stayzeroed
FNG
I wrote this story for the Backcountry Hunters and Anglers Journal that was published this spring about my 2025 Spring Bear hunt. They have recently released it publicly through their website. If you're looking for a good cause to support, BHA has some new leadership and is taking the fight to Washington as we speak with the pending roadless rule repeals. A membership will land a journal in your mailbox every quarter. Sometimes, it's nice to read from print. Be sure to check out the other submissions!
Spring 2026 BHA Journal
A couple years ago I wrote my first story and posted it in Rokslide. I never dreamed I'd submit something for print, but here we are.
Road to Redemption
This is the final chapter in a story that began three years earlier. Each year brought its own lessons — education, insight, heartbreak, and the most important element to hunting and life: experience.
I had coordinated dates with my good friend and hunting mentor, Aaron, planned vacation days, and set my out-of-office. My wife would tell you I picked the worst possible week to leave for hunting: the last week of school, kids running wild, and summertime sports ramping up. Luckily, I am blessed, and my wife understands there are “best times” for spring bear season.
In the days leading up to my long-anticipated adventure, sickness crept in — fever, aches, lethargy. With less than 48 hours until departure, I snacked on ibuprofen, slept early, and miraculously awoke fever-free Wednesday.
Thursday morning, I packed the truck, exchanged family goodbyes, and they wished me good luck. I felt sluggish but determined. I wouldn’t let a little sickness derail months of training, planning, and sleepless nights filled with visions of bears crossing mountain ridges. Western hunters often take vast public lands for granted; flatlanders like me live vicariously through YouTube and dreams of the next adventure.
Winter had brought 135% of the seasonal average of moisture, meaning some roads could be tricky or impassable. I refreshed onX imagery like an addict checking their dealer. Things looked passable, but firsthand knowledge is always better. Our plan: send it and see how far we could go. Still haunted by last year’s events, I had to return to the same area.
As luck would have it, the access roads were nearly better than before. Arriving, we shut off our pickups and soaked in the silence the remote backcountry provides. Within a minute, a lone wolf let out a long, low howl. Aaron — a veteran of the wilderness — called it a locator howl. I took it as a good omen.
We set camp and rucked into “the spot.” Aaron spotted the first bear within 20 minutes — a decent black bear about 1,600 yards away. Almost as quickly as it appeared, the tree canopy swallowed it whole. That was the only bear we saw that day. A few elk and mule deer showed themselves, but nothing else. Darkness brought us back to camp.
I realized I was still recovering from my earlier sickness. I slept better on a lightweight air pad than ever, with rain providing the perfect white noise. Nature’s alarm — birdsong and sunlight — was there before I knew it.
We were in no hurry to move that morning. Aaron fired up the stove to chase out the chill and dry the night’s moisture. As I soaked up the rays, I stared into an open area that offered ideal bear forage — perfect chartreuse grass. I wondered how many bears we never saw, lurking in treeline shadows like Carlos Hathcock — an infamous Marine sniper — intent on remaining unseen.
We planned to climb a nearby peak and glass as far as possible. Our hike started by crossing a small creek, too wide to jump and too deep to walk through without soggy boots. A fallen tree offered the best bridge in the area.
As we approached, Aaron quietly exclaimed, “There’s a bear.” Two minutes into the day, a beautiful jet-black bear grazed inside the treeline. After a quick confirmation with my own eyes and binoculars, I thought, it’s time.
My rifle is heavy — what some call a boat anchor — so I had strapped it within my pack. I’ve yet to find a sling I like. Moments later, it was time to retrieve it. Was this my chance at redemption? I carefully removed the rifle, moving only as necessary, each click sounding like an outlawed M80 firework. I kept glancing up, expecting to see a spooked flash of black vanish into the shadows.
“250 yards,” Aaron said. Six clicks of my turret (0.6 milliradians). Dialed. Last year, at 300 yards, I had targeted a gorgeous cinnamon-phase black bear and never recovered it. Two hits, nearly 20 miles of grid searching, and I failed. My pride and confidence suffered.
Now, prone and steady, I had the bear in my optic. Please don’t repeat last year, I thought.
Jet black, thick fur, black snout. I guessed four-and-a-half feet — average for the area. It grazed, moving behind a tree. I repositioned while Aaron stayed focused. Time slowed; I moved with precision and speed. I checked for cubs. None.
“I’m shooting,” I whispered. Exhale. Settle. Pause. Squeeze. Shot. Hit. Drop. Roll. Silence. Observe. Wait.
