During the summer of 2008, my cousin Barney and I planned a camping trip that would involve us flying our airplanes out to a gravel bar we spotted earlier that summer on the Big River, about 25 miles southeast of McGrath. It was a busy summer of flying for both of us; at that time we were flying for two different air taxis in McGrath. Not finding any good block of time off in the near future, we finally decided to go camping on a weekday. We would depart after work and head back home early the next morning as my first charter was around 7:30am. I loaded up my Cessna 182 with my girlfriend Crystal and our two dogs, Cavu and Max. Barney, his wife, and two daughters piled into his Cessna 172, and we all departed on a beautiful summer evening on the 18-minute flight.
When we arrived at the gravel bar, which was close to 1,000 feet in length, I circled overhead as Barney landed without a problem. I landed soon behind him after one go-around, having floated a bit farther than I'd like. One thousand hours in a Cherokee 6 and nearly 0 in my Cessna 182 during the last 12 months was starting to show. The Cherokee 6, which I called "My Office," landed so fast it would probably run off the end of this gravel bar with enough speed to skip across the water and impact the opposite river bank like a torpedo (It was no bush plane. Yep, I'm a Cessna fan, through and through.)
Once on the ground and shut down, I opened the doors and the dogs immediately took off in different directions following their noses. We set up camp and got busy lighting a fire. We also fired up a small camp grill to whip up an excellent steak dinner. When the chow was done, I called both dogs over and tied them to the end of a log next to the campfire while we all ate. Once we all had our fill, we realized we should have brought a deck of cards or something, and it started to look like it might be a boring evening. Everyone began doing their own thing while Crystal and I sat next to the fire with the dogs still tied up next to us. Barney and his older daughter were at the edge of the river skipping rocks, and his wife and younger daughter had gone back into the brush behind us to the ladies' room. It was a nice, quiet evening. The only sounds were the birds singing and the river flowing nearby.
Suddenly, there was commotion across the river about 200 yards away that grew into a great ruckus of crashing tree limbs. Something was running through the dense brush and coming towards us. Barney and his daughter stood motionless at the water's edge as we waited to see what it was. In a flash of brown, a moose calf with enormous eyes appeared and began running downstream along the top of the riverbank. Hot on its heels was a huge grizzly. Mesmerized by the drama unfolding before us, we watched in awe as the bear, in a dead run, glanced over at our camp. Almost doing a double-take, it made a 90-degree turn, leapt into the river, and began swimming hard towards us. Immediately it was apparent he was coming over to check out the dinner menu, no longer interested in the fast food, which by now had disappeared into the woods.
Barney and his daughter turned and began to run towards me, as his .30-06 rifle was propped up against the log next to me. I usually carry a .44 revolver with me, but it was in my flight bag in one of the Cherokees back in McGrath. Instead, I had brought along my 9-mm pistol, figuring we wouldn't see anything, and if we did that perhaps emptying the 14-round clip ought to do the job. The problem was it was still in the 182. I began running back to the airplane, which was quite a sprint from the campfire. Barney hollered that he had his .41-caliber pistol in the 172, which was closer, so I grabbed that instead. I started running back just as the bear reached our side of the river and began bounding up toward the girls.
Tensions ran high as I stood next to Barney and we took aim. With adrenaline coursing through our veins, we hoped we would not have to shoot. We were all hollering at the bear, which was still approaching. Crystal's dog Max, an intimidating 80-pound Siberian Husky, began barking. The bear stood up about 75 yards away and I could tell it was at least a good foot or more taller than my 6-foot, 3-inch frame. Cavu, my lab-husky mix, laid down behind Max and tried to become invisible. She would never pick fights with bigger animals, and frequently laid down at my feet when frightened. She was a guard dog in the house, though, and no strangers were allowed in when she was on duty.
The bear was sniffing the air and looking at us curiously. We knew it could smell our dinner. In another second, the bear dropped down and charged the girls. My cousin let off a shot which caught the bear in the left shoulder, spinning it around, and it began retreating. Not wanting to waste pistol ammo on long-range shots, I stayed close to Barney as he ran toward the bear, trying to finish it off while it was swimming away. He fired multiple times with no success as the bear reached the opposite bank and disappeared into the woods. We were all left standing on the gravel bar in disbelief, the entire event lasting less than five minutes. That's when we noticed the iron sights on the .30-06 were slightly off, explaining the wild shots. In a few moments Barney's wife and younger daughter approached from the brush behind us, having missed the show.
I let the dogs loose and Max immediately ran over to sniff the bear tracks. He then went on to mark a perimiter around the entire gravel bar. Cavu wouldn't leave my side and we settled down for the night, with Barney's daughters sleeping in the 172 and he and his wife in a tent next to the airplane. When Crystal and I climbed into our tent, I realized that our "new" yard-sale tent had a faulty zipper. After the first "Zzzt-zzzt-ZZZT!" and subsequent "Awwww crap!" we could hear a passing mosquito sound and soon hordes of the little bloodsuckers were swarming in. I ended up grabbing a roll of duct tape from the 182 (never leave home without it!) and sealed us in.
The next morning dawned overcast as Cavu woke us up by breaking through our duct-tape barrier and announcing it was time to feed the dogs. We took down the tents, finished cleaning up camp, and departed for home. I had a few flights to do that morning, and by 1 p.m. Barney and I were in his 172 heading back to the gravel bar with Max and an inflatable raft onboard. We were going to find that bear, hoping it was dead.
We arrived to a gravel bar that was quiet. Too quiet. After inflating the raft while looking nervously over our shoulders, we paddled over to the opposite bank. Max hopped out and was immediately hot on the trail. He disappeared into the woods while Barney and I got locked and loaded. We both brought .30-06s and I had my .44 holstered and ready for action. With much apprehension, we set off into the brush.
Max was running excitedly between us and some point ahead on the blood trail. We followed along for a while, ducking below brush, climbing over fallen trees, and trying to avoid the whipping willows that made incredibly loud noises as they brushed against our coats. We lost and found the trail a few times, and after a harrowing hike through some dark, dead-silent woods, arrived at a small slough. We walked along it until we found a fallen tree to walk across and returned to the point from which we had left the trail. Max sniffed around hurriedly but wasn't coming up with anything, so we followed the slough downstream until we arrived at the river again, about a half-mile downriver and around the bend from where we landed at. We had now been hiking through the woods for over an hour.
Still finding no sign of the wounded bear, we sat down and rested before battling back through the woods. Once we were back in the raft and paddling away, we were relieved. We tried to track it, but that bear was long gone. We loaded Max and our raft in the airplane and took off. We're pretty sure if that bear is still alive, it has our number, so we haven't been back there since.
Devon Holmberg is a 25-year-old commercial pilot based in McGrath. Holmberg grew up in Aniak and started flying when he was 12 years old. In an email, Holmberg said, "I love my job, and I'll never fly jet!"