I’d barely buckled my seatbelt leaving Whanganui when it hit me: mate, isn’t it a bit cooked flying halfway across the world to hunt black bears for your 30th birthday? But by the time I landed in British Columbia and saw the sheer number of bears and the tight tag system they ran over there, that thought faded fast. Canada doesn’t muck around with wildlife management; when you see it firsthand, it all makes sense.

I flew into Vancouver, grabbed my gear, and jumped on a bus inland toward Kamloops, where my buddy Justin was waiting. I’d met Justin pre-Covid while he was travelling around New Zealand fishing, hunting and soaking up everything the place had to offer. We crossed paths at the building company I was working for at the time, ended up chasing a few Whanganui fallow deer together and became good mates.

When Covid hit, I offered him a place to stay until it blew over, but he reckoned he’d better get home to his girlfriend – now his wife. We kept in touch over the years, and when I mentioned I was flying over for my 30th for a bit of travelling, Justin said, “Yeah mate, we’ll catch up for a beer.” Then he laughed and added, “Stuff that! We’ll go after a bear!”

So, there we were, loading the trailer, cracking yarns, catching up on a few years of life and pointing the ute south toward Osoyoos, heading for a mountain range hard up against the US-Canada border.

Only in Canada

On the way down, we spotted a car pulled over with a flat tyre. Both of us figured we could do with some good karma before chasing bears, so we swung over to help. Out hops this big mountain of a man – an absolute unit – who tells us not to worry because he’s already called his wife to come change the tyre.

The way he was talking a million miles an hour, it was pretty clear he’d had a few beers.

Just as we finished up, his tiny wee wife rolled in, more thankful than anyone I’ve ever met. The big fella handed us a business card and said, “If you boys are ever in Keremeos, come round for a beer.” Only in Canada.

Madden Lake

We rolled into Madden Lake by late arvo – a small fishing lake with a few … let’s just say …  ‘questionable characters’ calling it home. On the drive in, I’d asked Justin if people ever lived at these lakes, and he’d said, “No way.” That comment didn’t age well – because there were six locals set up permanently. I won’t go into detail – those stories aren’t fit for the magazine – but it was definitely an odd little community.

We parked up Justin’s work trailer – our base camp for the next three nights – sorted gear, and as the light faded, we jumped on the motorbike to glass a ridge nearby.

The moment we started walking, my head went on a swivel. Back home in the Ruahines, the worst thing sneaking up on you is a pissed-off stag or sideways weather. But here? Wolves. Cougars. Grizzlies. Things that eat you on purpose.

Justin must’ve seen the look on my face. “Oh yeah … also keep an eye and ear out for rattlesnakes,” he said with a grin.

Right then, I knew … we’re definitely not in the Ruahines now, Samuel.

We didn’t see any bears that evening, just three mule deer does feeding their way across a face. Back at camp, we lit the fire, cooked up a feed and settled into our chairs as the lake went dark and the forest came alive. Nothing beats that feeling knowing tomorrow could be the day.

Grizzly!

By 5:30 the next morning, our new neighbour at Madden Lake was already down at the water doing her washing. Just another normal day at the office for her. We geared up, had a quick breakfast and headed back into the hills.

Up on the tops, there was still about 400mm of snow, which made for some interesting riding. As we followed a ridge, we cut a fresh set of grizzly tracks. Big pads, long claws – the sort of print that makes your heart thump a bit louder. We tailed them for a while, half curious, half hoping we didn’t meet their owner.

By the time we walked into our fourth basin of the day, we were running mostly on coffee and leftover cold meat. We sparked up the Jetboil and Justin threw out a few predator calls: a coyote hammering a rabbit. The sound echoed through the timber and made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

About five minutes later, the bush cracked. Out stepped the most incredible cinnamon-coloured bear I’ve ever seen. Deep reddish gold, glowing in the sun. Unreal.

Justin’s eyes lit up. “Buddy … holy shit! That’s exactly what we’re after. I’ve never seen one that colour.”

As he explained the signs of a mature bear – melon-sized head, small ears, thick legs, that slow, confident walk – my excitement hit full throttle.

Then two cubs tumbled out behind her: one blonde, one jet black. Just like that, the dream bear was off the table.

