Dad had an old Remington pump that would always jam after the 2nd shot.  We’d carry a chunk of bailing wire to fix it.  Our family also had Uncle Boyd’s 16 gauge bolt action with that huge adjustable choke on the end of the barrel.  It had a 2 shot clip that would sometimes blow loose with a shot.  A thick sliver of willow branch would hold it in place.

The year Jimmie, my older brother, turned 12, Santa brought him a Savage over and under .410/.22.  I was 10 that year and vividly remember the details of the Christmas morning hunt with Dad,  Jimmie and Jimmie’s new savage.  We parked at the end of Murdock’s lane and jump shot ducks off streams as we made our way to the Teton River.  The river was completely frozen over so we jump shot more ducks on our way back to the car.  My short legs had some trouble making the longer steps through the deep snow, keeping up with the bigger guy’s steps but the 3-4 big mallards they shot made up for the fatigue.  That Christmas dinner really tasted extra good after the hunt.  By the way, Mom never fed us duck or goose for major holiday dinners. (thank goodness)

I’m not sure when the tradition started but every year on the day before Christmas us local kids would put in a marathon duck/goose hunting day.  Way before light Mom would drop us off somewhere close to the Teton River and we’d sneak up on river then spend the entire day there.  The river would often be frozen over but no worries we’d stick out the day and usually end up with a few duck and the rare goose.  These long days required lots of snacks, a lunch bag and a fire.  About dark we’d hit the Cedran road and hitch hike home, all tired out.  In theory we would then sleep better anticipating Christmas morning.

The year I turned twelve I spent most of my pea picking money on a very used model 37 Ithaca pump shot gun.  That gun and I lived together.  We smacked tons of ducks and were always tired Christmas eve.

Two weeks ago my son Jed and two of his kids, Parker and Jackson headed for the Duchesne River, in the dark with me to hunt ducks the day before Christmas.  Jed had a modern Browning 3 inch magnum pump in a 12 gauge and I used the old Ithaca pump.  We jumped and shot several ducks and had a riot!  It was a difficult walk through the deep snow.   We spent several hours crunched in the snow and reeds next to the slush filled river in as cold as -15F.  What a hoot!  Teals, mallards, golden eyes and Canadian geese became our plate.  After the deep snow march back to the truck we were tired out.  I hope it restarted a great Christmas eve tradition.  I know the hunt brought back many good memories.  Mostly it brought us closer together.

Shot guns, powder and that sweet smell of Hoppes.  It still smells and feels the same as it did 48 years ago.

That fall, still wanting a brown bear, I rebooked, at a discounted rate, with the same guy.  I took a commercial airline to Yakutat (a fishing Indian town), then shuttled to Icy Bay via canvas covered light aircraft owned by the outfitter.  That day, on his news radio, we had an Alaskan tsunami warning with a time of arrival.  We didn’t know if the wave would hit us 100ft high or what.  We started hacking a trail through the overgrown forest, up the mountain with urgency.  The Alaskan coast is a jungle with alders, devil club and other inventions intended to keep humans out.  We figured we made the 100 foot elevation we desired and packed many supplies up there.   The owner took off in the canvas airplane to save it.  The tsunami arrived–approx 4-6 inches of ocean rise.

Icy Bay is fed by multiple glaciers with floating, hanging and calving glacier chunks.  There are seals, lots of birds and I assume gobs of fish.  It’s a beautiful place in a very rugged way. After the tsunami scare the owner and guides were busy cleaning up and replacing our mountain stash.  I, meanwhile, became more and more daring and ventured down the coast–first several hundred yards then several miles.  The landscape was ocean to my right with a coarse sand beach.   The beach was approximately 20 feet wide then a bank about 5 feet tall beyond which was a tundra plain of 100 to 1,000 yards deep to the forest.  My thought was to walk the beach but hopefully sneak up on a brown bear, out on the tundra.  I could quietly walk along the beach and peek over the bank every once in a while for the hopeful dumb bear.

