Catch and Release Bear Hunting |
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The bear’s eyes glittered maliciously as she stalked slowly towards me, her unflinching gaze locked with mine. I could see the rolling, supple movement of iron muscles below her jet-black fur and stared with terrified fascination as claws, sharp and long enough to shred a human’s face in a single swipe, sent stones skittering from her path. Lips curled back from her brown muzzle, baring fangs designed for crushing bone and flesh between powerful jaws, and that’s when I knew. It was either me, or my licorice. And by-gum, that licorice was mine.
Wildlife work always brings with it unexpected excitement. I think that's something that anyone who works with wild animals learns very early in their career, whether they be biologists, veterinarians, hunters, trappers, or wildlife photographers. If you are dealing with wild animals, you will find them to be unpredictable. Sometimes this leads to significant problems or even dangerous situations, and other times, it provides a fascinating look into the lives of these animals that few others have the fortune of experiencing for themselves. Either way, wild animals are never boring.
So, when my masters professor, Dr. Phil McLoughlin from the University of Saskatchewan, informed me that we would be heading about twelve hours north to try and dart a couple of black bears whose GPS collars had malfunctioned, I wondered just what we were in for. Hours later, the flat grasslands of the prairie were a distant memory; the mighty trunks of the boreal pines had begun to dwindle, and we found ourselves following a narrow gravel road surrounded by bog and gnarled black spruce. Here and there, disturbingly unmaintained bridges spanned stony streams where suckers fought their way upstream to spawn. Black bears, moose, and caribou were the largest denizens of this northern forest, but the caribou lived up to their moniker of “grey ghosts,” keeping out of sight in the vast scrubland of the bogs.
The agonizingly long drive was made more bearable (bear pun 100% intended) by the anticipation of the fieldwork ahead. We were working with Wilderness Family Outfitters, a northern bear and fishing camp, who was attempting to keep these bears in accessible areas until we could reach them. We knew that both bears had been hitting baits recently, and hoped that they would remain in the surrounding area for the next few days. Both bears were part of a black bear study that the McLoughlin Lab had begun a few years ago, which was itself a part of the lab’s larger woodland caribou study, and they had been equipped with GPS collars to allow us to track their movement and analyze any potential overlap they might have with primary woodland caribou habitat. Last summer, however, the collars had stopped working and we were no longer able to receive data from them. Since we had enough data for the project itself, when Wilderness Family Outfitters reported sightings of these two collared bears, we decided that it didn’t make sense to leave the collars on for any longer when we had the opportunity to remove them.
Bear Number 1:
And so, here we were, nearing the Northwest Territories border, preparing to go catch-and-release black bear hunting. By mid-afternoon, we were making our way into the first baitsite, following closely behind a three-year old male bear who had met us at the trail head and so thoughtfully chose to escort us to our destination. Loaded down with equipment for the intended evening sit and covered in mosquitos that we were unable to swat with our arms full, we finally rounded the final bend in the trail and saw the blue plastic of the bait barrel ahead. Our sighs of relief were bitten off in mid-breath however, at the sudden angry huffing that came from the bait as an unseen mother bear sent her twin cubs up a tree and turned to inspect us. We dropped our equipment and I readied the Just-In-Case shotgun. Luckily for us, Mama bear was suddenly distracted by the arrival of Bear Number Five, a very large boar.
She turned her fury on him, popping her jaws in a display of aggression, and charged. The silence of the woods was split by the sound of her snapping at the male’s heels, and branches the size of my arm shattered as the pair of bruins dashed down the ridge, one in fury and the other in abject terror. In the background, her cubs cried in alarm from their treetop, and finally, their cries seemed to pierce the rage-crazed mind of their mother, and she turned abruptly from her pursuit to return to the bait site. She stalked past us, barely giving us a look and once more took up her position of defense before the bait barrel.
The large male, noticing that he was no longer being chased, also turned around, making his way back towards the outskirts of the bait site, albeit in a very round-about way so as to avoid encountering the snarling, snapping banshee that awaited him there. His route, carefully directed to maximize the distance between him and the angry sow, inadvertently brought him close to us, however, and we suddenly recognized the tell-tale hint of a collar around his neck. Distracted as he was by his obvious conflicting desires to reach the bait, yet also avoid being torn limb-from-limb by the mother bear, the boar ignored our subtle movements as Dr. McLoughlin began to assemble the dart gun and tranquilizer darts.
Between the assembly of the gun and loading of the dart with drug though, the mother decided once again that the male had encroached too far on her territory, and charged once more at him. This charge, however, turned out to be merely a mock-charge, and she quickly returned to her position when the male backed down. The boar, apparently becoming frustrated with his inability to reach the bait, turned his attention to us. Still loading the dart, Dr. Phil ignored the approaching bear, focusing instead on completing the required preparation to dart the bear.
