“Sometimes it isn’t being fast that counts, or even accurate; but willing.”
John Wayne
The air felt cold on my cheekbones as the light was beginning to fade. I was looking out into the Northern woods in that magic week between summer and winter that we call autumn. The pines stood fast with their green needles while the ferns wilted and the hardwoods unveiled their fall colors.
I love bowhunting because it puts me in places like this. No phone signal, no people, no noise. Instead my ears were filled with the music of nature with a babbling river just ahead of me, and all the birds and squirrels around me. Nothing to do but to sit quietly and be.
This was my second day of the trip, my second day ever hunting black bears in the Northwoods. Over the previous few hours a little misting rain started and stopped a few times, the last time it turned into tiny snow crystals before it stopped. I enjoyed hours of just feeling those sensations on my skin, listening to those sounds, taking in the view, and tasting the delicious purity of the air.
I had booked this as a vacation and I had six more days to enjoy this hunt, as long as I didn’t screw that up by killing a bear.
About half an hour before dark I watched a bear materialize just across the river. He was very close, and I still have no idea how he appeared there without me detecting his absolute blackness in woods devoid of that color.
Sometimes when I first see an animal I’m not sure if I will take a shot if one is presented or not. I usually get pretty philosophical about the local herd levels or the family structure of the group I’m looking at. Sometimes I know instantly that I will pass on a particular animal. I’d guess that for every hundred animals I see when hunting, only maybe ten get within my ethical range for my longbow. Of those ten I probably only draw an arrow once or twice.
This was one of those very rare occasions where I knew instantly that this bear would be coming to me, and I would shoot him. The moments between the sighting and the shot can be long minutes sometimes.
I watched him cross the river. I watched the water drip off his long black hairs on the near bank. I watched him watch the woods. Through one squinted eye hiding under the brim of my hat, I watched him see me. He sat and watched me for a long time, and I never let a muscle twitch. He started to circle around me to see me from different angles. We were sharing a connection. He circled around and after several minutes he walked straight to the base of the tree I was in, and he got up on his back legs to sniff the bottom of my boots. My stand was only eight feet off the ground.
Part of me loved having another very close encounter with a bear in the wild. Especially being a black bear this time. That part of me wanted him to run away. That part knew I would soon kill this animal.
Some hunters tell me that have no inner struggle with ending an animals life. I do. I hope I always grapple with it a little bit. To live on this planet, animals die for humans every day. I think the real tragedy is that so many humans will never understand what their impact is.
As this bear walked out to my ideal range of eight yards and turned sideways, I felt he was offering me a gift. My duty was to make this as swift and painless as it could be. He lunged forward after my arrow went through him, after a couple bounds he looked around in circles trying to figure out what just happened. After not seeing any signs of immediate danger, he laid down and looked at his side where the exit wound was. He tried to stand up and fell over dead.
Death in nature is usually prolonged and ugly. Starvation, disease, injury, or being eaten alive by a predator. The part of me that struggles with killing animals also knows I must eat. That part of me is comforted by knowing that this bear died in the best way I can offer.
Steaks and roasts from this bear have now been served to more than ten different people, and has nourished my own body on several occasions. I find myself grateful with each bite. This connection to my food is why I went back to hunting.