Twenty years ago, a buddy (Scott) and I took his father-in-law (Charlie) on our annual black bear hunt in Southeast AK. Ol' Pa-in-law was one of those know-it-all types. My buddy and I both, although in our 20s, had extensive hunting experience and knew how to accurately field judge black bears.

At any rate, we were hunting down near Snettisham and, after a morning of hunting alone, met back up near the skiff for a bite of lunch. As we were sitting there, a very young bear stepped out of the bush less than 100 yards from us. It was clearly a yearling, probably just kicked out of the house by his mama. Scott and I were just sitting there, not saying a word, just enjoying watching this little bear flip stones, taste some seaweed, rub himself on a rock, etc.

I was remotely aware of Pa-in-law shuffling around behind us, but didn't pay much attention to him. The next thing I know, a deafening blast goes off next to us. Ol' Charlie had taken it upon himself to shoot this "monster" bear. Or I should say shoot at it.

His first shoot, although at a distance of less than 100 yards was a clean miss. The startled bear, didn't know what to do. At first it ran towards us, away from the burst of the bullet striking a rock behind him. Charlie racked another round into his braked Browning .375 H&H and, shaking like a leaf, put a bullet right into the cub's hip. The poor little bear spun around biting at his hip, squalling like a small child. "Shoot it again!", Scott yelled. Charlie fumbled with the bolt, somehow loaded another round, and flat missed again. Cursing under his breath, he shoved in his last round. This time he hit pay dirt, right in the neck, dropping the poor bear in its tracks.

I was too dumb-founded to really say anything. My ears were ringing from the first shot going of 10 feet from my head. Scott was incredulous as well. "What the heck are you shooting a cub for, Charlie!?!" "Why didn't you tell us you were going to shoot!?!"

"That's a nice bear," Charlie snaps back at him. "If you two idiots weren't going to take him, I sure was." Right. We strolled on over to the bear.

Charlie had a lot of physical problems with his legs, so it took a little while to walk the 75 yards or so. The closer we got, the quieter Charlie got. He went from being adamant that the bear was a shooter, to being utterly mortified at how small it really was. Scott picked it up like a sack of potatoes and carried back to the boat. They were both so upset we decided to just pack up camp and head back to Juneau. I didn't argue.

On the way back, Charlie turns to us and says "You guys should have told me not to shoot." I thought Scott was going to toss him overboard. Back at Scott's house, we weighed the bear. Fifty-two pounds dressed. Both Charlie and Scott have since passed on, Scott at the young age of 28 at a spot very near where Charlie shot his "monster". That's another story, though.

Anyway, I guess the point is that sometimes people just don't have a clue as to what size critter they are shooting at.