Apparently deciding that we were less of a threat than the angry female, and therefore more easily pushed around, the male’s slow walk suddenly shifted into a burst of speed as he charged. I closed the chamber of the shotgun and brought it to my shoulder. The grating rasp of the closing pump brought the bear up short, and he stood about thirty yards away, eyeing us hesitantly. Less certain now of our harmlessness, the boar found himself caught between an overly-protective mama bear and two skinny, two-legged creatures of unknown threat. He was clearly caught off-guard by the sudden turn of events, and began to pace slowly back and forth as the dart, finally loaded with the required amount of tranquilizer, was slid into the breech of the gun.
Dr. Phil raised the gun to his shoulder, attempting to sight between branches to get a shot at the bear whose increasingly nervous behaviour was beginning to suggest that he was about to abandon the area. Finally, the bear turned to leave, and as Dr. Phil stepped out from behind the tree into a clear line of sight, I chirped at the boar, causing him to hesitate momentarily and stare at the source of the new sound. With the hiss of compressed air suddenly released, the pink-feathered dart flew through the air, burying itself in the bear’s rump. The bear gave a snort of surprise and, deciding that this latest turn of events was the final straw, dashed down the hill and out of sight. We found him sleeping soundly about 80 yards away and, after dealing with the collar and taking the required measurements, we reversed the tranquilizer and watched him wake up from higher up on the ridge. If only both bear-captures would go this easily!
Bear Number 2:
The next morning dawned cold and windy, and we left the camp by midmorning, intending to sit for the next twelve hours or so of light in the hope that the final collared bear, a sow, would stop by her most-frequented bait site sometime during the day. With a five-gallon pail of licorice, granola, and old chocolate in the back of the truck to dump in the bait barrel, we headed out, driving another hour northward to reach the trailhead of the baitsite entrance. Having learned from our experience the day before, we decided it would be wise to pre-load the dart on the off-chance that the bear was at the bait when we walked up.
I was sitting in the driver’s seat assembling my day-pack while Dr. Phil stood outside the open passenger door, preparing the dart and drug on the empty passenger seat, when I looked out the window to see a bear standing on the road nearby. I warned Dr. Phil of its presence and returned my attention to my packing. As my gaze passed over the driver’s side window, however, I gave a start of surprise. The female that we were after was standing right outside my window, staring up at me.
She scented the air, cautiously making her way towards the truck. I alerted Dr. Phil that she was approaching us, and he redoubled his efforts to finish assembling the dart. The sow moved more quickly now, apparently deciding that the enticing scent of the bait in the back of our truck outweighed any risk we might pose to her. I watched in fascination mingled with trepidation as she reared up on her back legs, placing her paws on the tailgate of the truck. Working her way around the bed of the truck, using the edge of the box as a support, she walked slowly from side to side, sniffing all the while. Finally, apparently deciding that she had waited patiently long enough, she hauled herself upward, stepping first onto the bumper, then onto the side of the box.
Perched like some enormous raven on the edge of the truck, she craned her neck downward, hesitantly placing a paw in the truck. When it proved solid, she hopped down from the edge into the box and began to toy with the pail. Unable to access the tempting food within, she finally, she grasped the pail in her powerful jaws and, lifting it over the tailgate, tossed it onto the road below where the lid detached, sending candy pouring out over the ground. Satisfied with the outcome of her work, she hopped out of the truck and lay down to enjoy the spoils of her endeavours.
Meanwhile, Dr. Phil had managed to get the dart filled with tranquilizer and loaded into the gun. I slipped silently from my seat to join him with the Just-In-Case bear spray, and we tried to find a shot at the sow. It turned out that she had inadvertently picked a well-protected place to eat her candy, as several scrubby willow trees prevented Dr. Phil from finding a decent shot. After several minutes of sneaking back and forth in search of an opening in the branches, we finally got our break. The sow decided that we were acting distinctly suspicious, and got up to move back into the trees. Her new position presented a perfect shot for Dr. Phil, and the pink-fletched dart was airborne for the second time in two days. It buried itself in her hefty back end, and she dashed into the trees where, we watched a sapling shake then bend over as she lay down on it, suddenly unaccountably sleepy.
Once again, the handling process went remarkably smoothly, except for a few visits by the curious boar who had been attending her when I first spotted the pair on the road. I finally managed to convince him to return to the bait that the sow had spilled and to leave her alone until she woke up. Who would have thought I would ever have to teach a bear about consent? No means no, and a drugged, sleeping sow is a definite no!
Finally, we reversed her and cleaned up the bait while she woke up, taking it back to the actual baitsite to prevent her from sitting right on the edge of the road and eating it with trucks driving past. By the time we returned five minute later, she was awake and standing, staring forlornly at the empty patch of dirt where the bait had been when she went to sleep. We gently informed her that we had moved it, and that if she would just wander back where she came from, she would find it waiting for her.
