By Christine Cunningham, for the Redoubt Reporter
Every person who thinks he or she has a fair grasp of the truth of things must one day be proven wrong. My day to be proven wrong came on my first mountain bear hunt.
It was the spring of 2008 and my hunting buddy had spotted a big boar on a grassy knoll. He handed me the binoculars. Yup, it was a big ol’ black bear. “Let’s go!” I said.
He looked at me as if I had just said, “Let’s jump over the moon.”
“That bear is a mile away,” he said.
I pointed to the mountain, “We’ll run up that hill, skirt the bench and drop down on him,” I suggested. This is the point in the story where it’s important to note the difference between a good guide and the person who has showed me everything I know about hunting and fishing. A good guide will take care to explain why something is not a great idea. My hunting partner has a streak of, “Let’s wait and see who’s right about that.” Looking up the grassy mountainside, I envisioned myself as a miniature Julie Andrews. I would be swinging my arms with breath to belt, “The hills are alive with the sound of music!”
“Let’s go,” he said.
I followed him as he made a zig across the first incline. I followed as he made a zag. This is how the miners made their way up mountains, I thought casually. Not so hard without provisions.
The next few zigs and zags came and went. Two errors became evident to me — this was not a hill and I was not going to run up it. Still, the vertical fields of wild geranium and the smell of mountain air were enough to take my breath away. Something was taking my breath away. I began to wonder when it would be an appropriate time to call for a break. My pack and rifle were too heavy for me to swing my arms inanely whilst professing that the hills are alive … .
Then came the shale. Hiking boots are not made that can adequately navigate mountain slate that’s been waiting a hundred years like a loose tooth waiting to be pulled. As the author of this idea, I had to see it through, at least to phase II, which required skirting the tree line. I looked through the binoculars and found the bear to be moving away from our general direction.
He was walking on shale and jaunting upward with ease. But I didn’t give up yet. We followed the bear across three valleys and lost him in a grove of trees. My sides ached, a blister was developing on my right heel, my socks had fallen into my arches, my gun had gained 20 pounds. My hunting partner seemed unfazed. He almost seemed smug.
“Maybe,” I said, “it’s not as easy as I thought.”
Some days you get the bar and some days the bar has a mile head start and you’re just a girl with too many musicals running through your brain and not enough common sense about footwear.
It was another case of a great day without success, as defined by trophies won or lost. That day, and days like it, stand out to me as my greatest experiences in the field. When I finally get something right, it is better because of all the times I got it wrong. The hours spent are an investment into the total worth of the outcome.
This year I went out on a boat with friends for the dual purpose of testing the boat and scouting for bear. My eyes were sore from glassing and the crew was disappointed when we were “pulled over” by Alaska State Parks officials who only checked our life vests when days of preparation would have proved we’d done a hundred other things right. The Parks boat sped away from us, and then came to a sudden stop.
We all glanced up at the mountainside their boat faced. White dots lined the cliffs. About 20 Dall sheep dappled the rocks. I looked through the binoculars and took pictures with the zoom on my camera. It’s not the greatest camera, but it can zoom 15x, and I’ve learned how to adjust the dial to “Auto.”
Photo courtesy of Christine Cunningham. A Dall lamb peeks out from under its mother on a mountainside above the Kenai River.
At the end of the day, without seeing a bear, I was glad to have at least gotten outside. I uploaded my photos to my computer and found something I hadn’t seen. Dall lambs are born in May or early June. Near the time for lambing, the ewes seek a protected spot that is safe to birth their lambs. The rugged cliffs we’d seen that day were a birthing area, and peaking out between the legs of his momma was a little guy with the face of a disgruntled cotton ball.
Every person who thinks he or she has a fair grasp of the truth of things must one day be proven wrong. And it was brought to my attention recently in the form of a friendly reminder: “Has it ever occurred to you that you’re only right 90 percent of the time?”
At first I flinched at the proposition. It’s my position to stay above 90. But the 10 percent of the time I’m wrong, it’s the best kind of wrong — the kind that brings about a world of surprise and greater understanding. And, if I thought about it, 90 percent was probably generous.
Christine Cunningham was born in Alaska and has lived on the Kenai Peninsula for the last 20 years, where she enjoys fishing, hunting and outdoors recreation. She can be reached at duckoholic@gmail.com.
