Some hunts end with heavy packs and blood on the hands. Others? They end in shadows. Empty stands, quiet woods, and the weight of almost.

This spring bore the latter.

When the green breath of May unfurled across New Brunswick, I set my sights on a bear not born of common stock. A creature of mass and myth, easily a 400 pound monarch of the backwoods. Thick as timber, black as midnight sin, and wise beyond what teeth and claws alone can grant. From the first flicker of his image on my cellular trail cameras, I knew. This would be the bear that wrote my season. Or broke it.

He was a ghost at first. Strictly nocturnal, slinking through the ink of night with the careful footfalls of something that’s seen too many arrows fly. But time, as it does, frayed his edges. The mornings grew longer, his visits later. Hope sparked. Every vibration of the phone, every notification, every grainy image in the pale dawn light was a siren call to the hunt. It was as though he moved by some old knowing. Perhaps he watched me as much as I watched him. Perhaps he understood the rhythm of the man who baited every weekend, who could only haunt the woods in stolen hours between the working grind and the wild. The man who was on borrowed time.

I gave him 24 days in the stand.
Twenty four dawns and dusks.
I sat in the heavy breath of the forest, where the air pressed down like a wool blanket soaked in sweat, where the flies carved their dues from flesh, and the sun burned with indifference.

Time stretches differently in the woods. Minutes become hours. Hours, whole lifetimes. And in that stillness, I carried on, sweating through layers of BassDash gear that never once failed me. It wasn’t about flash or marketing. It was about gear that could endure. Breathable when the heat pressed in, silent when the wind died. It blended into the wild the way a man ought to when he steps into the old ways.

But this hunt. It wasn’t just a chase. It was a story I was bound to tell. From the first sit, I’ve been self filming every breath of it. Piecing together a season, not merely for the kill, but for the tale. I’ve studied these bears, watched them rise and fall, named them like old friends or rivals. Every clip, every hour of footage, is a testament not to conquest but to reverence. I don’t just hunt these creatures. I bear witness to them. To their lives, their patterns, their wild truth. And perhaps, in seasons to come, I’ll watch them grow, heavier, wiser, still free.

The rut came with all its fever. The sows stirred the boars, and the bush was alive with motion. Yet even then, the one I sought played the game too well. Lesser bears fed. Arrows stayed put. The line between patience and obsession blurred.

And then, inevitably. The final day came. The last breath of spring bear. The stand sat empty. The barrel went untouched. No blood soaked the ground. No weight burdened my back. No meat in the freezer. Only memory. Only longing.

But such is the hunt. Such is the marrow of this life we choose.
It is not for the faint.
It is for the few who understand that the kill is but one note in the longer song.

For now, the bow is laid to rest.
The trail cameras lay silent,
and I trade the whisper of the pines for the pull of the tide. Striped bass until the leaves begin their autumn fire.

But make no mistake.
I will return.
With two tags in my pocket.
And unfinished business in my blood.

Here’s to the ones that slip through the cracks of our best laid plans.
To the wild that sharpens us.
And to the quiet promise that we’ll rise again. Arrow to string, heart to hunt, eyes always forward.

~ Colby Johnston
@BigWildFoto