And with that, our catch and release bear hunting trip was over. Two bears found, two collars dealt with, and two very unusual darting experiences to recount to the rest of the lab when we finally got home the next day! And the best part of all: it was (almost) all on video!
Wildlife work always brings with it unexpected excitement. I think that's something that anyone who works with wild animals learns very early in their career, whether they be biologists, veterinarians, hunters, trappers, or wildlife photographers. If you are dealing with wild animals, you will find them to be unpredictable. Sometimes this leads to significant problems or even dangerous situations, and other times, it provides a fascinating look into the lives of these animals that few others have the fortune of experiencing for themselves. Either way, wild animals are never boring.
So, when my masters professor, Dr. Phil McLoughlin from the University of Saskatchewan, informed me that we would be heading about twelve hours north to try and dart a couple of black bears whose GPS collars had malfunctioned, I wondered just what we were in for. Hours later, the flat grasslands of the prairie were a distant memory; the mighty trunks of the boreal pines had begun to dwindle, and we found ourselves following a narrow gravel road surrounded by bog and gnarled black spruce. Here and there, disturbingly unmaintained bridges spanned stony streams where suckers fought their way upstream to spawn. Black bears, moose, and caribou were the largest denizens of this northern forest, but the caribou lived up to their moniker of “grey ghosts,” keeping out of sight in the vast scrubland of the bogs.
The agonizingly long drive was made more bearable (bear pun 100% intended) by the anticipation of the fieldwork ahead. We were working with Wilderness Family Outfitters, a northern bear and fishing camp, who was attempting to keep these bears in accessible areas until we could reach them. We knew that both bears had been hitting baits recently, and hoped that they would remain in the surrounding area for the next few days. Both bears were part of a black bear study that the McLoughlin Lab had begun a few years ago, which was itself a part of the lab’s larger woodland caribou study, and they had been equipped with GPS collars to allow us to track their movement and analyze any potential overlap they might have with primary woodland caribou habitat. Last summer, however, the collars had stopped working and we were no longer able to receive data from them. Since we had enough data for the project itself, when Wilderness Family Outfitters reported sightings of these two collared bears, we decided that it didn’t make sense to leave the collars on for any longer when we had the opportunity to remove them.
Bear Number 1:
And so, here we were, nearing the Northwest Territories border, preparing to go catch-and-release black bear hunting. By mid-afternoon, we were making our way into the first baitsite, following closely behind a three-year old male bear who had met us at the trail head and so thoughtfully chose to escort us to our destination. Loaded down with equipment for the intended evening sit and covered in mosquitos that we were unable to swat with our arms full, we finally rounded the final bend in the trail and saw the blue plastic of the bait barrel ahead. Our sighs of relief were bitten off in mid-breath however, at the sudden angry huffing that came from the bait as an unseen mother bear sent her twin cubs up a tree and turned to inspect us. We dropped our equipment and I readied the Just-In-Case shotgun. Luckily for us, Mama bear was suddenly distracted by the arrival of Bear Number Five, a very large boar.
She turned her fury on him, popping her jaws in a display of aggression, and charged. The silence of the woods was split by the sound of her snapping at the male’s heels, and branches the size of my arm shattered as the pair of bruins dashed down the ridge, one in fury and the other in abject terror. In the background, her cubs cried in alarm from their treetop, and finally, their cries seemed to pierce the rage-crazed mind of their mother, and she turned abruptly from her pursuit to return to the bait site. She stalked past us, barely giving us a look and once more took up her position of defense before the bait barrel.
The large male, noticing that he was no longer being chased, also turned around, making his way back towards the outskirts of the bait site, albeit in a very round-about way so as to avoid encountering the snarling, snapping banshee that awaited him there. His route, carefully directed to maximize the distance between him and the angry sow, inadvertently brought him close to us, however, and we suddenly recognized the tell-tale hint of a collar around his neck. Distracted as he was by his obvious conflicting desires to reach the bait, yet also avoid being torn limb-from-limb by the mother bear, the boar ignored our subtle movements as Dr. McLoughlin began to assemble the dart gun and tranquilizer darts.
Between the assembly of the gun and loading of the dart with drug though, the mother decided once again that the male had encroached too far on her territory, and charged once more at him. This charge, however, turned out to be merely a mock-charge, and she quickly returned to her position when the male backed down. The boar, apparently becoming frustrated with his inability to reach the bait, turned his attention to us. Still loading the dart, Dr. Phil ignored the approaching bear, focusing instead on completing the required preparation to dart the bear.