A brown bear is really a grizzly bear that eats a lot of salmon and grows much bigger, so a respectable grizzly is 6 1/2 feet to 9 feet and a respectable brown is 9-12 feet.  Browns are huge bears.  They weigh approx 900-1800lbs–kind of the same weight as a cow.

I felt safe walking along the beach with the tundra to my left and the ocean to my right, and I kept checking the tundra as not to be surprised.  The next instant is difficult to put on paper.  My right peripheral vision picked up a massive animal coming at me from the ocean.  I formulated in my mind, in that fraction of an instant, a killer whale beaching itself out of the ocean, having me as a meal. I’ve seen the movie where they do that to seals in South America.  I don’t recall doing anything heroic to prevent my fate–a common reaction I have to scary events.  I do remember how my stomach instantly felt as I turned to meet the killer.

Out in the ocean (it must have fallen off steeply) at about 15 yards, a car sized white whale again surfaced blowing steam from its blow hole. Another 20-30 foot white blunt faced whale followed the first.  I was embarrassed that I had reacted with a death grip to such an innocent and beautiful animal, as I tried recovering enough to enjoy them. Since that occasion I’ve learned they were beluga whales.

The next morning I stood with my guide on the landing strip ready to go out and hunt brown bear.  My guide, Mike, sucked down 3-4 cigarettes while we waited.  I got brave–not a common Smith trait.  I told him if he didn’t smoke for the week we were together I’d have a good hunt and tip him well.   On the other hand, if he smoked, with us living together in a small domed tent in the rain for a week, I would not have a good hunt!   Bless his heart, he borrowed a bunch of chewing tobacco and didn’t smoke that whole week.  We were ferried to a gravel sand bar, given a tent, tarp and dried food and left for a week.  It rained constantly, but we had fun.  Again we saw little.  We sneaked up on a small noisy stream one day thinking it was a bear fishing only to find 30 lbs salmon spooning in a 2 inch deep stream. We found many sites with fresh bear sign–fish bone and tracks.

Our terrain was a huge gravel glacial river bottom with alder (willows) and streams and a massive glacier behind us, it coursing up into the high Canadian snow capped mountains.  I believe the mountain range behind us was Mt. St Elis (the tallest mountain in Canada).

We made it back to the protection of our tarp for lunch one day and while eating something very non-memorable we spotted a bear walking down a stream about 800 yds away.  The hunt had been long and hard enough to know right off we wanted him, so we took off in pursuit.  The bear’s pace was his pace and it was much faster than I could walk, probably about a good jog pace.  After about a 1/2 mile, with us losing ground, we saw him dive into a stream and come out with a salmon.  Sneaking up to approximately 250yds (before rangefinders) I lied down, got a rest across my backpack, and smacked him with two .338 bullets.  He screamed, whirled around in circles and took off (remember it was raining this whole time).

We waited 30 minutes then approached the scene.  We could see the partially eaten salmon, bear hair and bone fragment as well as blood splattering following his pie pan sized tracks off into the alders.  The terrain was flat and quite open, mingled with patches of alder.  We assumed he was done for as we slowly followed his track. Mike, also had a .338 win mag and both of us were ready.  We left our packs at the fish site and planned on a short hike.  About 100 yards of easy tracking came to a 9 1/2 foot brown bear behind a scant bush 30 yds in front of us.  Without speaking I raised my rifle and gave him one in the chest.  He was there, I assume, waiting for whatever hurt him to come.  He was sniffing the air when I shot and without any pause came at us, around the bush, then head on.  We each emptied our rifles as he came.  I recall seeing the bullets hit him behind his head, on his back and noticing the water fly off his grizzly hump from the hits.

The bear died at 10 paces.  Mike turned to me and said, “Go and see if he’s dead.”  I said, “You go see if he’s dead.”

Mike was breathing in short jabs as if he couldn’t get any air.  I didn’t think it was funny ’cause I was doing the same.  We reloaded, caught our breath and the rest is a bear rug on the wall.