I climbed down the old rusty ladder of my treestand just as the visibility of a worn out 50 gallon feed bucket had started to fade. This would be the fourth evening in a row of experiencing this. Down to every specific detail, almost as if I was in a scene from Groundhog Day, and I was Bill Murray. Depressed and ready to jump from my stand if the cycle didn’t end.
Let me explain.
My friend Charlie and I were itching for an out-of-state big game hunt, the problem was, we were unsuccessful in all of our lottery drawings. We were running out of options quickly, as we were already towards the end of August with nothing on the books.
“Idaho has OTC elk tags. We could head there?” I said, throwing anything at the wall to see if it would stick.
“We’ve been there already. Twice.” He paused. “My uncle shot a giant black bear up in New Hampshire last year… Tags are over-the-counter”
“Let’s go!”
We loaded up the truck and hauled ass to northern New Hampshire. For the most part, an ugly 15 hour drive that cost at least fifty dollars in toll fees. Funds that benefit programs we will never see, given our non-residency in these states. But who cares, they’re letting us shoot some of their bears. I’ll pay the tolls.
Including the tolls, about three hundred dollars on tags, a couple hundred on gas each way, seventy-five on beer and Marlboro lights, and a hundred bucks a night at some shitty in-town motel, we were just over two thousand all in for the trip. Not too bad to bring home a couple 6 foot black bear rugs.
Problem is, aside from a couple of fisher cats, we hadn’t seen shit in four days.
We had connected with a family friend of mine that had a few feed spots on public land, and the cell cams were showing a lot of bear activity. Call it bad timing, call it bad luck, regardless, the bears disappeared.
After the morning hunt on the fifth day, we decided to drive into town to see if we could get something decent to eat, as we had been living off turkey sandwiches, miller lite, and cigarettes all week.
As we turned down a backroad, Charlie spotted a narrow stream about fifty yards off the gravel.
“We have our fly rods in the back. The bears aren’t cooperating, but the trout might be.” Charlie said as I was already pulling the truck off the road.
By the time my fly had hit the water, Charlie already had a giant brook in his net. A few minutes later, I was fighting one myself, giving my rod a run for its money.
Back and forth, ruby and olive thrashing against the water's surface, swallowing wooly’s like there had been a famine in the streams. Rushing to tie on new tippet, for fear that I would miss out on what could be a temporary burst in action. However the urgency wasn’t necessary, the feeding never halted.
Perhaps the experience was elevated by the comparison of being swarmed by black flies twenty feet up in a tree as I watch an unbothered feed barrel. Maybe the bites were ordinary. Maybe the bear hunting was just that shitty.
Just as I begin to dive into that thought, my line shoots from my reel as a monster rainbow attacks what it believes to be its next meal. I guide him into my net, allow for a few seconds of admiration, and release him back. Already eager for my next cast.
Distracted by giant brooks and rainbows, an hour detour quickly turns into three hours. One section of stream turns into exploring a half-mile of water. Before we know it, the sun will descend, and the bears will be looking for food. Ideally at our barrels.
“We better head back to the stands if we want a chance at bagging a bear.” I yelled to the other side of the stream, as Charlie strips more line from his reel.
“Fuck the bears. The bears don't like us. But the trout seem to. This is a fishing trip now.”
To this day, that is the worst bear hunting trip I have been on. To this day, that is the best fishing trip I have been on. Albeit, perhaps the most expensive one.