Hennessey's finish what they start. All it takes is a little grit, determination, and a mom at home sending up a few prayers. The story begins late November 2022 with the family tradition of going eyeballs deep in snow to find the perfect red-fir Christmas tree. The day turned out postcard perfect, except for the fact I still had an unfilled bear tag burning a hole in my pocket. With a few hours of light left in the day, I said my goodbyes and headed off deeper into the woods in hopes of finding a fresh bear track. Sure enough, I cut a fresh set crossing the very small primitive road I was on. Unfortunately, it was heading out into no man’s land where there were no roads. I was in for a long hike.
The bear was a smart, crafty, old soldier with serious skills in covering his tracks. He would walk on suspended logs and then jump off them 8 to 10 feet away to bushes or trees. Over and over, I would lose the track and have to start hiking circles around the last known position until I picked it up again.
Finally, after miles of hiking, the track went in and out of several small caves that were tucked on the edge of a string of boulders. My heart skipped a beat as the tracks went into an especially small cave with no signs of coming out. Well-armed with my trusty 30-06 rifle and my cell phone flashlight, I slid on my belly to the mouth of the cave entrance. I made it inside and the cave turned slightly right and a lot uphill. The corner was too tight, so I backed out. I waited until dark in hopes the bear would venture out but no luck. I started the hike back to the truck with high hopes of coming back with better gear the next weekend.
The weather changed for the worse with several feet of fresh snow falling that next week. The next weekend, I loaded up my 1959 propane-powered Ford pickup with the proper gear and headed out to the cave. The snow kept getting deeper and deeper as I climbed in elevation. As capable and trusty as ol’ ‘59 is, she could only get me halfway to the cave’s location. I parked ol’ ‘59 in the nearest free parking zone, aka the snowbank where she got stuck. I strapped on my snowshoes and started trekking cross country in a straight line towards the cave. As the sunlight was fading, I soon realized I was not going to make it. Dejected, I again turned around and left, trying to think up a plan on how to get back to the cave. Snowmobiles!
The next week, my buddy had a buddy who knew a guy with four snowmobiles in varying condition sitting out in his back 40. I spent two weeks working on them and finally ended up with two that sort of ran. One was missing its seat and would randomly get stuck at full throttle, and the other had a shot suspension and steering wobblies. This was my last chance before season closed, so I called my brother, Pete, and we drove the trucks as far as we could and then jumped on the suicide machines and took off like a bullet. Well, I should say Pete took off like a bullet since his throttle was stuck, and I was taking the scenic route, but not by choice. I wanted to go straight, and the snowmobile would go right.
We made it to within half a mile of the caves, strapped on snowshoes, and hiked in only to find a blanket of snow with no signs of life anywhere. We dug down six feet to the entrance of the cave. I took a rope and tied one end to my feet and then tied the other end to Pete and gave him strict instructions to pull me out pronto if things went south. It didn’t matter because the cave was empty, and with that, the season closed.
The winter of 2023/24 was not much of a winter with snow only in the higher elevations. Staying consistent with the previous year, I had an unfilled bear tag burning a hole in my pocket. With only one week left in the season, I thought just for kicks I’d go back to the same area and maybe I’d get lucky. Armed with my brand new 44 mag, I jumped in ol’ ‘59 and drove to within half a mile of the caves. I hiked all over, looking under every log and in every crack. Then there was a whole area where the ground had been torn up and bushes ripped out. This was the same tiny cave I had tried crawling in last year. Since there was no snow, I had no way of knowing if there was anything in the cave. I got out my flashlight and slid across the frozen ground to the entrance only to find it jam-packed with brush and sticks. I started dragging armload after armload of brush out of the hole. After I got about the first 8-10 feet cleared out, I just lay there and listened. It was hard to hear anything over my heartbeat pounding in my head, but yes, I heard it! Something or someone was breathing deeper in the cave. I backed out to check my lights and gun and then thought I should probably call someone just to let them know where I was. I called Pete, and he made me promise that I wouldn’t go in until he got there. I perched myself directly above the entrance.
The waiting began, and after about 30 minutes, my backside was telling if I didn’t move or change position it was going to file a lawsuit. However, I wouldn’t listen. I was not going to budge one inch. I wasn’t going to chance blowing my cover. I was going to wait it out until Pete got there and then do something. Well, my backside decided if I wasn’t going to listen, it was going to make me regret that. It didn’t just go numb, it made me feel like I was sitting on Grandma’s pin cushion. My fingers were frozen numb from the cold and because they were griping a stainless-steel pistol.
After just one hour and 20 minutes of sitting like a statue, I heard something off in the distance. Was that thunder? No, that was Pete hauling butt, but I heard something else. It was a rustling from the cave. I sat focused, ready for anything. There between my legs, I saw a snout and then a whole head. It was definitely a bear, and it was a huge one! Then I saw the front shoulder. That’s all I needed to see. I let it have it with several rounds of the 44 mag in the back of the head at a distance of two feet. Everything went silent except a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I forgot to put my earplugs in, which were hanging around my neck.
A few minutes later, Pete came running out of the trees. He had just run a half-mile sprint after hearing the shots and not knowing what was going down. We swapped high fives, and the levels of excitement and gratitude were off the charts. We ended up taking two trips to the truck packing it out, the back quarters first and then the front and the hide on the second trip. Field dressed, it weighed 300 lbs. and the length snout to tail was 7’1". We cut up the meat ourselves and got 100 lbs. of sausage. The next day, I took it to a taxidermist to make a rug. He said it could take up to a year to finish and a lot of money. Well, what’s money? I can’t take it with me when I die, and as far as having to wait, I have a lot of practice at that!
