“Hold it! We’ve got a bear down there!” hollered my Dad from the back of the truck.
It all started when my family and I went to British Columbia, to attend the annual Guide Outfitters Association of British Columbia. I was accepting an award that my sister had received two years prior. Within getting the award, there was also an auction full of hunts. My Dad, who was left in the ballroom, unsupervised, bought this black bear hunt, for the two of us, on Vancouver Island.
Several weeks later, I found my self in a Chevrolet, driving logging roads, looking for anything black that moved, and singing along to every country song on the radio. It was beautiful, luscious, rugged country. With the ocean just a few miles away from us, we were on what most people would consider paradise. We had both: the ocean, and the mountains! How could anything get better!
After several days of stalking “almost shooters” we came across my boar. We were driving at a brisk speed, right by this meadow that dips down into green grass and new trees. My dad had spotted the bear and asked our guide, Glen, to clarify if he was a shooter. While Glen was scoping him out (looking for the signs of a big boar, I was getting ready. I put two shells in my .260 and slammed the bolt down and put the safety on. Then Glen, trying to hide his excitement, said, “this is the boar we’ve been looking for, let’s get him!” I quickly became situated on Glen’s shooting sticks, but to my dismay, there were branches in the way. I then positioned myself in the back of the Chevy and got as steady as I could.
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