Back to the Lake

by David Manson

• Alaska means different things to different people.

  Hunters, of course think of its

  wildlife and the challenges involved in getting there, living for too brief a time in

  their chosen area, stalking and bringing home a trophy and–more importantly–

  memories of the hunt.

  If you’re a sheep hunter, you no doubt remember scrambling across scree fields

  while praying not to be delivered up on the rocks below. Moose hunters may

  think about the time they dropped their trophy a little too far in the water. Those

  who’ve chased caribou in grizzly/wolverine country and haven’t been able to

  retrieve all meat by nightfall might recall covering it with one or two pieces of

  clothing and urinating around the meat site, hoping this would keep those critters

  at bay.

  The “Great Land”–as the indigenous people call it–has been in my blood since I

  first hunted there over 20 years ago and I often “re-visit” it in idle moments. My

  first hunt there was for interior grizzly in the Trapper Creek area, near Denali

  State Park. On the way to set up a blind on a river where bears had been taking

  salmon, I came out of the trees into a mile-wide delta with mountains and that

  immense sky in the background, and simply gasped in wonder at the sight of

  God’s creation. I’ve hunted elsewhere since that time, but this land keeps calling

  me back, and offering equally breath-taking experiences.

  I brought home a large black bear that trip–not a grizzly–but had to kill an

  enraged sow that took exception to our being in the same area as she and her

  two-year old cubs. Alaska Fish and Game got that trophy after we reported the

  DLP incident, but it’s part of my “first time” memories. Since that first experience

  I’ve been back a number of times, as well as taking my son fishing on Afognak

  Island and my daughter Caribou and Black Bear hunting out of Aniak. During

  those trips I’d been fortunate in that there had never been more than a day or two

  during which the weather could have been called, “typical Alaskan”–that is, rain

  unending. Sometimes we’d be delayed flying out of an area, but it had been

  smoke from fires that had prevented the bush pilots from picking us up, not

  weather.

  Six years ago, I decided to hunt an area where chances of taking a large Coastal

  Brown Bear were good, so I convinced a friend to partner with me on a hunt east

  of Cordova with George Siavelis. My daughter and I had hunted with George out

  of Aniak and had enjoyed the experience and his professionalism. Since then,

  he’d moved his operation to the area in which we’d be hunting. It sounded great,

  so we signed up. The day came when Perry and I flew to Anchorage and then

  Cordova where we met up with George. The weather was perfect that night as

  the three of us had dinner on the deck of the Reluctant Fisherman and discussed

  plans for the next 10 days. Other hunters were having similar conversations at

  other tables, so many of us ended up talking together, describing where we were
• headed and the game we hope to take. It was an evening filled with hunters’

  camaraderie and high hopes as we headed back to our rooms before flying out in

  the morning.

  George picked us up early and we loaded up the float plane that would take us to

  “The Lake”. Scenery–especially from the air–is spectacular in that area and we

  were treated to a beautiful day as we flew over the Copper River, parallel to the

  Wrangell mountains. If the pilot spotted an animal, he might descend for a bit so

  we could get a closer look. This only whetted our hunting appetite; we couldn’t

  hunt that day, but we could sure do some scouting!

   

  The float plane touched down, taxied to shore by camp and we unloaded our

  gear. When we were on shore with everything, the pilot fired up the engine,

  headed back to base and we were treated to the quiet of the wilderness.

  George’s camp is one of “minimal impact”, it’s difficult to see from the air–even if

  you know it’s there. There are two tents–one for George, with a large rain fly,

  which serves as the dining area–and another for the hunter(s). The tent Perry

  and I shared would be considered a four, or even 6-person tent. Room for all our

  gear, with two low cots to keep you off the floor. Comfortable, but certainly not

  plush.

   

  The Lake was our hunting grounds and we hunted from (inflatable) canoes.

  There are several inlets and one outlet, with bears appearing wherever they

  choose. We had breakfast the first morning and paddled to a glassing point that

  covered the east end of the lake. A number of bears–some with cubs –made

  their appearance. Perry and I were amazed to see so many bears and were

  convinced it was only a matter of time before both of us would be able to take a

  really good coastal Brownie.

  Unfortunately, this was not to be. Unbeknownst to us, a storm was gathering

  strength off-shore which would dump an unbelievable amount of rain in the area

  over the next ten days.

  Perry won the toss–he became designated hunter the first day. Nothing

  remarkable showed itself, so the role passed to me on the second day. We had

  plenty of time so, even though there were some “decent” bears, I let them pass.

  The heavens opened the third day and we retreated to our tents after the

  morning glassing. We remained tent-bound–with some intermittent glassing for

  the next week–during which time the lake rose approximately 20″ about normal.

  We read books, got lots of rest, talked about when the rain would quit, but didn’t

  see another bear. It was a day past the time we were to be picked up and a 3-
• hour window when the pilot could get in and we could get back to Cordova.

  Hurriedly we packed up camp–George was leaving for the season–and had it

  ready on the beach when the plane glided to shore. Tossing all the gear in the

  plane we flew back to Cordova, changed to fresh (?) clothes, and barely made

  the plane to Anchorage. Perry and I washed in the airport bathroom and caught

  our flight to the lower 48, disheartened that we hadn’t had many hunting days.

