Some of my hunting partners and I arrived at our hunting camp near Stockholm, Maine on Sunday, August 26, 2012 after a 12-hour, all-night drive from Delaware. To our surprise, the weather was unseasonable, with temperatures near 90 degrees.
We scouted some locations Sunday afternoon and hunted Monday morning. My guide, Gary Sweeney from Moose Country Guide Service, placed me in a ground blind about 35 yards from a bear bait barrel. Besides a giant raccoon, several chipmunks, and multiple red squirrels, I had no action in the morning and left the woods around 8:00 AM.
The rest of our hunting party arrived Monday around noon, and we all (including three U.S. veterans wounded in Afghanistan) went to our hunting sites around 2:30 PM. I was in the same blind as earlier that morning, and the sun was heating up inside of the blind like an oven. To prevent any animals from being able to see into the blind, I kept the back windows closed. The lack of a cross-breeze for ventilation contributed to the heat in the blind, but I was happy to be in the blind — for multiple reasons.
First, not one, not two, but three separate thunder, lighting, and rain storms pounded northern Maine. The blind kept me dry and out of the wind, while several of my companions had to battle the elements in tree stands.
Second, I had bear activity.
After the storms passed, the woods cooled down a bit, and the sun came out. Fighting the urge to nap, I kept my focus on the woods in front of the blind. About 6:10 PM, I saw a large, black mass move through the woods and realized a bear was heading toward my site. He was about 20 yards beyond the bait and in thick cover. As he approached the site, he made a snorting noise and bolted back into the woods. I could hear him move about 30 yards, then he seemed to stop.
I could not see him, but I knew he was still close. My heart was pounding, but his disappearing act helped to calm me. I was disgusted that he left, but I figured he would come back as long as nothing spooked him. I used the time to collect myself and to get the barrel of my Remington 870 slug gun rested on the blind window.
After about 10 minutes, the bear came back to the bait site.
He approached the bait barrel from the far side (i.e. the side of the barrel opposite of me), but I could tell he was a nice bear. His back was taller than the barrel, and he was a little longer than it. However. I had no shot while he was on the opposite side of the barrel.
He licked some pumpkin syrup from the top of the barrel, then he walked into the woods to my right and began circling the site. At one point, he walked straight toward me until he was less than 20 yards away. Not wanting to take a frontal chest shot, I let him go — hoping that he would go to the open side of the barrel to feed.
He walked back to the far side of the barrel, sat down, and began scooping bait out with one paw — still never presenting me a good shot at more than this his head or back.
He then stood up and walked to the front of the barrel.
My crosshairs were already situated at the front of the barrel, so as soon as he crossed into the scope, I squeezed the trigger. The Remington sabot copper solid slug hit him true, and he spun around and bolted away. I chambered another slug but had not shot before he disappeared from view. I heard him run about 15 yards and fall.
As this was my first black bear, I didn’t expect what happened next. Right after he fell, he barked/growled/yelled — loudly — about four times. Then there was silence. (I was later informed that this noise is referred to as the black bear death moan.)
I immediately called Gary and told him I shot one. I waited about 10 minutes, and then went to look for the bear. I found him in a small depression 15 yards from where I shot him.
Gary and I dragged him out on a black plastic sled, and checked him in at the local checking station the following morning. He was just over 200 pounds.