the pain of being crushed, but do not make a sound. His front paws are on my pack, and his hind legs are to the side of me. I can feel the moisture on my face from his heavy breathing. I lie there waiting for what seems to be an eternity, but he just stands there on top of me. His long, soft fur brushes against the back of my pants as he starts to move. Finally, he gets off and walks away. I lie there as he slowly walks into the darkness of the thick, spiky pine trees. I just got jumped on by a bear, but I do not have a single scratch.

 Why? Why did he just leave me be and not do a thing? Normally, when people get attacked by a bear, they do not come away unharmed. But I did. Obviously, he did not like me in his territory, but for some odd reason, he did not harm me. 

“I think it is time to get out of here,” I mumble to myself. I get up and start the long hike back to the truck, pondering what just happened to me. I am not sure if it was real or not. It is only about midday, but I figure I’ve had enough excitement for the day. I work my way back across the rocky ridges and thick creek bottom. I get back to the last ridge before the trailhead and look back through my binoculars. There he is, sitting in the same meadow I first saw him.

 “Thank you God,” I say as I walk over the ridge.