The bear walked with deliberation to my tree and studied me intently through the bottom grate of the stand. As he stood up on the tree, I reached for the pepper spray. Black bears can climb ten feet per second. The quick math said at fifteen feet, I would be sharing my stand with an overly inquisitive bear in a second and a half. Fortunately for me, his curiosity was satisfied from the ground. He ambled over to the bait drum, looking back over his shoulder only to make sure I was sufficiently aware of my position as a second string predator. 
 
Eventually, the bear tired of the effort required to claw the bait from a small hole in the drum, and disappeared silently into the lengthening shadows. The mercury fell and I slipped on my wool shirt and exchanged my ball cap for knit hat. Then he appeared. His muscles rolled beneath a glossy, ebony hide, his head was broad and creased, and he stunk of attitude. I barely noted his shoulders were taller than the barrel before he effortlessly upturned it. Unlike today’s earlier pesky bear and yesterday’s sow and young boar, I did not warrant even a casual glance from this bear. “Concern” was, without doubt, a word dropped from his vocabulary long ago. 
 
Satisfied this was the bear that two years of planning, hundreds of practice arrows and a two thousand mile journey were destined for, I picked my spot and released, fully expecting the arrow to zip through the same place on live animal as it did countless times on my now worn foam bear in the backyard. But some cruel witchcraft caused the arrow to strike much higher than intended, through that ineffective area between spine and vitals. Personal disgust, ineptitude and remorse accompanied the now retreating bear followed by a silent plea that he return to replay the scene that would conclude with a better ending.
 
Then, incredibly, my wish was granted. The sounds of his departure abruptly stopped and to my complete shock I heard brush parting and sticks cracking. He had turned around. As he came into sight, I noted the absence of my arrow, but I was certain it was the same animal. Was he simply unfazed by my first shot or seeking revenge? At that moment, it didn’t matter. At thirty yards I let him pass. When he doubled back and crossed a shooting lane at fifteen steps, I took him tight behind the shoulder. 
 
The big bear roared in surprise, crashed away through the thick cover, and then silence. I listened closely for the infamous ‘death moan’ that indicates a well placed shot but instead heard a distant outboard and guide Larry Gardiner on the two way indicating it was pick up time. With a dry mouth I informed him that I had a bear down and to wait, but with light failing Larry opted to take up the trail immediately. Only minutes had passed but he was the guide and who was I, the greenhorn bear hunter, to argue? As he tied off the skiff and racked a round in the back up gun, I relayed the turn of events.
 
We were encouraged by promising blood on both sides of the trail but instead of locating a fully expired bear, we found a heavy black body moving in the dense brush ahead. Larry wisely motioned to back out. Even though he had halted a charging grizzly from mere feet away up in the Northwest Territories, he knew there is a distinct difference between self-defense and foolhardiness. As there were no sounds of escape, Larry felt the bear was hard hit and would be there in the morning. I reluctantly agreed as we boarded the boat for camp. 
 
As Larry pulled away and turned the boat towards camp, he suddenly blurted out, “There he is,” pointing to the dying bear prone on the bank, a coal black form in the gathering darkness. Larry encouraged me to finish what needed finishing but in the second frustrating episode of the day, my arrow hit the one skinny sapling that stood between my bow and the bear’s chest. I could blame the next two misses on limited light, brushy conditions and balancing on the bow of the boat. But truth be known, by then my nerves had crumbled. We slowly backed out and left the one good arrow to do its work. Departure was bittersweet. The story was told back at camp with Larry predicting a successful recovery in the morning, however my own uncertainty produced a fitful night’s sleep. 
 
Summer nights are thankfully brief in the far north and dawn lit two boats skimming across a blue sheet of glass under a cloudless, pale sky. The optimism of my companions should have been contagious, but I could not fully share their enthusiasm until I knew the bear was mine.
 
7:00 a.m. June 1st, 2005
 
Forty-five minutes from camp, the lake tapered to a narrow finger and Larry cut the engine. As we drifted towards the scene abandoned just hours before, we anxiously began scanning the shoreline. The bear, just as Larry predicted, had not moved again from where we left him. 
 
Epilogue:
 
At the skinning tent, we learned the killing shot was indeed through the forward vitals. On a deer or hog the arrow would have been immediately effective, but with bears it is said to aim for “the middle of the middle,” or half way up the body and half way back. Good advice that I shall heed on future hunts. Removing the hide also revealed a perfect broadhead slice beneath the vertebrae, confirming my conclusion this was in fact the same bear.  
 
A baited bear hunt is no slam-dunk by any means. Bears can work the bait without offering a shot, one could just plain miss and sometimes they just don’t cooperate. These are free ranging animals that make their own schedules. Ultimately, however, patience should provide an opportunity. 
 
On this hunt several factors led to taking a Pope and Young animal. I passed on several smaller bears. I had the fortune of reconciling a potentially unpleasant situation with good luck and a good shot. And I followed my guide’s advice to back off when we needed to. 
 
 I would not currently, if ever, consider myself a trophy hunter. But prior to the hunt I had read enough articles and watched enough videos to know that the possibility of taking a fully mature animal under these circumstances was quite probable and the biologically correct management decision as well. 
 
A freezer in camp ensured the meat from this animal was frozen adequately to survive the trip home and has since provided many meals of delicious meat for my family and friends. A respectfully posed, full body mount of this outstanding animal now graces my home and will provide endless memories of our adventure. 
 
For those readers interested in such matters, my bear was aged at 15 years, weighed approximately 350 lbs and dry scored 19 6/16 inches.