Bill Orris and Loren Clark of Bradford dreamed of hunting black
bears in northern Canada.
A friend, Bob Zollingor from Randolph, N.Y., happened to guide
professionally in Ontario every fall and spoke to them of the
excellent hunting that area offered. It wasn’t long until Bill and
Loren made the decision to go and fulfill this life long
ambition.
Labor Day morning, at 3 a.m., Bill and Loren pulled out of
Bradford and headed north for adventure.
Their route led them to Buffalo, N.Y., across the Peace Bridge,
up the QEW to Toronto and then to North Bay – only 200 miles
remained.
Finally, after 14 long hours of driving, they reached their
destination, the Sportsman’s Lodge, about 5 p.m. They unpacked and
soon settled in.
About 9 p.m. a successful hunter returned to camp and excitedly
told them of the bear he had shot. As he left to get it, he
casually asked if they wanted to come along?
Sure, why not? Little did they know what they had gotten
into.
Another 20 miles of dirt road driving, then a narrow, rutted
track for four more. They parked, unloaded the four wheelers and
bounced another five miles before reaching the bear! The men then
had a terrible time wrestling the 318-pound bear on the
four-wheeler, when they reversed the process. Tired, dirty and
exhausted, Bill and Loren didn’t get to bed until 3 a.m.
At 6 a.m. the next day, the two hunters staggered bleary-eyed
from bed and repeated the process, only this time they were hauling
their own tree stands by truck and four-wheeler to their hunting
sites.
The terrain in this area of Canada is gently rolling, low hills.
Spruce, aspens and beautiful, slender white birches were the
predominant trees. The underbrush is so thick here that it is
almost impossible to see more than 30 feet in any direction. The
only possible way to shoot a bear is to clear a small area, put up
your tree stand and wait.
Bill hunted for four nights and never saw a bear. Other hunters
scored, but not Bill. Returning to his vehicle at dusk, Wednesday,
he noticed an unknown animal had left some large, indistinct tracks
all over his dust-covered truck, before sliding off a fender. What
in the world had done that?
The very next evening Bill noticed movement on the narrow trail
leading to his stand. As he watched, a Lynx stalked cautiously down
his footsteps. Soon the big cat, twice the size of a Bobcat, was at
the very foot of Bill’s ladder and looked like he was going to come
up and join Bill. Bill, normally a very sociable fellow, wasn’t
sure he like that idea and grabbed his rifle. The cats yellow eyes
bored into his, then, with apparent unconcern, the large tabby with
the curiously tufted ears, turned and vanished into the brush as
silently as he’d come. Only then did Bill notice he had stopped
breathing!
The last evening of the hunt came. Neither Loren nor Bill had a
bear and time was running out. Well, tonight would tell. Success or
failure depended on the last few hours of this day.
Bill took his stand and waited, hoping against hope. The sun
sank lower and lower into the sky, touched the jagged spruce tops
in a blaze of gold and red, then vanished behind them along with
Bill’s hopes. Just before total darkness the sudden report of a
rifle made him jump. Loren had bagged his bruin!
It was really dark now and just as Bill was about to stand up a
darker shadow appeared from the trees and then seemed to disappear.
Bill’s heart jumped into overdrive. He had already accepted
failure, was that fatal sentence to be reversed? Could it be?
He raised his rifle and looked through the scope desperately
searching the black mass of shadows. Like a phantom the bear
reappeared. He centered on the massive chest and squeezed the
trigger.
The Weatherby 300 magnum went off with a roar. The 165-grain
Nosler partition bullet, pushed by 76.5 grains of IMR 4831,
streaked toward the target, the darkness split by the bright,
clearly visible muzzle flash.
Bill jumped to his feet, climbed down and started toward the
bear, through the thick brush and darkness. Suddenly he stopped,
realizing he might be making a big mistake in his excitement. What
if the bear was only wounded?
Turning, he climbed back up into his stand and looked things
over more carefully. He found the bear in his scope again and was
startled to see him still moving! He aimed carefully and shot
again! Once more the crash of the rifle split the forest
silence.
The bear was safely dead when Bill reached him in the
darkness.
He had done it! He had scored at the last minute. He was elated,
almost in disbelief. Oh, the sweet rush of victory, flooding away
the bitter dregs of the defeat that weighed upon him, and how very
fortunate he had climbed back into his stand! A wounded bear in the
brush could have been fatal! His emotions were in a turmoil.
What a great trophy! The bear was an old, grizzled male, more
than 300 pounds. Scars covered his body and his huge head had seen
many a fight. Back at camp the guides said the bear was 15 years
old. Rare for a bear in the wilds.
Congratulations Bill, it was a very close contest in more ways
than one, but success was all the sweeter because of it.
