First Blood - An Arizona Bear Hunt

By the time I crawled into a sleeping bag that first night at bear camp, I had been hunting for nearly a year. In that time, I’d hiked more country and let more arrows fly at foam than I can count, but when the last sunset of deer season slipped away, I had yet to fill a tag. Still, the fire hadn’t faded. If anything, the long season made me more motivated than ever.

This spring, I found myself loading into a Tacoma with my buddy Steve, chasing the hope of redemption. We were headed to the White Mountain Apache Reservation with Outdoorsmans Outfitters, where Floyd Green and Shane Sass would be our guides. That first night in camp, we were greeted with ribs, corn on the cob, homemade fries, and cherry pie. Right then, I had a good feeling about this hunt.

We were up at 3:50 the next morning. By 4:30, we had burritos in hand and tires on the dirt. As we drove into the dark, It didn’t take long for the action to start.

While Floyd headed off to check one bait, we followed Shane to another where a bear had hit the camera just a few hours earlier. We dropped the tailgate and turned the dogs loose. Instantly, they were on a scent trail, and soon the GPS confirmed what we hoped: they were onto a bear.

Just as we were planning our move, Floyd came on the radio. His dogs were on another bear. We split up. Steve and Kevin went with Floyd; I stuck with Shane to pursue the bear ahead of us.

We listened as the dogs barked in the distance until the bark changed There was more of a chop! to their bark–they had him treed. We had the dogs' location on GPS and started making our way to them.

The last 800 yards were steep and loose. Out of breath, we climbed to a spot overlooking a massive ponderosa growing at a 45-degree angle out of the hillside. High in that tree sat the bear with his cinnamon fur lit up in the morning sun.

We tied up the dogs and began planning the shot. Then, a crack! echoed from a few canyons over. Floyd came on the radio and let us know that Steve had a bear down.

With the pressure on, I scrambled uphill to a spot level with the bear. In the loose dirt, I was able to dig my feet into the hillside and get a surprisingly good sitting position. I took a second to steady my breathing while waiting for Shane to give me the green light. I brought the rifle up and saw he moved behind a thicket, but through a melon-sized hole in the pine boughs, I could see his coat and determined that the opening was a few inches back from his shoulder. Shane shouted out that I was good to shoot and I chambered a round… or tried to. The rifle jammed.

I stayed calm. Magazine out. Round cleared. Loaded again. I settled the crosshairs through that window of pine needles and executed my shot. As Shane shouted, “Shoot him again!” I racked that bolt like it owed me money then sent another round right through that same opening. I followed this up with one more shot, and I noticed as I fired this shot that the bear was still in the same spot.

Through my binos, I confirmed it: he was done. Wedged between two branches, still high in the tree.

We made our way back to camp to regroup and grab some gear in case we had to climb to retrieve him. We took a moment to congratulate Steve on his bear, and then Floyd, Shane, and I left camp to retrieve my bear. I was still nervous–about the sun on the meat, about the difficulty of getting him down–but Floyd and Shane handled everything with steady, calm confidence.

We hiked over the ridge where I had first seen him, but when I looked in the tree, there was no bear. We hiked up, rounded the bend, and there he was–lying beneath the tree he had once occupied. Relief, joy, and gratitude all hit at once as I knelt beside him, brushing his soft ears. A tag hung from each of his ears–proof he’d been in trouble twice before. I haven’t heard back yet from Game and Fish, but I’m looking forward to getting the story on my bear and figuring out how safe the meat I brought home is.

Back at camp, I was met with a cold beer and congratulations. Shane mentioned that the night prior I had jokingly said “We’re going to get two bears in two days,” and while we all laughed, none of us knew that we would end up having two bears down before 7:30 AM on the first day of the hunt.

That night over dinner, the original plan was to sleep in, break down camp, and head home. But it was the last day for them hunting bears, and we all agreed that it wouldn’t feel right not to let the dogs run one more time. So, once again, we were out of camp by 4:30.

This time, the dogs struck another scent and took off into the hills. We followed, climbing toward a saddle where they’d treed a sow and two cubs. I sat back and glassed them from a distance, watching how that sow and her cubs moved. It wasn’t random–they were deliberate, measured, and calculated. You hear that bears are smart, but watching that sow maneuver around the tree with such intention showed me just how much we underestimate them. It was a moment of quiet respect. No tags, no rifles–just observation.

After that, Steve and I hit the road. We stopped for breakfast burritos on the way home, replaying the trip the whole way back.

This was the experience of a lifetime. Not just because I finally filled a tag, but because it marked a shift in who I am as a hunter. Through the generosity and professionalism of Floyd and Shane, I took my first big game animal–an Arizona black bear that I’ll never forget.

And while this hunt will be hard to top, I’ll be back in the desert this August with a bow in my hand, chasing bucks once more. A little more seasoned. A little more grounded. And this time, with a bear under my belt.