  My prior “sunny” experience with Alaska had been introduced to reality in one

  hunt.

  Fast-forward six years, with me walking off the plane in Cordova, looking for

  George in the group of people waiting at the bottom of the ramp. We shook

  hands, lied about how the other person didn’t look a day older than the last time,

  collected my gear and headed off to town, stopping on the way at the local range

  to check my rifle’s zero. I’d contacted him the year before and arranged for a

  hunt in September 2018 and was ready for my “rain check”.

  Just like six years before, we had dinner at the Reluctant Fisherman the evening

  before flying out. George and I swapped stories about hunting, his daughter, my

  kids and prospects for the next ten days and I allowed myself to become

  optimistic about tagging a good brownie. The evening wound down; I went off to

  my room and George to the campground. We’d meet early in the morning and

  head out to the lake.

  The next morning I scanned the sky for hints of the weather, remembering the

  flood of six years ago and hoping this trip would be different. We took off and

  flew the same route as before, over the Copper River delta through all that

  incredible scenery. We spotted several moose on the way and, while on the

  glide path to The Lake, flew over the carcass of a Brown Bear a client of

  George’s had taken earlier in the year. Unloading the plane and watching it take

  off, curiously, I wasn’t struck by deja vu as I’d anticipated. This was a different

  hunt–at the same place–and it would turn out “however”. Following dinner, I

  watched as the sun set, still illuminating the snow-covered mountain twenty miles

  north of us through low, scattered clouds, hoping for a sign of weather-to-be for

  the next 10 days.

   

  Morning came and following George’s excellent breakfast, we loaded the canoe

  and paddled to our first glassing location–a point that provided a clear view of the

  eastern half of the lake. We saw a sow and cub meandering along the shore in

  the direction we were headed, and made a mental note to watch for them as we

  came into shore. They weren’t at our glassing spot, but a bit of fur here and

  there on branches near where we set up attested to the presence of bears.

  The eastern half of the lake has several streams running into it and we watched

  throughout the morning as first one, then another bear appeared along the shore,
• or in the shallows of an inlet. By the time we headed back to camp for lunch,

  we’d seen 12 bears, 8 of which were legal (two sows and cubs weren’t). This

  was a good omen! Sitting glassing on the beach after lunch, I spotted another

  bear directly across the lake. I couldn’t tell if s/he was good-sized, but I could

  easily see a wide gash on its left flank that looked like the results of a fight.

  Enough hair had been removed that there was a light-colored crescent running

  from the top of its back to its belly.

  We headed to the west end of the lake after lunch to the outlet where bears

  walked the wide, shallow stream, searching for the fish coming into the lake. The

  outlet runs around a point as it empties the lake. Just before the point there’s a

  500-yard wide crescent of shallow water filled with reeds and other water plants.

  At the east end of the reed bed, a large dead tree floated in the water, directly out

  from shore. We tied the canoe to the snag and stood in the water next to it,

  glassing toward the outlet to our right.

  The afternoon went on and we heard several crashes in the willows without

  seeing the cause. Later we heard sounds of an animal heading our direction on

  the shore. A few moments later we saw first one, then a second two-year-old

  bear slowly stand and look our way, the expression on their faces seeming to

  say, “huh?” George yelled at them to get lost and they dropped to all fours and

  loped off into the bushes. Almost immediately we heard another bear (mama?)

  growling loudly, as if calling the cubs away.

  What a pleasant first day! It was coming on dusk and we had almost half the

  lake to paddle to get to camp, so we climbed into the canoe and headed out into

  the lake. As we cleared the edge of the weeds, George and I looked toward the

  outlet and immediately started back-paddling–there was a very large bear about

  200 yds away making its way out to the edge of the lake. I remember there

  seemed to be a halo surrounding it–more likely it was simply the late afternoon

  sun shining on its wet coat, but I prefer my memory.

  From relaxed to energized took a microsecond as we tied the canoe to the snag,

  grabbed our rifles and started the stalk along the edge of the lake. Both of us

  bent low, I followed George through the grass, putting the occasional willow

  between us and the last place we’d seen the bear. After having covered roughly

  a third of the distance, we risked a look and saw the bear beginning slowly to turn

  and head away from shore. Did he sense us? Maybe, but he wasn’t spooked

  yet, so we changed direction a bit and continued the stalk, stopping a few times

  to check on his location. At about 80 yards we stopped for another look. This

  time the bear was facing almost directly towards us, sniffing and seeming to

  sense something was amiss, but unsure because the wind was coming from him

  to us.

  The bear was now facing 10 or 15 degrees to our left, so I took aim just inside his

  left shoulder and slid off the safety. I remember thinking–as I started the trigger
• press–that this hunt would be even shorter than the last, and did I want it to be

  over that quickly? The sound of my 375 H&H answered the question and the

  bear did a 180. I fired again, almost hitting the exit hole from the first round. The

  bear dropped and George hit him with his 375, at which point the bear was

  motionless. He’d dropped in deep grass so we weren’t able to see if he was

  moving; the only thing visible was steam rising from his body in the cool evening

  air. The steam cloud stayed put so after a few minutes we moved closer and, in

  spite of seeing no sign of life, put a “finisher” in him. 

