15 Days in Kamchatka, 15 Seconds of Glory

I was hunting with “head guide”, a Russian bureaucrat from the Game and Fish Department who proclaimed extensive knowledge but demonstrated tremendous ignorance.  “What have I gotten myself into?”  As a Christian, to try and explain my feelings toward my situation is ridiculously difficult without sounding angry, condescending, disappointed, disillusioned, and perturbed at my dilemma. I guess you get my drift.  But God created in me a spirit to hunt and hunt I would, despite the circumstances.

I have hunted African lion, Cape buffalo, and leopard with “real” backup.  Men that would stand their ground, hold their water, and if necessary protect me against my own folly.

Not here and not now!

I was facing one of the most powerful and intimidating creatures on this planet with a guide that would fold on me.  He had a fear of these animals.  Not a healthy fear established out of respect for their agility, power, and speed, but an unhealthy fear of claws and teeth.

He was terrified of bears.

Making me more uneasy was the fact that the only gun my backup owned was a .30 cal. SKS.  I knew I was in trouble.  To top it all off, this man had absolutely no confidence in me.  He said just two days earlier that there was no way I would kill a bear with the “toy” bow that I brought.  Fear and ignorance are a horrible combination when hunting dangerous game.

I was on the Kamchatka Peninsula in Russia, which is one of the most remote destinations on the planet.  The only way in is by helicopter and only on reasonably clear days, as you have to cross an extensive mountain range with elevations of over 5000 feet.   The “reasonably clear day” would eventually come back to haunt me later in the trip.

I booked the hunt with George Sevich of Eurasian Expeditions while attending the SCI convention in 2002.  One of George’s clients had recently shot the new world record Kamchatkan Brown Bear with a rifle.  I asked George if I could bowhunt there and he went on to tell me that he had taken a bear with a bow some 10 years earlier, and that he could arrange an archery hunt if given some time.

Russia was officially closed to archery, but some areas would issue permits if they were satisfied with the qualifications of the hunter.  We both agreed that it was worth a try to get a “special permit”.  We planned the hunt for 2004 so that we would have plenty of time to work on the license. I submitted a bow hunting resume to the Game and Fish officials in Kamchatka through an outfitter who George had arranged the hunt.  The outfitter contacted George and told him that the archery permit was issued and we could proceed with the hunt.  This is where I should have requested to see the license or at least a copy.

I invited English Pope, one of my co-workers, to come with me to video the experience.  I told George that I wanted to get the hunt on tape and would also tape some fishing for him to show his future clients.  English is a fly fisherman and jumped at the idea of fishing for arctic char, rainbows, and silver salmon in a pristine wilderness. So what if he had to video a bear or two along the way.

We flew across the Bering Sea from Anchorage on Magadan Airline’s weekly flight to Petro, and received a warm reception by a mean, drunk customs official who attempted to confiscate my bows.  After a 45-minute debate over whether it was legal or not to hunt with bows, I was turned loose.

Can you imagine flying several thousand miles for over two days to be told by an official who is soaked in vodka that you can’t hunt because bows are illegal in Kamchatka? I offered to get back on the plane.  The assistant customs official, a very nice lady, asked for the serial numbers of my bows.  As I read the numbers off of each bow I noticed her comparing them to some numbers on a document in her hand.  I took a peek and saw that she had a paper with the registration of both my bows.  I tried to convince her boss that this was evidence that I was allowed to bring my bows into the country.  As the debate continued, a well-dressed English-speaking Russian woman stepped in and said, “My name is Laura and I think I am your interpreter.”  I looked up and saw a sign in her hand with my name on it. Thank God, I thought.

Laura entered the fray with authority and dignity, and quickly escorted me out of the airport with bows in hand.  Afterward, she told me that there wouldn’t have been any problem had the head customs official not been at the airport that day.  I failed to mention that he extorted $300 out of me as “a guarantee of safety” while hunting in Kamchatka.

