6th Prize
Hunting Journal with Weatherby Logo (100 awarded)
Conrado Navarro, Virginia
“The beep-beep of the alarm clock sounded at its usual time of 0430 like every other morning. This morning, however, after instinctively hitting the snooze button, confused as to where I truly was, I looked around the dark room trying to focus my eyes. I found myself in that state of semi-consciousness between the world of dreams and reality. After a few seconds, and now fully awake, I realized that I was indeed in the bedroom of our post quarters on Fort Belvoir, Virginia next to my wife of 33 years. The dream had been so real, so vivid that I could still remember every detail, hear every sound and almost smell the spruce and pine trees. Instead of immediately jumping out of bed and into the shower as I usually do, this morning I laid my head back on the pillow, closed my eyes and tried to finish my dream...my dream hunt.
I was in the pristine forests and marshlands of Newfoundland with my Canadian guide on the last day of my six-day moose and black bear hunt of a lifetime. For the past hour we had tracked a bear through thick woodland my guide had judged to possibly be a trophy bruin. We spotted him several times as he crossed clearings in the woods but never long enough or close enough for a clear shot.
Earlier in the week, I had already harvested a 1200-pound moose that measured 50 inches across its antlers. We found the bull moose knee-deep in a pond drinking water and lifting its head every so often to carefully check its surroundings for any signs of danger. Black bears in this part of Canada can grow to more than 600 pounds and a black bear that big and hungry enough will attack eve a full-grown moose.
The cold mud of the marshlands we were trudging in had made my feet numb to feeling but also quieted our steps. Any discomfort I felt vanished with the excitement at the sight of the moose. My guide pointed to the giant moose and gave me the thumbs up. The moose was completely unaware of our presence (just 125 yards away) as I rested the crosshairs of my riflescope immediately behind its shoulders. He raised his head one more time to look around as water dripped from its large upper lip, dewlap and antlers. My rifle rested on the shooting sticks and I never felt the recoil of the 300 magnum as it sent the 220-grain bullet into both lungs of the moose. The animal was more surprised than hurt by the sudden loud blast of the rifle and by the unexpected thud on it side. He started to slowly walk away but the second bullet hit him square on the left shoulder and he dropped before finishing his next step. It took us six hours to retrieve the moose from the pond, field dress and quarter it and pack the meat out.
We had lost sight of the bear. As we continued in the direction which we last spotted him. The broken brush branches, worn trail, small patches of black fur and fresh tracks told us we were still headed in the right direction and still ‘on his trail.’ We were walking a fine line of not getting so far behind that we would lose track of him and not moving so fast that we would suddenly come up on him and spook him away for good. It was difficult to be completely quite as we hiked the woods occasionally stepping on a stick or tripping on a root system. So far we had managed to not be seen, heard or winded by the bear. Every time we spotted him in the small clearings, his behavior was that he was completely relaxed and more concerned about finding food than the hunter after him. Why wouldn't he be, he owned this part of the woods.
Before this hunt of a lifetime, my hunting career had been deer, wild hog and turkey hunting in Texas on lands owned by friends. Last year, I had been fortunate enough to return from my fourth deployment, this time to Balad Air Base, Iraq, just in time for the Texas deer season. My 16-year-old son took the customary first shot of the season and shot an eight-point buck, which, although not a trophy buck by official standards, was the largest he or I had ever hunted. Today the shoulder mount of that deer hangs on the wall behind his bed. In Newfoundland, having harvested a bull moose and now tracking a possible trophy black bear I was living my dream. Both military deployments and finances had prevented me from hunting precisely these two game animals, which I longed to hunt ever since I saw those huge antlers and bear rugs hanging on trophy walls of other hunters and hunting museums. But, now I was living my dream...if only in a dream.
As we continued to track what we now considered ‘our bear,’ we came to a large clearing on the edge of the woods. ‘Our bear’ had found a patch of wild berries and was feasting on the sweet treats as if the woods were his personal dining room. As a matter of fact, they were. We were the intruders. I dared not proceed any further for fear of being spotted by the unperturbed albeit ever-vigilant bear. We were crouching, making as little movement and noise as possible, looking at the bear through our binoculars. He was a beautiful specimen that we guessed probably weighed close to 500 pounds. His hide was jet black with no bare patches from rubbing against trees and large rocks. We estimated that the shot would be approximately 80 yards. If I stood to shoot from my shooting sticks, I ran the danger of being spotted. The grass and brush were too high to shoot either prone or sitting. I wasted no time in dropping into the kneeling position, which gave me just enough height over the grass to see the bear. The small indentation immediately behind my left elbow was resting solidly on my left knee as my gloved left hand grasped the fore-end of my rifle. As the fingers of my right hand curled around the grip of the rifle, my index finger found the trigger. My right elbow was high stabilizing the butt of the rifle into the pocket of my right shoulder. The position was solid. As I knelt there patiently waiting for the black bear to give me a quartering shot, I pushed the safety off the rifle. I felt that the bear could hear my heartbeat, my breathing and sense my excitement. The last thing I needed now was ‘bear fever.’There, after what seemed like hours but actually took less than a minute, the bear turned to his right continuing to feast. It was a perfect sight picture with the crosshairs resting on his right shoulder. As I began to gently squeeze the trigger the bear suddenly turned his head and look straight in our direction...beep-beep, beep-beep. As it had the first time, for a second time this morning, the alarm clock woke me at the precise moment in my dream hunt.
The traffic on 395 North towards the Pentagon was a little heavier than usual. This morning; however, I did not have my favorite talk radio station on to hear the morning news and the traffic report nor did I mind the longer commute time. The extra traffic this morning gave me a little more time to think about my dream hunt before starting the usual long day at work. As I navigated the congested corridors of the Pentagon towards the conference room for this morning's 0700 briefing, I entered the room, sat in my assigned seat and heard, ‘Good morning, chaplain!’ By the smile on your face this must have been a good morning for you.‘ Still smiling I thought to myself, ‘Yes, it had been.’”