  George had said he was a very large old bear; this became evident as we

  examined him in lying in the grass–his head, claws and body were massive. I

  was particularly taken by the condition of his canines–the two top ones were

  badly chipped, to the point that the nerve was visible in both. His right, upper

  canine–being sharp where chipped–had caused a large area of thick scar tissue

  to form on the inside of his upper lip. This guy must have been in constant pain.

   

  There was still the paddle back to camp and it was getting darker, so we took a

  few pictures and reluctantly decided to leave the bear where he lay and return

  first thing in the morning. George thought it unlikely anything would disturb it that

  night; the only downside to the decision would be skinning the body with it in

  rigor. Waiting for sleep to come back at camp, I alternately relived the

  experience and worried that my bear of a lifetime would be in pieces when we

  returned. I eventually did sleep and was relieved to find the bear undisturbed

  when we returned the next morning.

  George is a master at skinning and the fine work required around the pads of the

  feet, so the hard work was soon complete–in spite of the stiff body. The head

  and wet hide of a bear this large weighs quite a bit and it was a struggle to get in

  the game bag, and the bag in the canoe. Back at camp we unloaded the skin

  and laid it out on the beach to salt and measure: 11′ by 10′ 4″ for a “squared”

  measurement of 10 feet, 8 inches.

   

  George called the charter service to see if we could be picked up the following

  day because, while the weather wasn’t hot and the salted skin would keep for a

  while, it would be good to get it on ice in Cordova. I’d already decided not to stay

  and fish, but would try to change plane reservations once back in Cordova and

  deliver the head and skin to Knight’s Taxidermy in Anchorage. I have several

  customers/friends in Anchorage and wanted to visit with them if timing of the

  flights back home worked out.

  The plane picked us up early the next afternoon and we headed back to

  Cordova. As we floated to the dock and started to unload, I noticed the sky

  beginning to cloud up and darken. We got the bear safely stored in the freezer at

  the charter service and loaded up George’s van for the drive to town and the

  Reluctant Fisherman, where I’d spend the night and start working on flights. I’d

  climbed into the passenger seat and George had started toward town when the

  first scattered raindrops hit the windshield and I realized the hunt hadn’t been

  rained out again and my “rain check” had come through!

  We had a relaxed dinner that night at the “Fisherman”, recounting the hunt to

  each other as we ate. Flight changes with both Alaska Airlines and Delta had

  worked out, so the next day George dropped me and the frozen bear hide/ skull

  at Cordova airport for the afternoon flight to Anchorage. I rented a car and

  headed to my motel; the bear had been consigned to Knight’s, so it would be

  picked up by them. The next morning was spent at Knight’s Taxidermy, making

  arrangements for the mount (standing, full-body mount in the “boxer” pose).

  Russell has large, very professional operation and graciously showed me

  through it, explaining each stage in trophy preparation.

  I visited with Jim West (Wild West Guns) in the afternoon, had a great steak

  dinner at Cafe Paris and boarded my plane for the lower 48 later in the evening,

  quite happy with my shortened–but very successful–hunt. And yes, Alaska still

  calls to me, and I will return another time.

   

  Completing a full-body mount usually takes 10 months; the skull of a trophy bear,

  however, is usually cleaned and sent to the hunter in half that time. In April I

  received a call from Knight’s that the skull had been returned from the “beetle

  farm”, but was in pieces. I wasn’t happy about this news and asked for an

  explanation. Knight’s secretary told me that it appeared the bear had been shot

  in the head and the skull fell apart when the beetles consumed the tissue holding

  it together.

  This didn’t compute as neither George nor I had hit it in the head. Knight’s

  manager followed up the call by texting pictures of the damage. It was my bear

  because the chipped canines were the same, so it hadn’t been mixed up with

  another skull. Knowing my disappointment, Russell spent a lot of time

  assembling the pieces and fabricating a missing section of mandible–and this

  just before he was to leave on vacation! He went above and beyond what was

  necessary and confirmed Knight’s reputation for customer service. It won’t count

  toward “book”, but I wasn’t interested in that–it now resides the cabinet with

  skulls from my other bears.

  So how did it get shot in the head? Upon receiving the skull, I compared it to a

  skull from a 3-year old Brownie taken on Kodiak–the picture shows the underside

  of both skulls. Note the hole and broken bone in the hard palate of the skull on
• the right. It appears a bullet entered at this point, but lack of an exit hole

  indicates it remained in the cranial vault. We’ll never know, of course, because

  it’s too late to search the beetle farm for a piece of bullet.

   

  The theory goes that, after the bear spun away from us following the first shot,

  we shot it just ahead of the rear leg because it was facing almost directly away

  from us. Shot at this angle, a bullet may have traversed three or four feet of bear

  and been held captive by the neck muscles, which guided it up the neck to the

  skull after it had lost much of its energy. This scenario accounts for the events,

  but whether it actually happened like this is anyone’s guess–as any hunter

  knows, bullets can and do strange things inside an animal’s body!