Brown bear!

"My God, there's a bear!" Brent Jones hissed. My eyes followed his pointing finger. Sure enough, a chocolate-colored bruin was crossing a swamp 125 yards away. "You stay here" I suggested, my mind racing as I surveyed the situation. It was early afternoon, a time when brown bears were normally snoozing in the brush. But there was nothing normal about the Alaska Peninsula in 1989. During the past 14 days, I had learned to expect the unexpected.

Brent and I held a quick powwow, and then I went after the bear. My guide would hang back with his .375 Magnum, a firearm I hoped he would not have to use. I would try to angle-in on the brownie, second-guessing his travel path and intercepting him along the edge of the marsh.

The animal was not huge by brown bear standards--an eight-footer at best. But Alaska's three-week fall brown bear season was half gone, and any legal bear looked pretty good to me.

I trotted down a slope, dropped behind a ridge, and cut in a cross-breeze direction. Three minutes later, I peeked beyond a bush. The bear was 80 yards away, lumbering through knee-deep grass with his massive head wagging from side to side. I ducked out of sight, sprinted another 50 yards ... and sank to my knees in the mud. My ankle-fit hip waders sucked loudly with every step, but the bear was beyond a sound-blocking bank. Seconds later, he appeared.

The animal had turned 45 degrees, angling away through waist-high grass. The distance was 50 yards, farther than I cared to shoot at a dangerous animal. Besides, scattered brush made clear aiming impossible. I watched the bear waddle up a hill and disappear in alders higher than my head.

IT HAD BEEN A frustrating hunt. Eleven days earlier I had flown to King Salmon, Alaska, and then hopped a bush plane to Brent Jones' remote Dog Salmon Camp. Jones specialized in giant brown bears, the kind I had dreamed about for years. Only after talking to dozens of outfitters on Kodiak Island and the Alaska Peninsula did I book with Brent's AAA Alaskan Outfitters. Brent's operation had an impressive track record on trophy brown bears, with nearly 100 percent of clients scoring on mature bruins.

Harsh weather hammered us the first two days, making airplane travel impossible. Finally, on October 2, we flew from Dog Salmon Camp to a lonely ocean beach. As the Cessna 185's oversized tires bounced over sand humps and bits of driftwood, rain started falling again. We shouldered 70-pound packs and trudged inland through swamp grass and brush. Rain lashed our faces and wind tugged our clothes.

Welcome to brown bear country, U.S.A., I thought. If half-ton meat-eaters don't get you, bad weather will!

The Alaska brown bear is one of North America's marvels--an awesome beast with powerful muscles, sharp teeth, and a gorgeous trophy hide. Some biologists regard brown bears and grizzlies as the same animal, but brown bears are classed as a separate variety by record-keeping organizations. These giant carnivores roam coastal Alaska from Ketchikan and Juneau to the Alaska Peninsula. Forging on abundant coastal food, they grow to ungodly proportions. Mature males scale upwards of 1,000 pounds, and old giants occasionally reach 1,500 pounds. That's heavier than a good-size riding horse!

My shooting setup was tuned to perfection, and I was toting a reliable range-finder. I could consistently hit my stocking cap at 60 yards but had decided not to shoot beyond 30 to ensure a precisely placed arrow. Brent was a cool customer, but he was legally bound to drop a poorly hit animal. By limiting my shooting distance, I could prevent a problem.

Widely wandering brown bears were a problem we could not prevent. During the first 10 days, we saw nine single, legal bears and 23 illegal sows with cubs. The largest bear we saw was a chocolate beauty in the nine-foot class. The front pad prints were exactly eight inches across. A bear hide squares about one foot larger than the width of the front foot in inches. Sadly, the animal did what most other bears had done. He appeared at extreme range and then walked into a jungle of alder bushes and grass. We scrambled up the valley after him, but all we found were his tracks.

On October 12, a vicious storm hit the Alaska Peninsula. Rain poured, wind increased to a roar, and visibility dropped to zero. We found out later the storm had been classed as a typhoon--a polite Alaskan term for hurricane. Winds were recorded in excess of 90 miles per hour. Brent and I were trapped for three long days, simply lucky our dome tent stayed up around our ears.