My heart pounded. The silence was deafening. Aaron broke it: “It’s not moving.”
Hiking up, I worried it might be a sow. It wasn’t a cub or grizzly-sized — just a mass of black fur. I stood stoic, absorbing the achievement. Kneeling, I stroked the soft, thick fur — the culmination of three years: nearly 80 backcountry rucking miles, countless hours, days of driving, and missed family moments. I thanked God, knowing this was His test of commitment, resilience, and resolve.
Aaron and I shared high-fives, a brotherly hug, wide smiles, disbelief, and photos. I couldn’t believe it — a six-foot-square boar, a true beast of the wild. One shot, no tracking, no repeat of last year.
I knew a little about skinning, but Aaron’s professional guidance was invaluable. The bear provided pounds of fat and meat. After a few hours, the packs were loaded, and we rucked back to camp.
On the way home, a fleeting thought crossed my mind: Was this too easy? The pack-out was short. I had envisioned a grueling ordeal over miles and hours. Mentally, I repeated embrace the suck, a lesson from my Marines days.
I snapped out of it. I did it. Finally. None of this would have happened without Aaron, nor the support of my wife and family — Shannon, Ponch, Grizz, and MM. She understood my desire and assured me it was okay to pursue this adventure, even if it meant absences. The kids would understand someday. (If this hunt had failed, our oldest joked, I would be disowned.)
I found relief from the pressure of pursuit. This was my sixth big-game hunt and my first filled tag. It changed everything: I would enjoy it more, share what I had learned, teach others as Aaron had taught me, and remain a student of the wild.
A quick call to my wife:
“So now you can hunt something else and not be gone the last week of school?”
“Well, I need to do the bear slam — all the colors.”
She laughed despite herself. “Okay, I guess the last week of school wasn’t that bad.”
Redemption didn’t wipe the slate clean, but it taught me that hunting doesn’t live in a single chapter — it’s a whole book.
As this chapter closed, I crossed into Montana’s lowlands. The rising sun painted the peaks gold, illuminating snowcaps as beacons of direction. The bear was in the freezer; the kids were waiting at home; and already, my heart drifted toward the next wild place. I texted Aaron, planning the next hunt.
His reply: “Maybe a fall combo bear/wolf?”
See you soon, Montana.
A former Marine with a career in public service, BHA member James A. Paup believes in preparation, perseverance, and learning through experience. His stories draw heavily from time spent hunting the backcountry and overcoming personal setbacks, while life with his family in the Midwest keeps his priorities firmly in focus.
Spring 2026 BHA Journal
A couple years ago I wrote my first story and posted it in Rokslide. I never dreamed I'd submit something for print, but here we are.
Road to Redemption
This is the final chapter in a story that began three years earlier. Each year brought its own lessons — education, insight, heartbreak, and the most important element to hunting and life: experience.
I had coordinated dates with my good friend and hunting mentor, Aaron, planned vacation days, and set my out-of-office. My wife would tell you I picked the worst possible week to leave for hunting: the last week of school, kids running wild, and summertime sports ramping up. Luckily, I am blessed, and my wife understands there are “best times” for spring bear season.
In the days leading up to my long-anticipated adventure, sickness crept in — fever, aches, lethargy. With less than 48 hours until departure, I snacked on ibuprofen, slept early, and miraculously awoke fever-free Wednesday.
Thursday morning, I packed the truck, exchanged family goodbyes, and they wished me good luck. I felt sluggish but determined. I wouldn’t let a little sickness derail months of training, planning, and sleepless nights filled with visions of bears crossing mountain ridges. Western hunters often take vast public lands for granted; flatlanders like me live vicariously through YouTube and dreams of the next adventure.
Winter had brought 135% of the seasonal average of moisture, meaning some roads could be tricky or impassable. I refreshed onX imagery like an addict checking their dealer. Things looked passable, but firsthand knowledge is always better. Our plan: send it and see how far we could go. Still haunted by last year’s events, I had to return to the same area.
As luck would have it, the access roads were nearly better than before. Arriving, we shut off our pickups and soaked in the silence the remote backcountry provides. Within a minute, a lone wolf let out a long, low howl. Aaron — a veteran of the wilderness — called it a locator howl. I took it as a good omen.
We set camp and rucked into “the spot.” Aaron spotted the first bear within 20 minutes — a decent black bear about 1,600 yards away. Almost as quickly as it appeared, the tree canopy swallowed it whole. That was the only bear we saw that day. A few elk and mule deer showed themselves, but nothing else. Darkness brought us back to camp.
