Mark and I suffered another long night in deepfreeze-like temperatures, but our spirits were high as we climbed out of our sleeping bags and joined “Monty and Company” for breakfast.  Knowing that later in the day we would be hunting for the first time since arriving in camp, we were quite eager to get to our respective bait sites and wait for Mr. Big to show himself.  As a result, breakfast was a blur. 

After a lightening-fast meal I headed down to the shoreline with my bow.  I set up a target at 20 yards and took a few shots.  I then moved out to 30 yards and pitched a few more arrows at the bullseye.  My bow was dead on.  It was time to hunt!

Around noon, Mark and I gathered our gear and got ready to try our luck at hunting a big Prairie Province black bear.  This was my third time chasing Manitoba black bear and Mark’s first.  Hopefully, at the end of it all, we would have a story or two to tell our friends and relatives -- Talk Forum Members also -- and a strong desire to visit Monty’s operation sometime in the very near future.

Monty took one boat and dropped Mark off at The Marina.  Tim and I took the other boat and headed toward The Isthmus.  Tim quietly maneuvered the craft into the bay and pulled up to the shore.   I got out of the boat, threw a thumbs-up sign to Tim and then slowly made my way down the footpath to my stand. 

As I walked around a slight bend in the trail I noticed that the bait barrel had not been touched.  There was also no sign that a bear had visited the area -- no scat, nothing.  I would later find out that Mark encountered the same fate at his stand site. 

“That’s awfully weird.  Hopefully, it’s not the weather,” I said to myself. 

Little did I know then just how much weight that particular moment of private reflection would carry over the course of the next 12 days.  Looking back on it all, had I known about the seemingly negative impact that conjuring up such a pessimistic assessment of the situation would cause, I would have kept my thoughts at bay and my inner voice silenced!  But, as most of you know by now that did not happen, and destiny -- namely the weather -- arbitrarily decided to take a turn for the worse.

For the next nine and a half hours I hoped and prayed that a bear would somehow discover the bait before nightfall and brazenly saunter past my tree stand, but that never happened.  The only wildlife that made an appearance was the sporadic wanderings of a chipmunk or an indigenous bird stealing a quick snack of popcorn from the bait barrel.   

The temperature that afternoon never rose above 62 degrees.  Occasionally, the sky would drop a dishearteningly cold and hail-ridden rain shower over the area to further lay bare that Mother Nature was indeed the one in control and that no amount of divine appeal was going to change her twisted mind.  With darkness closing in around me I humbly realized that the unruly weather conditions may ultimately transform this adventure into a recon mission instead of a hunt. 

It was 10:03 p.m. as I stood at the base of my tree listening to the familiar drone of the boat motor moving closer with each second.  Back at camp, Mark spun a similar tale of woe.  Neither of us saw a bear that evening.