AT 11 P.M. ON OCTOBER 14, the wind and rain suddenly stopped, and October 15 dawned clear and cold, with a slight breeze slipping out to sea. It was the nicest morning we had seen, and I suggested we walk up the valley. Glassing from high hillsides had shown us bears, but animals always slipped away. I was ready to try something new.

We followed a gravel bed fringed by walls of brush. A creek meandered down the center. Old and flesh brown bear tracks littered the high-water mark, along with half-rotting salmon and piles of bear dung.

Less than one mile from our tent, water splashed beyond a bend in the creek. Something large had made the commotion, but we were not sure what. There were moose in the area, along with a few migrating caribou. We crouched behind a bush.

Seconds later, a bear rushed out, jumped into the water, and splashed like a kid in a wading pool. The animal was huge. As we watched in amazement, he dropped his head and plowed upstream like a torpedo. Water flew everywhere. The bear was looking for salmon with his eyes underwater--something Brent had never seen before.

We chuckled as we tiptoed ahead. Was it fair to stalk a bear with its head submerged? Was that considered fair chase?

Then we crossed the tracks of the bear. We were stunned, and the laughing stopped. This bear was leaving 10-inch front tracks and 16 1/2-inch back tracks. The footprints were immense!

I looked beyond a willow bush and instantly spotted the bear. He was 60 or 70 yards ahead, dipping his paws under a cut bank for fish. As I watched, the bruin snagged a two-foot salmon, flipped it between his jaws, and walked into the brush. With an arrow on the string, I tiptoed ahead.

The bear stood up 20 yards to my left shook himself like a dog, and sauntered back to the stream. There was too much brush for a shot. He jumped into a pool 25 yards ahead, splashing and looking for fish. Two bushes blocked my view.

Easing around the first bush, shuffling my waders against ankle-deep current, I glanced over my shoulder. Brent was crouched with the rifle against his shoulder. Then the bear walked toward me. Heart in my throat, I drew my bow and tracked the massive chest.

The monster lumbered into the open, his huge head rolling from side to side. The distance was 12 yards ...

You're right. That is too darned close!

I aimed low on the rib cage, waited for the foreleg to swing ahead, and released the bowstring. The arrow buried to the fletching, and the bear lunged away with a fearsome roar. He spun around to face me and rose to his hind legs with a puzzled look on his face. Nothing separated us but thin Alaskan air.

"Here it comes," I thought. "Maybe he'll charge, and maybe he'll run away."

The bear's pig-like eyes bored through me like laser beams, but he didn't know what I was. He hung there a few seconds--and then he ran away. Those were the longest seconds of my life.

After some backslapping and a bite of lunch, Brent and I followed the bear. I had no doubt about the outcome, because I had seen sharp broadheads perform before. We followed tracks and flecks of blood for 163 yards. The bear was dead as a wedge, a neat four-blade hole behind the shoulder. The animal had probably stayed on his feet less than 20 seconds.

MY BROWN BEAR was the second biggest Brent had ever seen, and he loomed larger and larger as we approached. The chest circumference was 97 inches. According to accurate charts, that placed the bear's live weight at 1,400 pounds. Back at base camp, the hide squared 10 feet, 8 1/2 inches in front of a dozen witnesses, the biggest on record for a bowhunter. Alaskan game officials green-scored the skull at 28 inches, giving it a thin chance at the bowhunting world record. They said the bear was 14 years old. Months later, the dry skull placed Number Three in Pope and Young at the time, tied with a bear taken by Fred Bear in 1962.

After skinning and packing out my bear, Brent and I endured yet another storm. Huge raindrops and giant gusts of wind pounded our two-man tent, and the bush plane didn't get in for eight more days. But it would have taken more than foul weather to wipe the grin off my face. The year 1989 was a difficult year on the Alaska Peninsula, but it turned out terrific for me!

EDITOR'S NOTE: The preceding story is an excerpt from Chuck's exciting new adventure book, "Super Slam!" This heavily illustrated, 350-page volume has 28 chapters--one each on Chuck's experiences with the 28 varieties of North American big game. You can order this action-packed book for $24.95, postage paid, by calling toll-free, 1-800-916-2575. Or send check or money order to Chuck Adams Books, PO Box 10, Cody, WT 82414. Special leather-bound, signed and numbered collector's versions can now be purchased for $49.95 while supplies last--40 percent off the retail price of $84.95. Only 1,000 off these have been printed, and fewer than 400 are still available.