I realized I was still recovering from my earlier sickness. I slept better on a lightweight air pad than ever, with rain providing the perfect white noise. Nature’s alarm — birdsong and sunlight — was there before I knew it.
We were in no hurry to move that morning. Aaron fired up the stove to chase out the chill and dry the night’s moisture. As I soaked up the rays, I stared into an open area that offered ideal bear forage — perfect chartreuse grass. I wondered how many bears we never saw, lurking in treeline shadows like Carlos Hathcock — an infamous Marine sniper — intent on remaining unseen.
We planned to climb a nearby peak and glass as far as possible. Our hike started by crossing a small creek, too wide to jump and too deep to walk through without soggy boots. A fallen tree offered the best bridge in the area.
As we approached, Aaron quietly exclaimed, “There’s a bear.” Two minutes into the day, a beautiful jet-black bear grazed inside the treeline. After a quick confirmation with my own eyes and binoculars, I thought, it’s time.
My rifle is heavy — what some call a boat anchor — so I had strapped it within my pack. I’ve yet to find a sling I like. Moments later, it was time to retrieve it. Was this my chance at redemption? I carefully removed the rifle, moving only as necessary, each click sounding like an outlawed M80 firework. I kept glancing up, expecting to see a spooked flash of black vanish into the shadows.
“250 yards,” Aaron said. Six clicks of my turret (0.6 milliradians). Dialed. Last year, at 300 yards, I had targeted a gorgeous cinnamon-phase black bear and never recovered it. Two hits, nearly 20 miles of grid searching, and I failed. My pride and confidence suffered.
Now, prone and steady, I had the bear in my optic. Please don’t repeat last year, I thought.
Jet black, thick fur, black snout. I guessed four-and-a-half feet — average for the area. It grazed, moving behind a tree. I repositioned while Aaron stayed focused. Time slowed; I moved with precision and speed. I checked for cubs. None.
“I’m shooting,” I whispered. Exhale. Settle. Pause. Squeeze. Shot. Hit. Drop. Roll. Silence. Observe. Wait.
My heart pounded. The silence was deafening. Aaron broke it: “It’s not moving.”
Hiking up, I worried it might be a sow. It wasn’t a cub or grizzly-sized — just a mass of black fur. I stood stoic, absorbing the achievement. Kneeling, I stroked the soft, thick fur — the culmination of three years: nearly 80 backcountry rucking miles, countless hours, days of driving, and missed family moments. I thanked God, knowing this was His test of commitment, resilience, and resolve.
Aaron and I shared high-fives, a brotherly hug, wide smiles, disbelief, and photos. I couldn’t believe it — a six-foot-square boar, a true beast of the wild. One shot, no tracking, no repeat of last year.
I knew a little about skinning, but Aaron’s professional guidance was invaluable. The bear provided pounds of fat and meat. After a few hours, the packs were loaded, and we rucked back to camp.
On the way home, a fleeting thought crossed my mind: Was this too easy? The pack-out was short. I had envisioned a grueling ordeal over miles and hours. Mentally, I repeated embrace the suck, a lesson from my Marines days.
I snapped out of it. I did it. Finally. None of this would have happened without Aaron, nor the support of my wife and family — Shannon, Ponch, Grizz, and MM. She understood my desire and assured me it was okay to pursue this adventure, even if it meant absences. The kids would understand someday. (If this hunt had failed, our oldest joked, I would be disowned.)
I found relief from the pressure of pursuit. This was my sixth big-game hunt and my first filled tag. It changed everything: I would enjoy it more, share what I had learned, teach others as Aaron had taught me, and remain a student of the wild.
A quick call to my wife:
“So now you can hunt something else and not be gone the last week of school?”
“Well, I need to do the bear slam — all the colors.”
She laughed despite herself. “Okay, I guess the last week of school wasn’t that bad.”
Redemption didn’t wipe the slate clean, but it taught me that hunting doesn’t live in a single chapter — it’s a whole book.
As this chapter closed, I crossed into Montana’s lowlands. The rising sun painted the peaks gold, illuminating snowcaps as beacons of direction. The bear was in the freezer; the kids were waiting at home; and already, my heart drifted toward the next wild place. I texted Aaron, planning the next hunt.
His reply: “Maybe a fall combo bear/wolf?”
See you soon, Montana.
A former Marine with a career in public service, BHA member James A. Paup believes in preparation, perseverance, and learning through experience. His stories draw heavily from time spent hunting the backcountry and overcoming personal setbacks, while life with his family in the Midwest keeps his priorities firmly in focus.