The bear was a smart, crafty, old soldier with serious skills in covering his tracks. He would walk on suspended logs and then jump off them 8 to 10 feet away to bushes or trees. Over and over, I would lose the track and have to start hiking circles around the last known position until I picked it up again.
Finally, after miles of hiking, the track went in and out of several small caves that were tucked on the edge of a string of boulders. My heart skipped a beat as the tracks went into an especially small cave with no signs of coming out. Well-armed with my trusty 30-06 rifle and my cell phone flashlight, I slid on my belly to the mouth of the cave entrance. I made it inside and the cave turned slightly right and a lot uphill. The corner was too tight, so I backed out. I waited until dark in hopes the bear would venture out but no luck. I started the hike back to the truck with high hopes of coming back with better gear the next weekend.
The weather changed for the worse with several feet of fresh snow falling that next week. The next weekend, I loaded up my 1959 propane-powered Ford pickup with the proper gear and headed out to the cave. The snow kept getting deeper and deeper as I climbed in elevation. As capable and trusty as ol’ ‘59 is, she could only get me halfway to the cave’s location. I parked ol’ ‘59 in the nearest free parking zone, aka the snowbank where she got stuck. I strapped on my snowshoes and started trekking cross country in a straight line towards the cave. As the sunlight was fading, I soon realized I was not going to make it. Dejected, I again turned around and left, trying to think up a plan on how to get back to the cave. Snowmobiles!
The next week, my buddy had a buddy who knew a guy with four snowmobiles in varying condition sitting out in his back 40. I spent two weeks working on them and finally ended up with two that sort of ran. One was missing its seat and would randomly get stuck at full throttle, and the other had a shot suspension and steering wobblies. This was my last chance before season closed, so I called my brother, Pete, and we drove the trucks as far as we could and then jumped on the suicide machines and took off like a bullet. Well, I should say Pete took off like a bullet since his throttle was stuck, and I was taking the scenic route, but not by choice. I wanted to go straight, and the snowmobile would go right.
We made it to within half a mile of the caves, strapped on snowshoes, and hiked in only to find a blanket of snow with no signs of life anywhere. We dug down six feet to the entrance of the cave. I took a rope and tied one end to my feet and then tied the other end to Pete and gave him strict instructions to pull me out pronto if things went south. It didn’t matter because the cave was empty, and with that, the season closed.
The winter of 2023/24 was not much of a winter with snow only in the higher elevations. Staying consistent with the previous year, I had an unfilled bear tag burning a hole in my pocket. With only one week left in the season, I thought just for kicks I’d go back to the same area and maybe I’d get lucky. Armed with my brand new 44 mag, I jumped in ol’ ‘59 and drove to within half a mile of the caves. I hiked all over, looking under every log and in every crack. Then there was a whole area where the ground had been torn up and bushes ripped out. This was the same tiny cave I had tried crawling in last year. Since there was no snow, I had no way of knowing if there was anything in the cave. I got out my flashlight and slid across the frozen ground to the entrance only to find it jam-packed with brush and sticks. I started dragging armload after armload of brush out of the hole. After I got about the first 8-10 feet cleared out, I just lay there and listened. It was hard to hear anything over my heartbeat pounding in my head, but yes, I heard it! Something or someone was breathing deeper in the cave. I backed out to check my lights and gun and then thought I should probably call someone just to let them know where I was. I called Pete, and he made me promise that I wouldn’t go in until he got there. I perched myself directly above the entrance.
The waiting began, and after about 30 minutes, my backside was telling if I didn’t move or change position it was going to file a lawsuit. However, I wouldn’t listen. I was not going to budge one inch. I wasn’t going to chance blowing my cover. I was going to wait it out until Pete got there and then do something. Well, my backside decided if I wasn’t going to listen, it was going to make me regret that. It didn’t just go numb, it made me feel like I was sitting on Grandma’s pin cushion. My fingers were frozen numb from the cold and because they were griping a stainless-steel pistol.
After just one hour and 20 minutes of sitting like a statue, I heard something off in the distance. Was that thunder? No, that was Pete hauling butt, but I heard something else. It was a rustling from the cave. I sat focused, ready for anything. There between my legs, I saw a snout and then a whole head. It was definitely a bear, and it was a huge one! Then I saw the front shoulder. That’s all I needed to see. I let it have it with several rounds of the 44 mag in the back of the head at a distance of two feet. Everything went silent except a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I forgot to put my earplugs in, which were hanging around my neck.
A few minutes later, Pete came running out of the trees. He had just run a half-mile sprint after hearing the shots and not knowing what was going down. We swapped high fives, and the levels of excitement and gratitude were off the charts. We ended up taking two trips to the truck packing it out, the back quarters first and then the front and the hide on the second trip. Field dressed, it weighed 300 lbs. and the length snout to tail was 7’1". We cut up the meat ourselves and got 100 lbs. of sausage. The next day, I took it to a taxidermist to make a rug. He said it could take up to a year to finish and a lot of money. Well, what’s money? I can’t take it with me when I die, and as far as having to wait, I have a lot of practice at that!