We watched her feed in, completely unaware, until she caught our wind at about fifty metres. In an instant, she was gone, her cubs sprinting behind her like little rockets. The whole encounter lasted minutes, but it was worth the flight in itself.

By the time we got back to the bike, we’d covered close to 60 miles and the sun was fading. My legs were smoked, but my grin was ear to ear.

A Big Black Bear

The next morning, with only one day left and a seven-hour drive back to Kamloops ahead of us, we launched the tinny for a quick dawn fish. Justin hooked a perfect-sized trout for breakfast, and while it sizzled away on the BBQ, we started packing up camp.

I was standing there with a coffee in hand, taking it all in – how lucky I was to be in this place – when I saw movement on the far face.

A big black bear. Feeding slow. Head down. Unaware.

“Hey bro … there’s a bear there.”

Justin spun around. “Where? On the face?”

I flicked off the BBQ. “Breakfast will have to wait.” I sank the last of my coffee, grabbed my rifle and tag and threw on my gear. It was game on.

We rode around the lake to get above him, then left the bike and started in on foot – heart thumping, blood pumping. We reached a little vantage point where a game trail hit the bushline. Justin gave a few calls, and within moments, my bear froze in the track. It was now or never.

Justin whispered, “Wait for him to turn broadside. Behind the front shoulder – heart and lungs.”

I slid a pill into Justin’s trusty .270 and settled in behind the scope. At 100 metres, he turned slightly. At 70 metres, he paused, quartering broadside. I squeezed the trigger. Bang!

The bear jumped, spun, and crashed 15 metres into the bush. The whole world went quiet for a second – just the soft echo rolling across the valley. Justin looked over at me, half smiling, half serious.

“How do you feel about that shot, buddy?”

“Good,” I said, heart thumping. “First bear

I’ve ever shot … but it felt right.”

Canadian Giant

We found the blood trail almost immediately – bright, heavy, exactly what you want to see. We followed it into the scrub for maybe five metres before common sense kicked in. Thick timber, steep country and a potentially wounded bear? Yeah, nah.

We backed out and gave him an hour.

That hour felt like three. Sitting on a log, replaying the shot over and over in my head, trying not to imagine the worst. Back home in the Ruahines, you don’t worry about something turning on you, but here, you’re in a food chain, and you’re not at the top.

When we finally eased back in, we found him tucked under a tree. Big body, eyes open, still as stone. We watched for a long fifteen minutes waiting for a breath, a twitch, anything.

Nothing. Still … you never assume with bears. With the oldest rule in the book echoing in our heads, we grabbed the biggest branch we could find and gave him a poke. No reaction.

Lucky for us, he was well and truly gone.

Relief hit me hard – like I’d been holding my breath for an hour. I stood there looking down at him, this 150kg black bear lying at my feet, and it was a moment I’ll remember forever. Not just the size of him, but the feeling – the weight of the whole trip landing at once. A true Canadian giant, and my first bear. Not bad for a kid from Whanganui.

Getting Him Out

Shooting him was the easy part. After the photos, high-fives and a good minute of just taking it all in, we looked at each other and realised the next question was a big one: “How the hell do we get him out?”

We wrestled him, rolled him, dragged him and swore at him – inch by inch moving him toward the bike. Sweat running, legs shaking, backs screaming. Real graft. Real hunting.

By the time we got him loaded and strapped down, we were both cooked – but buzzing. Properly buzzing.

Back at camp, breakfast became brunch. Trout in the pan, coffee in hand, that big bear sitting in the shade ready for processing. Not a bad morning at all.

As we packed up camp, we said goodbye to our ‘neighbours’ at Madden Lake – the colourful locals who’d given us more laughs than we expected – and left them a back steak as a thank you. They couldn’t believe it. One bloke said it was the best thing that’d happened at that lake in years.

Then we hit the road – dusty, tired and absolutely stoked.

It’s easy to call something a ‘hunt of a lifetime’, but this truly was. Not just because I punched a tag, but because of everything around it. The country. The laughs. The people we met. The close calls. The early mornings and late fires. And that final moment, standing over a bear that I’d dreamed about for years.

Canada gave me more than I ever expected: adventure, challenge, friendship and one hell of a first bear. A trip I’ll never forget.