Shortly after leaving the airport, we were on the ground in Petrolovsk for a day of touring with a couple of Canadian hunters and Laura.  The helicopters couldn’t fly until the weather cleared the following day.  Helicopters and bad weather would have a tremendous impact on my hunt.  I didn’t realize then how dependent we would be on good weather.

The next morning, after a restless night in a rather strange hotel, Laura and our Russian outfitter, Valerie, showed up to take us to the bush.

My first impression of Valerie was not good.

He was still drunk from the night before and was acting as if he knew nothing about my bows being prohibited.  I questioned him enough to realize the guy was lying and figured out that was why he didn’t pick me up personally, as I was told he would.

I continued to press the issue about an archery permit and he admitted he knew something but couldn’t elaborate.  “What do I do about hunting?” I asked him.  He said to continue as planned and he would sort out the license when I returned to Petro after the hunt.  I knew I was in trouble, but I couldn’t leave for the states for another 6 days, because there was only one flight a week.

I decided to hunt. That’s what I was there for, that’s what I was promised, and that’s what I would do, for better or worse.

We loaded our gear on the chopper, with the Canadians’ stuff in the rear so that it could be unloaded first, as they were in the closest camp.  A small-framed, wiry fellow boarded last, and Laura told me he was my guide.  I looked at him wondering if he had any idea what he was in for.

A couple of hours later we landed at the edge of a river on a large gravel bar.  As I jumped out, I was overwhelmed with the smell of dead fish as the sockeye spawn was ending and there were carcasses floating everywhere.

As the chopper took off and disappeared, I was also overwhelmed by something else – the sense of wildness.  What a beautifully wild place this was.

George was right.

It was beyond description.

Then it hit me; I couldn’t wait to see a bear.

I couldn’t wait to eat a rainbow or a silver.

I couldn’t wait to unpack my bows and practice.

I wanted to soak it in, become a part of it and hunt.  It’s engrained in me.  It’s one of God’s purposes for my existence, to live wild.  It’s true of all hunters. I am no exception, just evidence of His Holy rule.  We were once all wild at heart, but the herd is thinning.  I would absorb all this place had to offer.

At dinner, Laura introduced English and me to the camp staff and afterward, as we sat around a campfire, I explained bowhunting through Laura to the two guides.  They sat there stunned, as I showed them the High-Country carbon TSSR’s that only weigh slightly more than a kilo.  They both said, “You will never kill a bear with one of those things.”  I explained that I needed to get within 20 meters.  They laughed nervously as they sensed I was not kidding.

I felt their anxiety.

I asked to see their guns.

The head guide showed me a .30 cal. SKS with 80 grain bullets.  I asked them to show me the gun they were going to back me up with.  They told Laura that the SKS was the only gun in camp.

I was the one getting anxious now.

What on earth had I gotten myself in to?  Two queasy Russians with a “daisy BB gun” were going to back me up.

The feeling came back.  I was in trouble.

The head guide told me that two days earlier a Russian hunter shot a bear 5 times in the shoulder and ribs with an H&H .375.  He looked again at my bow in despair, as I tried to explain the damage that a 3-bladed broadhead does to the heart & lungs when a bear is properly hit.  We all went to bed rather frustrated with each other and agreed to meet for breakfast at 5:00 am.

The next morning, at first light, we loaded our gear into a rubber boat equipped with a 20-horse Mercury.  Victor, the head guide, was in the front, English and I were on each side and Dema, the real guide, was with the motor.  We slowly cruised down river some 6 miles before Dema pulled into a small stream full of spawning sockeyes.  We pulled the boat into the woods, and Dema motioned for us to follow him. We walked upstream in a line, Dema first, then Victor, me and English.  I got the impression these guys thought they were hunting.  Were we going to just walk up and stick an arrow in a bear?  I guessed so.

As we walked, I noticed large trails paralleling the stream.  As we walked the trails, I started seeing chewed up fish carcasses and bear dung and tracks.  Things were looking up. There were bears there, and from the appearance, there were a lot of bears there.