Apparently deciding that we were less of a threat than the angry female, and therefore more easily pushed around, the male’s slow walk suddenly shifted into a burst of speed as he charged. I closed the chamber of the shotgun and brought it to my shoulder. The grating rasp of the closing pump brought the bear up short, and he stood about thirty yards away, eyeing us hesitantly. Less certain now of our harmlessness, the boar found himself caught between an overly-protective mama bear and two skinny, two-legged creatures of unknown threat. He was clearly caught off-guard by the sudden turn of events, and began to pace slowly back and forth as the dart, finally loaded with the required amount of tranquilizer, was slid into the breech of the gun.
Dr. Phil raised the gun to his shoulder, attempting to sight between branches to get a shot at the bear whose increasingly nervous behaviour was beginning to suggest that he was about to abandon the area. Finally, the bear turned to leave, and as Dr. Phil stepped out from behind the tree into a clear line of sight, I chirped at the boar, causing him to hesitate momentarily and stare at the source of the new sound. With the hiss of compressed air suddenly released, the pink-feathered dart flew through the air, burying itself in the bear’s rump. The bear gave a snort of surprise and, deciding that this latest turn of events was the final straw, dashed down the hill and out of sight. We found him sleeping soundly about 80 yards away and, after dealing with the collar and taking the required measurements, we reversed the tranquilizer and watched him wake up from higher up on the ridge. If only both bear-captures would go this easily!
Bear Number 2:
The next morning dawned cold and windy, and we left the camp by midmorning, intending to sit for the next twelve hours or so of light in the hope that the final collared bear, a sow, would stop by her most-frequented bait site sometime during the day. With a five-gallon pail of licorice, granola, and old chocolate in the back of the truck to dump in the bait barrel, we headed out, driving another hour northward to reach the trailhead of the baitsite entrance. Having learned from our experience the day before, we decided it would be wise to pre-load the dart on the off-chance that the bear was at the bait when we walked up.
I was sitting in the driver’s seat assembling my day-pack while Dr. Phil stood outside the open passenger door, preparing the dart and drug on the empty passenger seat, when I looked out the window to see a bear standing on the road nearby. I warned Dr. Phil of its presence and returned my attention to my packing. As my gaze passed over the driver’s side window, however, I gave a start of surprise. The female that we were after was standing right outside my window, staring up at me.
She scented the air, cautiously making her way towards the truck. I alerted Dr. Phil that she was approaching us, and he redoubled his efforts to finish assembling the dart. The sow moved more quickly now, apparently deciding that the enticing scent of the bait in the back of our truck outweighed any risk we might pose to her. I watched in fascination mingled with trepidation as she reared up on her back legs, placing her paws on the tailgate of the truck. Working her way around the bed of the truck, using the edge of the box as a support, she walked slowly from side to side, sniffing all the while. Finally, apparently deciding that she had waited patiently long enough, she hauled herself upward, stepping first onto the bumper, then onto the side of the box.
Perched like some enormous raven on the edge of the truck, she craned her neck downward, hesitantly placing a paw in the truck. When it proved solid, she hopped down from the edge into the box and began to toy with the pail. Unable to access the tempting food within, she finally, she grasped the pail in her powerful jaws and, lifting it over the tailgate, tossed it onto the road below where the lid detached, sending candy pouring out over the ground. Satisfied with the outcome of her work, she hopped out of the truck and lay down to enjoy the spoils of her endeavours.
Meanwhile, Dr. Phil had managed to get the dart filled with tranquilizer and loaded into the gun. I slipped silently from my seat to join him with the Just-In-Case bear spray, and we tried to find a shot at the sow. It turned out that she had inadvertently picked a well-protected place to eat her candy, as several scrubby willow trees prevented Dr. Phil from finding a decent shot. After several minutes of sneaking back and forth in search of an opening in the branches, we finally got our break. The sow decided that we were acting distinctly suspicious, and got up to move back into the trees. Her new position presented a perfect shot for Dr. Phil, and the pink-fletched dart was airborne for the second time in two days. It buried itself in her hefty back end, and she dashed into the trees where, we watched a sapling shake then bend over as she lay down on it, suddenly unaccountably sleepy.
Once again, the handling process went remarkably smoothly, except for a few visits by the curious boar who had been attending her when I first spotted the pair on the road. I finally managed to convince him to return to the bait that the sow had spilled and to leave her alone until she woke up. Who would have thought I would ever have to teach a bear about consent? No means no, and a drugged, sleeping sow is a definite no!
Finally, we reversed her and cleaned up the bait while she woke up, taking it back to the actual baitsite to prevent her from sitting right on the edge of the road and eating it with trucks driving past. By the time we returned five minute later, she was awake and standing, staring forlornly at the empty patch of dirt where the bait had been when she went to sleep. We gently informed her that we had moved it, and that if she would just wander back where she came from, she would find it waiting for her.
And with that, our catch and release bear hunting trip was over. Two bears found, two collars dealt with, and two very unusual darting experiences to recount to the rest of the lab when we finally got home the next day! And the best part of all: it was (almost) all on video!
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