Chasing Bears, Finding Humility

By Jacob Robinson

I had been excited about that bear hunt for months.

As someone who had spent most of his life hunting whitetails and waterfowl, bear hunting with hounds seemed almost mythical. I had heard stories about the dogs, the mountains, and the physical demands of pursuing black bears through rugged country. It was a style of hunting completely foreign to me, and I couldn’t wait to experience it firsthand.

If I’m being honest, I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

In my mind, I pictured nonstop action, adrenaline-filled hikes, and hopefully an opportunity to harvest my first black bear.

The reality was very different.

Over the course of two days, we spent a tremendous amount of time driving on mountain roads trying to keep up with the dogs. There were periods where they would pick up a trail and work through an area before things would slow down again. It wasn’t the nonstop action I had imagined before arriving, but I was beginning to understand that this was simply part of bear hunting with dogs.

If I’m being honest, I started to wonder if we would ever actually see a bear.

The excitement I had brought with me never waned, but it slowly gave way to an appreciation for the patience involved in this style of hunting. Bear hunting with dogs wasn’t constant excitement. It was trusting the dogs, learning from experienced hunters, and understanding that the mountains operate on their own schedule.

As the first day went on, I found myself paying more attention to the people around me.

The older hunters moved through this style of hunting with confidence that only comes from years of experience. They understood the mountains, trusted the dogs, and never seemed rushed. There was a calmness to them that I admired.

Meanwhile, I was trying to absorb as much as I could.

I was learning the mountains.

I was learning the dogs.

I was learning that successful bear hunting had as much to do with patience and experience as it did excitement.

Toward the end of the first day, we hiked a couple of miles into an area where the hunters thought there might be recent bear activity.

Along the way, we came across a tree that had recently been scratched by, what I was told, likely a large black bear. Standing there looking at those fresh marks was exciting. After spending the entire day learning the mountains and trying to understand this style of hunting, it was a reminder that the animal we had come to pursue was very much a part of the landscape.

It also gave us reason to be optimistic.

We decided that we would start the second day hunting that same area.

On the hike back out, I found myself hanging behind the others for a little while.

I stopped along the forgotten logging road, pulled out a snack, and simply took in everything around me.

The mountains had physically humbled me throughout the day, but sitting there in the quiet, I found myself appreciating them in a way I hadn’t expected.

I had come on the trip excited about the possibility of harvesting a bear.

Instead, somewhere along that logging road, I realized that I was beginning to appreciate the experience itself.

The mountains.

The dogs.

The hunters who had spent decades learning this country.

I didn’t know it at the time, but my perspective on the hunt had already started to change.

By the time we made it back to the trucks, I was exhausted.

Despite spending a good portion of the day in trucks, the mountains had still managed to wear me out. Anytime we got out, the terrain had a way of reminding me that this wasn’t home. Everything seemed steeper than I was used to. There wasn’t much flat ground to be found. It felt like you were either climbing uphill or trying not to slide downhill.

I had always considered myself to be in decent shape.

The mountains didn’t care.

Despite the fatigue, I couldn’t wait to do it all again the next morning.

The second day started much like the first.

We continued driving mountain roads, staying as close to the dogs as we could while they worked different areas. There were moments where they seemed interested in a trail, only for things to slow down again.

Then, late on the second day, everything changed.

The dogs got onto a trail that felt different.

One of the dogs on the trail happened to be the one I was handling.

Even before things got really hot, that dog had a purpose. Every time he caught scent or thought he knew where he wanted to go, he pulled like he was the only one on the mountain who understood the assignment.

I learned quickly that when a bear dog decides it has somewhere to be, you’re mostly along for the ride.

The only name they called him was “The Big Brown One” and he pulled hard.

I did my best to keep up as he dragged me down the mountain into a holler. It wasn’t graceful, and I was quickly reminded that the mountains had a way of humbling you.

What made it even more humbling was watching another hunter navigate the exact same terrain with ease.

I later found out that he was in his seventies.

While I struggled to keep up, he moved through that country with confidence and efficiency. There were no complaints. No dramatic pauses to recover.

He simply kept moving.

The mountains were familiar to him.

After two days of anticipation, I realized I was finally about to experience the part of bear hunting I had been imagining for months.

I finally unsnapped the leash and turned The Big Brown One loose.

Then it happened.

I heard the dogs before I saw anything.

The bawling echoed through the timber, growing louder with every passing second. My heart immediately began to pound.

This was the moment I had imagined for months.

Then I saw him.

The black bear appeared moving through the mountainside roughly forty yards away with the dogs trailing behind.

Everything seemed to happen at once.

The excitement.

The adrenaline.

The realization that I finally had the opportunity I had come for.

The shot was there.

I wanted to take it.

But with the dogs behind the bear, and the caliber of rifle in my hands, I wasn’t comfortable with the shot.

So I lowered my rifle.

The bear disappeared through the mountain laurel while the dogs continued behind him. They never did get him treed.

At the time, I was disappointed.

After two days of anticipation and finally getting the opportunity I had hoped for, part of me wanted another chance.

Looking back now, though, I’m glad things happened the way they did.

Somewhere over those two days, something had changed.

Following those nameless dogs through rugged mountain country had given me a respect for black bears that I hadn’t anticipated. Watching the dogs work tirelessly, seeing the dedication of the hunters, and experiencing firsthand just how difficult this terrain could be had shifted my perspective.

I realized that the hunt had already given me everything I needed.

I had arrived excited about chasing bears with dogs, unsure of what to expect and hopeful for the opportunity to harvest my first bear.

Instead, I left with something much more valuable.

I gained a deeper appreciation for black bears and the incredible country they inhabit.

I gained a tremendous amount of respect for the dogs and the hunters who dedicate themselves to this unique tradition.

I was reminded that toughness isn’t measured by age after watching a man in his seventies navigate terrain that had humbled me.

Most importantly, I learned humility.

Hunting has a way of teaching lessons we never expect to learn. Sometimes those lessons come with a filled tag and a successful harvest.

Other times, they come from realizing that the experience itself is enough.

I never harvested a bear on that hunt.

But I don’t consider it a failure.

I came home with a deeper respect for black bears, the hunters, and the remarkable dogs that make this style of hunting possible. I gained an appreciation for mountains that humbled me in ways I never expected.

Most importantly, I learned that success in hunting isn’t measured by a filled tag.

Sometimes the experience itself is enough.

I went to the mountains hoping to take a bear.

Instead, I came home with perspective.

Looking back now, I wouldn’t change a thing.