An hour later, we were at a small cabin, the spike camp, and our guides started a fire to boil water for coffee.  We tried to communicate with bad Russian, bad English, and bad sign language.  We drank our coffee and headed back to the boat and camp “one” where we continued the conversation through the interpreter and came up with an afternoon game plan.

They told me that there were at least 10 bears in the area of the small cabin and that we needed a plan as to how to hunt them.  I suggested a tree stand over an obvious feeding area, but I couldn’t get them to understand.

I decided to call George Sevich in the states on my satellite phone.  Noon in Kamchatka is 7:00 pm Eastern Time on the preceding day.  George was at home and enthusiastic about helping explain the tree stand concept in Russian to Victor, the head guide.

When George finished with Victor, he handed me the phone.  George told me to persevere and hunt hard as I should eventually get a shot.  I agreed. As it was too late to go back down river, we decided to hunt closer to camp “one” that afternoon and go down river the next day.

We loaded back in the boat, traveled a couple of miles when Dema pulled into another small stream.  We hid the boat, and walked about a mile upstream where the sockeyes were congested in a shallow section of water.  We built a ground blind and the four of us waited.  I continued to check the wind as my guides smoked relentlessly.  I couldn’t help it but the guides’ smoking annoyed the hell out of me!  I knew that if a bear approached from down wind, he would eventually smell me, but smoking cigarettes just seemed stupid.

A couple of hours passed, and as I looked at English sitting directly across from me, I saw his eyes get big and he said, “Bear.”  I turned, grabbed my bow and slowly peaked over the bushes, but I didn’t see a bear.  All I saw was the head guide swinging his rifle back and forth with eyes as big as a bear patty.  I tried to get him to get down, but he ignored me.

I looked back at English and he said the bear was gone.  He said it had appeared on the opposite bank and then quickly retreated.  I wonder why?  A cigarette puffing, rifle slinging, bonehead had jumped out of the bushes beside me.

What was I going to do with this guy?

As we walked back to the boat at dusk, our head guide looked extremely nervous and started pointing the gun at every wind-blown bush and also at Dema and us.  I started getting nervous.  Not about bears, but about a man with a weapon that obviously didn’t appreciate how dangerous he was.

I was in trouble.

Back at camp at 10:30 pm we were sitting around the dinner table discussing through Laura what happened that afternoon. I graciously asked the guides not to smoke while we were hunting.  They shrugged and agreed not to smoke.  I then told them that when we were in a ground blind that we really needed to keep movement to a minimum.  The head guide said he was supposed to protect me, and that was why he jumped up.  I explained that he only needed to jump up if he heard me yell, “shoot”.  He nodded in agreement.  I thought we were making progress.  It was midnight and we all headed to bed, as we would meet for breakfast at 7:00am to build a treestand.

It was 10:30 am and I finally woke the head guide.  I thought he wasn’t feeling well or something, but I found out over the next 13 days that this guy was one of the laziest human beings I had ever met.  We had to wake him every day or he would sleep until lunch.

I told the guides that we would skip lunch and go build the tree stand.  That didn’t go over very well, but I really didn’t care, as we were running out of time to build a stand and be able to hunt that evening.

An hour and a half later, we were at a fantastic location in a large stream near the spike camp where the bears appeared to be feeding daily.  We found a couple of willows leaning over the stream where salmon were stacked like cordwood.  What a place!  We quickly chopped down some smaller trees and built a stand 16 feet above the stream.  It was 6 pm and English and I climbed in for an evening hunt.  No guides, no gun, no problem.  The guides were to pick us up at 10:30 pm or when we squealed on a walkie-talkie, whichever came first.  English looked at some lunar table and told me peak time was between 8:00 and 9:00 pm.  I shrugged, got out a novel and started reading. At 8:30 English quietly said, “Bear upstream at 100 yards.”  I looked up and was flabbergasted at the size of the animal.  I whispered, “He’s as big as a bus.”  English nodded and said, “He’s coming, get ready.”

 

TO BE CONTINUED