By Brian Koelzer

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“Splosh!” The tranquility of the beautiful Alaska evening was shattered by the sound of a beaver’s tail hitting the water. Instantly on red alert, I gripped my bow and slowly stood up. I was perched six feet off the ground on the top piece of a ladder stand strapped to a small poplar. My guide, Bruce, was in a lock-on stand just above and behind me in another tree. Our ambush overlooked a beaver dam on a slough several hundred yards from where it spilled into the main river. Spawning salmon bunched up at the base of the dam and made for an easy meal in the knee-deep water. Well-used bear trails circled both sides of the dam. It was a perfect setup.

As I turned into position for a potential shot the beaver slapped again right above the dam. Moments later, a massive chocolate-colored shape emerged from the willows on the opposite side of the slough. When the bear rounded the edge of the dam I had my first good look at him. Oddly, the first thing that struck me was the size of his nose. It looked like a loaf of bread. I instantly knew he was a monster; a battle-worn veteran with half of his right ear torn off. The beast sauntered along the bank with a shoulder-rolling gait of a mature, confident bear. He showed no sign of slowing his walk, heading straight for the grouped-up salmon. I raised my bow with tension on the string as he entered my shooting lane. He was slightly quartering to me, and I wasn’t going to risk hitting the front leg or shoulder. Continuing to my right, he stepped up on a little sandbar and turned broadside. I knew it must happen quickly as he was just about to walk into my wind. I started my draw, trying to time my anchor with his front leg coming forward. I had made this shot a million times in my mind over the course of the last year and a sense of calm came over me. Reaching full draw, a small crease in his hide caught my eye as his leg came forward and the arrow was on its way.

“I don’t think my legs are going to let me go on the grizzly hunt,” my dad, Scott, told me over the phone in early summer of 2023. Grizzlies are my dad’s favorite animal to hunt, and I knew he was really looking forward to this trip. Two years ago, he’d booked the adventure with our friend, Stan Parkinson, and the hunt was in less than two months. “If I can’t pull this off, would you be interested in going?”

I said I absolutely would but I wasn’t going to say yes unless he was 100-percent certain that he couldn’t do it. In 1997 he had a tree stand break on him and the fall left him with a crushed pelvis and massive internal injuries. In the years following his accident he’s had multiple back surgeries, several hip replacements, and a knee replacement. With another surgery looming, the challenge of navigating through tall grass or thick brush would be a daunting prospect. After much consideration, Dad called in mid-July and gave me his hunt.