1786 Miles for a Chevy?

After spending more than 25 years in the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry, I was scheduled to retire mid 2021 and was looking to end a career of many “firsts” with another. Another trip to Mexico? Nah, been there done that. The Caribbean, Bali, Vietnam? All would have been great choices but, just not what I was looking for.

During my time in the Army, spring and fall were always busy times. I was either on a professional course, teaching a course, or in the field training. The pace of operations put a damper on hunting time. When I did get time to hunt it was geese, ducks, and whitetails. Hunts that could be done fairly quickly, with minimal time invested. Headed into retirement, I had a fair amount of leave to “burn off” and my mind started batting ideas around. What could I do in late spring? The afore mentioned birds and deer weren’t huntable, ice may be off the lakes by then…but perhaps not. The idea hit me out of the blue: “I wanna go hunt one of those famous BC coastal black bears.” I read through the BC hunting regulations and there it was, “Non residents require a guide,” or words to that effect. Well, there went that idea. It was my wife who reminded me it doesn’t hurt to make some inquiries and ask some questions. I had never been on a guided hunt before and had no idea where to start.

We contacted Scott and Kayla at Miller’s Outdoors after they came recommended to us by a complete stranger in a Facebook message. (I later confirmed that this was not actually Scott or any of his relatives writing the message.) I contacted Scott and found him very personable, knowledgeable and professional. He asked all the pertinent questions and really drilled down what I was looking for in a guided hunt. I had three vertebrae fused in my neck less than a year earlier so the back country, horse back, near the snowline dream hunt just wasn’t currently feasible. Carrying a pack as light as 10 pounds was excruciating so a hike in/hike out, in the mountains, wasn’t going to happen either. As a man who had made a career out of carrying everything I needed on my back, admitting I was so limited was a touch embarrassing. Scott’s immediate reply to my embarrassment was, “No problem, I can totally work with that.” As we discussed the details, I finally remembered to ask, “So, where is your hunting area?” “Stewart,” Scott replied. This led me to the next question, “Where the hell is Stewart?”

Canada’s northern-most ice-free port at the head of the Portland Canal, surrounded by the snow-capped Rockies and hemmed in by the Pacific ocean, looked beautiful. Beyond beautiful. My experiences in BC had so far been limited to fighting fires in the interior but I was no slouch at geography. I looked at my wife and said, “That’s a solid two days of driving each way.” If you’ll remember, I mentioned my neck issue earlier. Driving was still a challenge for me and anything more than a couple of hours on the road required a significant rest break before carrying on. I was beginning to get discouraged. Stopping every two hours was going to add considerable time onto the trip. My wife, Kim, reminded me, “Hey, this is your retirement and a vacation, we don’t have to power through and get there as fast as possible. We could slow down and enjoy the journey.” “Ok,” I replied, “We’re going to get one of those coastal bears.”

As the weeks before the hunt passed, Scott maintained contact and updated me on the bears in his area. Around a week before we were scheduled to go, Scott called. I had to get him settled down a bit and was finally able to make out what he was trying to tell me. “I found YOUR bear!”

While preparing for the hunt I was surprised to notice how completely indoctrinated I had become after 25 years in the light infantry. I found myself gun taping para-cord onto a Bic lighter and tying a loop on the other end so that it could be attached to my gear and never dropped. “Well, that’s just silly, the only reason I would need a lighter is to light my Jet Boil (which would be in the truck) should the internal ignitor fail. Why don’t I just put the lighter in the truck like a normal human being?” I had to remind myself this hunt wasn’t the Army. As much as I tried to get away from my training, I couldn’t. “Two is one and one is none,” is a common saying in the Infantry. The pile of gear I planned on taking looked more like I was going on a six-month deployment instead of a weeklong hunt by the ocean. Eventually I managed to pare everything down to one kit bag and two rifles. And then finally, it was time for Kim and I to pack the truck with gear and as many coolers as we could fit, and we were off.

Leg one took us through Jasper National Park all the way to Prince George. We took our time, lunched near the river, and marvelled at the mountains. As an eastern Alberta flatland-raised boy, the Rocky Mountains amaze me every time. A night at the hotel in PG and we were off early the next morning to somewhere neither of us had been before.

Stewart has a stated population of 517. Perhaps everyone filled out a census twice? An incredibly small town with warm people and a rich history, the internet pictures did not come close to capturing its rugged beauty. As in any small Canadian town, directions to link up with Scott were based completely off local landmarks, “Left at Phil’s barn, right at Mary’s place, then you’ll see my place.”

Scott had everything prepared for our arrival and we were settled into our accommodations in no time. The rest of the evening was planning, telling tall tales and sharing laughs, topped off with a fresh crab dinner. Even with modern refrigeration and airplanes, shellfish in Alberta can’t hold a candle to a crab pulled from the ocean an hour earlier.

