When I moved to Arizona, it wasn’t because it was known for its epic black bear hunting. As a matter of fact, I just assumed they occasionally jumped the border from nearby states in search of patriotic gun laws and an easy to catch aging population. Never had I thought that monster color phased black bear roamed the desert mountains and even called them their permanent home. Not every creature in this state are snowbirds after all.

Being a hunter from Colorado, I always envied other western states that didn’t succumb to city slickers’ pressure and allowed sportsmen to chase bear during the spring. Turkey hunting is great to help pass the time until the fall, but give me an option to chase a walking rug with some terrific meat attached to it and you can bet 10 times out of 10 that I’ll take that choice.

Not only did I learn that black bear call Arizona home, but even better they roam the mountains out my back door. Being that if I spit too far off my back patio it’ll land in Mexico, these dual citizens thrive in an environment that I never thought possible.

But it’s one thing to read that they’re here, it’s another thing to actually put eyes on one. I’ve seen a slew of them in the high country of Colorado, but the desert mountains of Arizona are about as similar to those in Colorado as crossbow hunting is to archery hunting. I know, I know. “But I have a bad shoulder!” No one accepts that excuse just like being a newbie to an area isn’t an acceptable excuse as to not getting out there and giving it a shot.

So I picked a mountain range and committed some time to learn it.

Scouting proved to be fruitless as the bears were technically in “hibernation”. So going out looking for sign wasn’t really an option. I was going to have to scout for springs that might produce some green grass in the arid environment when their alarms went off and their stomachs needed a refill.

The opener started with me glassing open mountains for little black dots ping-ponging their way up broken valleys. What I found instead was every black rock in Santa Cruz county. Spend enough time squinting through binoculars seeing what is there and eventually you’ll question your sanity by pondering if you mistakenly ingested some of the local fungi by mistake.

The only thing changing on the mountainside was the angle of my shadow. A few more weeks of this proved to be the same. Sit, glass, ingest coffee. Repeat until your eyes bleed or the caffeinated shakes force you to put down the glass.

The prey stayed the same, but the strategy would have to change.

After talking with an ex-biologist in the area, he was convinced the bears were still up high. There was nothing to feed on down low as of yet so they preferred the thin air of elevation that was closer to their dens.

My goal had changed from impaling a bear with a pointy stick to just seeing sign that the damn things were in fact inhabitants of the Copper State and not just some cruel initiation inflicted on out of staters who settled in the locals’ land. I assured them that I wasn’t from California, but I think my statement fell on deaf ears. You were a communist loving liberal until proven otherwise.

I needed a good ass kicking in the mountains anyway. It was time to throw the pack on the shoulders, tie on the boots and leave truck hunting to those that not only had “bad shoulders”, but “bad knees” as well.

With the truck behind and me wondering how many border crossers I would find in the bed of it upon my return, I set the legs to a hunting pace. I had distance to cover but I also needed to keep my eyes on the ground and look for sign.

The valley floor dropped away as I went into cruise control. Legs will do what the mind tells them to do, but don’t think they won’t put up a fight. I expect them to put in a constant barrage of pleading and bargaining for the first hour. After that they usually quiet down knowing their temper tantrum is falling upon deaf ears.

Old dried up turds appear from time to time. Looking more like potting soil than a solidified steaming package. I know that what I was seeing was last season’s deposits. I’m in their backyard, but as of yet they’re still in the house.

I pushed through the miles with hopes of stumbling into a feeding bear. I had found the rare spring or two and when close, I would sit back and go through the laborious task of crying out fawn distress calls.

A thick furred fox came in to see what the racket was all about and nearly ran head first into my setup. I was being heard, but not by the right audience. All fans are welcome, but only a few specific ones would be allowed in the VIP room. An hour went by and I wrapped up my concert.

No takers.

My time was up, or to be more exact, my eviction notice had come due by the Arizona Game and Fish. My hope of lounging in front of the fireplace, sprawled out on a luxurious bear rug sipping a crisp White Claw had not come to fruition. But me implanting that awkward visual in your head has. You're welcome.

August will be right around the corner and with it comes the “bears on pears” season. The locals assure me this is in fact a true occurrence, that the bears will be down in the desert floor feeding on prickly pear. As a matter of fact they tell me, with no lack of enthusiasm in their voice, that if I go back and across the California border from where I came, that I will walk into a land where I will have to swat through bears I don’t want to shoot to to get to bears that I do.

I again start to tell them that I am not from California and that the only reason I visit there is to remind myself that sometimes you do in fact have to throw the baby out with the bathwater, but then I pause. Maybe I’ll let this California thing ride. Perhaps I can get them to open up to a few of their secret hunting spots in return for my promise not to vote this country into a Cuba 2.0. A communist loving Californian can dream after all.

// Fred