Dream hunts sometimes go awry, but the memories remain priceless

The silvertip grizzly appeared out of a patch of alders on the ridgeline across the mountain valley from where I sat, a young lad not yet a teenager watching for the big bull moose that lived there.

Nose to the ground, the bear shuffled along in no evident hurry, seeming to snatch blueberries from the edge of a small trickle issuing from a flat bog above. His belly hair dragged the ground, and his ears lay flat; he must be a big one, I thought.

Grizzly season wasn't open yet, but that didn't keep the excitement of seeing him in check. He appeared to be some 400 yards away.

For no other reason beyond that he was there and I was there and why not have a closer look, I dropped off the backside of the ridge and climbed to get above him. The early evening was still except for the occasional swirl of mountain air that can never be predicted, and so it seemed I had a fair chance of closing the distance.

Adrenaline throbbing through my veins made the steep slope an easy climb. It was late August, summer most everywhere else. But by then, the alpine splendor of Alaska exhibited a panorama of fall colors.

Reaching the spot where I could peer over and see the bear up close, I inched my way up.

In the ensuing years, there have been times when I was grateful to be alone in hunting country, but never to the degree I was at that moment, when the grizzly appeared 30 yards in front of me — in the embodiment of a porcupine.

Perception, it seems, is often influenced by desire and circumstance.

[Trying to make sense of Alaska's moose-hunting regulations]

Alaska Range foothills

The hunt had started eight months earlier, when I was enlisted to help my uncle strip and completely re-fabric the family Super Cub. It was an arduous project of stitching and coating that went well into the late hours of many evenings. The payoff would come later in the form of a moose hunt. A dream of taking a 60-inch animal haunted my waking hours.

When the plane was again airworthy in early June, we would fly across Cook Inlet to the foothills of the western Alaska Range. The sprawling wilderness, running the gamut from lowland spruce forest to alpine meadows, was home to moose, black and brown bear, caribou and Dall sheep.

We first spotted the bull moose early one morning in early August. From a half mile, his full-velvet antlers jutted out of the alder patch where he stood, like a lighthouse beacon in the fog. There are big moose that you look at and spend some time wondering if they'll break the magic 60-inch mark, and there are others where the only question is how much bigger than 60 inches he'll be. This bull was one of those.

We saw him within a couple hundred yards of the same spot on several early morning recon flights. It was clear the valley would be his home until fall lust drew him down from his mountain lair. A semi-flat slope less than a mile away proved a good landing strip for the Super Cub, a reasonable distance to pack him out.

Certain odds of success?

Aug. 19, the day before moose season opened, dawned clear with a promise of staying that way for a couple of days. At midday we headed west and landed on the strip. I had my rifle, a sleeping bag, a plywood military pack board, a knife, and a candy bar would hold me overnight. As he jumped into the plane, my uncle said, "I'll be back in the morning to help pack him out."

The humbling by the porcupine didn't take the spring out of my step as I headed back to "camp." By then, evening approached, and I would watch the valley hoping to see the big bull come out at dusk and reassure the near-certain odds of success come morning.

I settled in a comfortable depression on the ridge to watch for the big bull. Soon I was deep in thought, or at least what passes for that in 12-year-old boys. I likened myself to a young Selous, or Bell or perhaps even Samuel Baker, hunting wild beasts far from civilization.

The sun had dropped below the horizon of the mountains, leaving an evening glow that blanketed the countryside as I sat and watched. And then I heard, a long way off in the distance to the east, the unmistakable drone of a small plane. Closer and closer it came, headed right for my perch on the ridge. When it was nearly upon me, I stood up in time to see the same red and white Super Cub that had brought me.

Odd, I thought, as the plane headed north toward the landing strip. I wondered if something had happened at home. The plane banked and circled an area closer than the original strip, and when I saw the flaps come down it was evident my uncle had found a spot closer to land. A few minutes after the plane dropped below the horizon, I started toward where it had landed. I hadn't walked more than a couple hundred yards when I saw an orange ball streak into the sky.

There is no ambiguity when a flare goes up in the Alaska wilderness. Trouble was on the horizon, and I quickened my pace. Halfway to the plane, I met my dad, threading his way through the alders, a welcome sight as he seemed to be in fine condition.

"Sorry," he said, "Your mother threw a fit when she found out you were over here alone and insisted that we come over and stay with you." My dad worked on an oil platform in Cook Inlet, and he hadn't gotten home until late that night. But mom, as moms do, was convinced I would perish if left alone in the wilderness.

[Despite recoil, Magnum rifles deliver potency and velocity]

Old bull

We headed back to my camp to retrieve my gear as dad told me how they had tried to land closer and everything was fine until a gust of crosswind pushed the plane sideways into a hummock just as they set down. The plane nosed over, bending the prop and collapsing the left landing gear, but no one was hurt.

Walking up to the downed plane, the thump-thump-thump of a big Sikorsky Air Sea Rescue helicopter drowned out our thoughts as it set down next to the crash site. With little fanfare, we loaded up, strapped ourselves in and were airborne in a minute, headed to the airbase in Anchorage. My hunt was over.

In the 40-plus years since, I've killed my share of moose, none of them meeting the magical 60-inch mark. Advancing years as much as anything has probably changed my sentiment of that failed trip. I think about that old bull often and wonder how he lived out his days in that lonely mountain valley.

Steve Meyer of Soldotna is lifelong Alaskan and an avid shooter. He writes every other week about guns and Alaska hunting. Contact Steve at oldduckhunter@outlook.com