Kim and I aren’t people who can sit idle and having people take care of us makes us a bit uncomfortable. Scott had told us what time he would have breakfast ready for us before retiring for the night. Well, when Scott got to our accommodations in the morning, he was surprised to find me pulling the last of the eggs off the griddle and Kim buttering the last of the toast. We solidified the plan for the day over breakfast.

On the drive to Scott’s area, I was amazed by the sheer number of bears we spotted, both black and grizzly. I could have just sat and watched them all day. They fascinate me. Intelligent, inquisitive, and absolute masters of their domain. Capable of a gentle touch with their cubs or bone shattering power at their whim. We pulled onto the powerline cut where Scott had last sighted “my bear” and began glassing. Three sets of eyes looking for one bear.

I immediately took notice of the amount of dead ground not visible to us even in our elevated position. Being a flatlander, I know how little dead ground a whitetail needs to sneak right past the wariest of hunters. These dips were more than deep enough to hide a bear. As we glassed and picked up bears, I would ask Scott, “What about that one?!” like a little kid picking a puppy. “If that’s the one you want, we can make a play on him, but I don’t think he’s your bear.” I’ve never field judged a bear, and Scott had been keeping tabs on “my bear” so I deferred to his seasoned opinion. Lunch time rolled around, and tummies started to grumble. Sandwiches appeared from seemingly nowhere and were devoured as quickly as they appeared. Summer sausage, some tomato, and a little lettuce. Delicious.

I’d had a bad experience eating goat while deployed to Afghanistan. Even more than 20 years later, the smell still made me gag and should it touch my lips, something reminiscent of a scene from “The Exorcist” occurs. The home-made summer sausage that I had enjoyed in the sandies—mountain goat. I admit, the sausage was phenomenal, but it took me a while not to gag thinking about what I had just eaten. Scott almost seemed offended at my reaction until I recounted my goat story. It became a running joke for the rest of the trip as Scott and my own wife tried everything they could to feed me more goat. A lot of glassing and a little napping ended Day 1 of the hunt.

Scott’s wife Kayla must be a master wild game chef. Although she could not join us on the hunt, she left us prepared meals that only required a quick warm up after returning from a day’s hunt. A slow-cooked casserole of moose covered in gravy hit the spot after a day of strained eyeballs and hardcore napping. Only later did I learn there was goat in the casserole as well. At least, that’s what Kim and Scott had me believing.

The next morning was much the same as the first; breakfast, a little travel, and glassing the cut. Mid afternoon we spotted the arched back of a black bear headed towards us about 1000 meters down the cut. I’d read books and watched expert videos on field judging black bears in preparation for this hunt, and even my untrained eye could see this was an absolute tank headed our way. All three sets of eyes were on this giant as he leisurely lumbered in our direction, stopping only to graze on fresh shoots. Right away, Scott recognized “my bear.” Adrenaline started pumping and a plan was quickly devised. We made our way to the next trail over and started working our way toward the flank, playing the wind perfectly; we held short of the cut where we expected the bear to be. We stopped back from the edge of the treeline and tried to locate him. We’d either over shot, undershot, or he’d changed direction and was staying in the low ground. Hills that look small through binos have a habit of getting much larger and steeper as you walk them. We made our way down the cut staying low and quiet, looking for him, to no avail. It was a nice walk, and I was introduced to the Devil’s Club plant with its irritating thorns. I was crest fallen. We’d lost him.

Slowly making our way back to the truck we checked every bit of low ground on the way. How does an animal that big just disappear? Scott can track, I can track, but the bear had left nothing. No scat, no claw marks, no hair, no trail of chewed grass shoots. I was a little pouty when we got back to the truck. In my experience with whitetail, I knew you get one chance and that’s it. He was gone. The decision was made to drive down the cut as far as possible just to see what we could see. My attention was waning as we picked our way down. As we approached the position where we thought the bear should have been initially, my wife yelled, “BEAR!!! RIGHT SIDE!!!” My head snapped around just in time to see a large fuzzy backside disappear over a small ridge. He had spotted us and was on the move.

