The mid-1970s were carefree years for me. I was young, in my prime, had no obligations and worked a second-shift job that paid enough to keep gas in my car so I could hunt and fish.
At the end of my shift Friday night, I wasn’t due back to work until late Monday afternoon, so I’d jump in my already packed vehicle and, after a quick stop at L.L.Bean in Freeport for leaders or a few extra flies, head up Interstate 295 for the weekend.
One of my favorite destinations back then was a group of trout ponds scattered around northern Somerset County near Lake Parlin. At some point, I wound up visiting a set of rustic cabins on Grace Pond in Upper Enchanted Township.
The place was quiet and peaceful except for the cry of loons. Moose were frequent sights and Canada jays fed from your hand.
Coffee tasted better sitting on the front porch than it did at home — or anywhere else for that matter — and if you hit it right, trout would jump on your fly the minute it touched the water. Not monster trout, but enough of them, and big enough, to make it fun.
With Coburn Mountain looming over the pond’s eastern shore, Grace Pond felt like paradise. I fell in love with the place immediately and it soon became my home away from home.
During one of my early June visits, the camp owner and I got talking about hunting and bears. I told him I’d never hunted one but hoped to someday.
As it turned out, he had established a couple bait sites on the west side of Coburn Mountain. Before I left that weekend, he invited me to return later that month for a hunt.
It was 1977 and Maine still had a spring bear season that ran from the first week in May until the end of deer season in November. As usual, I had already purchased my resident combination hunting and fishing license — which I still have — for $12.50. A separate bear license wasn’t needed and wouldn’t be required until 1990, so I accepted the generous offer for later in June.
Being my first bear hunt, I had no idea what to expect and was apprehensive and excited at the same time.
Before the decade ended, the harvest reached a record 1,630. At the time, the maximum sustainable harvest was believed to be around 2,500 to 3,000 bears annually, based on the population estimate.
Even though harvests had not reached that level, interest in bear hunting was increasing and biologists were concerned about overhunting and the long-term sustainability of the resource.
In 1979, just two years after my maiden hunt, Maine closed the spring bear season beginning in 1980.
In retrospect, had I not accepted the invitation, I probably never would have hunted spring bear in Maine or become such an avid bear hunter.
By then I had fished northern Quebec, caught my first 5-pound-plus brook trout, was spoiled on fly fishing for big brookies and my interest in bear hunting took a back seat for a few years.
As it turned out, Maine’s statewide estimated bear population of 6,000 to 9,000 in the late 1970s was far too low. An updated and revised estimate in 1984 put the population at around 18,000, but by then the spring season was history.
Two weeks later, after arranging some extra days off from work, I arrived back at Grace Pond ready to hunt, pulling into the yard before the sun rose over Coburn Mountain. The pond was flat calm and the mountain cast a mirror image on the surface.
Unable to resist, I rigged my fly rod, launched a canoe, paddled to the south end near the outlet and caught and released a handful of trout before settling into camp and putting on a pot of coffee.
Later that afternoon, after being driven up a series of ancient snakelike logging roads on the side of Coburn Mountain and escorted by foot even higher to the side of a ridge, I found myself sitting more than a dozen feet above the ground.
From my vantage point even my novice eyes could tell the turned-over bait barrel and darkened, torn-up earth surrounding it meant the bait station was active.
Trail cameras like those we use today were still 20 years in the future.
So with no indication when a bear or bears might appear, if at all, I sat in the stand entertained by red squirrels, watched Canada jays swoop in and rob bait and swatted mosquitoes, hopefully inconspicuous in the process.
I didn’t kill a bear that first day, but I did learn two important things that I have carried with me ever since: Time passes agonizingly slow in a bear stand and hunting from an uncomfortable stand is not fun.
After two days of hunting, I was beginning to wonder if a bear would ever show and was getting a bit discouraged. My initial excitement and apprehension were starting to fade and despite the stand being uncomfortable, after a few hours of sitting I felt a sense of relaxation.
As I still do today, I found myself so relaxed I closed my eyes, leaned my head back and listened to the forest sounds around me.
It was during one of those relaxing moments when those forest sounds suddenly stopped.
No birds chirping.
No red squirrel activity on the ground.
It was like the world around me went dead silent.
I’m not sure what it was — instinct or that inner voice — but something told me to sit still and open my eyes, so I did.
Standing perfectly broadside 30 yards away was a bear.
It’s been said you never forget life’s firsts. I’ve learned that is true of certain events, but I can attest it is also true when you see your first bear from a tree stand.
It’s a vision you just never forget.
Since that afternoon nearly a half century ago I have seen and killed much larger bears, but at the time I thought the animal before me was the biggest thing in the Maine woods.
My heart shifted into overdrive and my breaths came short and labored. I started to question whether the .50-caliber muzzleloader and .490 roundball resting across my lap had been a wise choice for a first bear — or enough gun.
It’s the same reaction I get even today whenever I see a bear.
It’s a response I hope I never lose. If I do, it’ll be time to give up bear hunting.
The bear never gave me a look. After several minutes it slowly walked toward the bait and started to do its thing.
As it did so I totally relaxed and started enjoying the show, something I still do today if the situation allows.
Seeing a bear up close and personal from a ground blind or elevated stand is a unique and special experience.
Bears are just fascinating to observe.
Despite the controversy and past referendum efforts, hunting over bait offers a rare chance to observe bears up close, and I’m grateful for it.
If I’ve learned anything about bears, it’s that they look deceivingly big on the hoof. Before pulling the trigger or letting an arrow fly, a great deal can be discovered by simply observing, especially body clues and attitude that help determine sex and potential size.
For me it all started with that first bear on the side of Coburn Mountain.
As it turned out, the muzzleloader I carried that day was enough gun. The roundball entered right where I aimed, penetrated well, mushroomed and got the job done.
When I arrived home, I had the hide made into a rug with red-and-black felt trim. Although dry and cracked in places from age and barely holding together, it currently hangs on the wall at camp.
I’ve thought about getting rid of it, but it’s a memory I prefer to keep.