I was the one with the gun and the last one out of the truck. Scott and Kim were already on the back side of the ridge when I caught up to them. The bear had made his way across the low ground and was on the forward slope of the next ridge moving left to right. This was the bear we were looking for. He knew we were there and could not have cared less. I got my breathing under control and found a stump I could brace against. I needed this shot to be perfect. The bear slowly meandered left to right behind a line of small willows. I followed him in my optic and waited for the perfect opportunity. My .270 was zeroed bang on at 100 meters and I estimated the shot at 120 meters. A true chip shot. I’m not one to toot my own horn but shooting was a big part of my career, and I knew how dangerous overconfidence could be. I waited. The bear stopped between a small gap in the willows and looked directly at me. He seemed to be saying, “Are you going to do something or are you just going to stand there and stare?” I saw my opportunity and I took it. I don’t remember actually touching off the shot. I’ve adjusted the trigger on my .270 so light that it may go off if you look at it the wrong way. I heard the impact and knew the round was perfectly placed. As I chambered another round just in case, the bear arched, turned 180 degrees, ran 20 feet, and disappeared.

We waited and listened. And then there it was, the death moan. We made our way to the top of the bluff the bear had fallen from, trying to locate it in the forest below, without luck. I laughed to myself as I thought about having to drag this bear back up to the truck. A lot of times, if I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any. This was just par for the course. But it didn’t matter. This was my first bear and what a bear it was. We picked our way down the steep and slippery shale escarpment locating the bear 10 meters inside the pines at the bottom, piled up flat on his stomach.

Shooting optics and adrenaline can play tricks on a hunter. They can make a small animal look big and a big animal look small. As I picked my way through the pines, I realized the latter to be true. A massive pile of shiny black fur was sprawled out in front of me. When I make a shot on an animal, I go “cold” – there is no emotion, only focus on the task at hand. As my adrenalin slowly wore off, the smile on my face got bigger and bigger. This was my first bear. A giant BC coastal black bear with a big white chevron in the middle of his chest. “Chevy” the chevroned bear.

It’s been said that the work in a hunt doesn’t start until after the animal is down. I find this to be absolutely true. At least there were three of us to haul this beast to the truck. Scott made quick work skinning and quartering as Kim and I ferried the cuts back up the bank. I still thank Scott for introducing me to the beauty of Havalon knives. By the time we got back to town and had the bear in the freezer it was well after 1 in the morning, and we were all exhausted.

The next couple of days were well-deserved sleep-ins and – another first! After a lazy morning, we decided to fill the rest of the day checking Scott’s crab traps. Something flatland prairie boys don’t often do. We were pleased to see we had caught just enough for dinner. After collecting the traps, Kim and I explored the town. Stewart has an interesting economy built around mining, lumber, shipping lumber, some fishing and, to my surprise, tourism. We visited the local grocer/bakery/coffee shop and explored the town. Plaques have been placed on the historic buildings and give visitors a real sense of what the town must have been like during booms. Once a rough and bustling port, life in Stewart seems to have slowed considerably and now moves along at a more relaxed pace. Everyone we met was very friendly and seemed to genuinely enjoy having visitors. We used the couple of days we had to unwind, relax and reflect. This was the end of a career I had dedicated my whole adult life to. I couldn’t think of a better way to end it.

Our time in Stewart sadly came to an end and we had to pack up to head home. My plan was to freeze the bear and put it in coolers for the two-day trip home. The truck was packed and it was time to pull the frozen bear from Scott’s freezer. I pulled a quarter, examined it carefully, and thought, “There is no way this is fitting in a cooler.” Indeed, I was correct. Robert Burns, the famous Scottish poet, writes in his poem To a Mouse: “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” No truer words have been spoken regarding this situation. Scott, Kim, and I stood there looking at the coolers scratching our heads. Sixteen-plus hours home with an overnight stop, this bear needed to stay frozen. The idea of using a chainsaw to trim the frozen quarters to cooler size was suggested and immediately rejected. I’ve always said, “Solutions, not problems” and now was the time to put my money where my mouth was. “Scott, how much do you want for the freezer?” A price was settled on and the freezer with frozen bear inside went into the back of the truck. Kim and I decided to make a ‘cannonball run’ for home as to not chance losing any of the prize we had come so far to get. Sixteen straight hours all the way home in one shot. Motrin was my best friend during, and for a few days after that trip. We pulled into our driveway in the early morning hours and plugged the freezer in, still in the bed of the truck. I planned to deliver the meat to the butcher later in the morning and the hide to my regimental brother and taxidermist Chris with Coulee Creek Taxidermy a couple hours east of home later in the day.

A year later and “CHEVY the chevroned bear” came home to where he belongs, gracing the floor of our living room in front of the fireplace, a treasured memento and reminder of a long career filled with “firsts.” I have yet to get Chevy’s skull officially measured; however, rough measurements show that he is more than big enough to be Boon and Crockett certified. I’ll get to it someday but, it’s not really important. What is important is the adventure, the firsts, and the team you choose to surround yourself with.

Thank you, Kim, for understanding how important this was to me and thank you Scott, Kayla and family at Miller’s Outdoors for these cherished memories. We will see you again soon.