Spring Bear Hunting—Mossberg Patriot Style

I strolled into DFW with the swagger of a cowboy who had just won the biggest buckle of his life on my way to Alberta to hunt giant black bears with my friends at Mossberg, Swarovski, and Hornady. I was stoked ... until I ran into the last mask-wearing airline agent in Texas—bless her heart, still playing pandemic dress-up four years later, complete with a stretched-out and pilling cardigan, fingerless gloves and the unmistakable aura of a tree-hugger.

The vibes went from “mildly annoying” to “dumpster fire” the moment I declared my rifle. After two managers, 90 minutes, and a masterclass in liberal condescension so thick even AOC would be disgusted, I got the go-ahead, and my bags were on their way.

My swagger returned when I scored a first-class upgrade! As I sipped my coffee, dined on enchiladas (because nothing says class like in-flight Tex-Mex), and let the flight attendants pamper me, I thought, “Wow, maybe I should stop being so negative. Life’s pretty good.”

That all crashed and burned when I arrived in Edmonton, Alberta.

As I stood at the baggage carousel, watching it spin emptily, I realized that I was screwed. It turns out my bag and rifle were left at my connection in Seattle. I had no gear, clothes, or toothbrush, and a firearm left in the hands of baggage handlers in a land of anti-gunners.

But hey, at least I had enchilada crumbs on my shirt to remember the glory days.

This morning, I said goodbye to the rest of my crew as they began an eight-hour bus ride north. Meanwhile, I had the distinct honor of being stranded in Edmonton, still waiting for my bags like a kid forgotten at daycare. The upside of waiting for my bags to arrive is that I got a desperately needed day with nothing to do, an extended stay at the airport Marriott, and a flight booked on a no-name puddle jumper rather than the glorified Greyhound that the others had to take. Just before noon, I received The Call—my long-lost bags had finally arrived, ending their luxurious multi-city tour without me. Of course, getting them back wasn’t as simple as a quick pick-up. But hey, after two hours of musical baggage offices and an interrogation, I had my belongings.

Desperate for something interesting, I took an Uber downtown, selecting the hockey arena as my landmark because, well, Canada. The moment we arrived, I realized I had just stumbled into the most aggressively Canadian event imaginable. The streets were a sea of orange hockey jerseys. It felt as if I had walked onto Pennsylvania public hunting land on the first day of deer season.

It turns out the Edmonton Oilers were playing the Vancouver Canucks in a Stanley Cup playoff decider. The winner would move on to Dallas to face my home team, the Stars. Naturally, I kept my Texas loyalty under wraps as I made my way toward a huge white tent filled with 5,000 fans, hoping to blend in. It had been 30 years since a Canadian team won the Cup, and the series was tied 3-3.

I felt like I had stepped back into a better place and time. It was like 1990s Pittsburgh. Classic rock was blasting from the speakers, men with mullets wearing hard hats chugged tallboys, the game was on two giant big screens and everyone religiously chanted Nickelback during intermissions.

Then, naturally, a fight broke out. Trying to be the gentleman I am, I warned the girls in the group I was standing with. One girl pushed me aside, put her Molson in her left hand, and tried to take a swing with her right. Her one fake eyelash was hanging off, while her hoodie pocket secured her pack of smokes and fake designer clutch.

It was, without a doubt, the most Canadian thing I had ever witnessed. The Oilers won, and absolute chaos erupted. Finally, as the madness died down, I left my new friends with a twangy, “I’ll see y’all in Dallas.” That’s when it hit them—they’d been hugging a Stars fan. It was time to exit stage left before the Avril Lavigne-Mike Tyson hybrid from earlier threw another right hook.

Dragging myself out of bed, I stumbled into the hotel shower, staring blankly into the steam as if it held the secrets of the universe—or at least how to cure my hangover from the night before. (For those who know me, I don’t drink much anymore, but when in Canada…) As the hot water tried (and failed) to wash away my headache, I found myself uncharacteristically jittery. Me? Nervous? Please. But there I was, anxiety simmering like bad diner coffee, concerned about Central Mountain Airlines.

There were no enchiladas on this flight, just complimentary Molsons passed out by the pilot and his co-pilot. We were on our way. As we bounced through the clouds, I stared out the window, half-expecting to see a moose parachuting by. Below me stretched the endless Canadian wilderness: pine trees, boggy brush, and enough lakes and ponds to make a beaver feel spoiled. Thankfully, the flight was uneventful.

With my unnecessary anxiety finally put to rest and my bags safely back in my possession, I strolled out to the truck, where I was greeted by Mossberg’s Rich Kirk and Swarovski’s Evan Dextrace. I’m pretty sure I was just the decoy for a much-needed beer run, but either way, I had no complaints. Reunited with my crew and the promise of a dead bear on the table once again, I felt like I was finally back in the game.

When we arrived at camp, I met our guide, Shawn Mack, and got the lay of the land. He and his father have been running W&L Guide Services for over 20 years and hold the lease on hundreds of acres of prime black bear hunting land. They have hosted big names like Craig Boddington and Jerry Miculek, just to name a few, so I knew I was in good hands.

This is where my trip took a more serious turn. For starters, I learned I actually had two bear tags and a wolf tag. I was also briefed on the bears. They are very curious animals and, in this region, they know they are the bosses. Humans matter little to them, and they often try to come up in the stands to check hunters out. “Just toss a rock or stick at them or yell, they should leave you alone,” Shawn nonchalantly advised. “Should…”

Given my recent luck, I was glad I was carrying my Mossberg Patriot Synthetic rifle chambered in .450 Bushmaster, because there would be no “warning sticks,” just a 250-grain Hornady “told you so.”

Before we headed into the bear woods for our afternoon bear hunt, we first loaded up the quad and trailer with the goods—grain mixed with commercial-grade marshmallows all coated in fryer grease. We also packed a secret weapon no black bear can resist: rotten, fermented, absolutely putrid beaver!

We were also briefed on the hunt itself. We would be sitting from about 3 p.m. until at least 11 p.m., as it wouldn’t get dark that far north in May until around that time. Next, we were instructed not to get out of the stand to track any bears that might be wounded, as we could potentially encounter a very pissed-off black bear alone in the Canadian wilderness. Finally, Shawn emphasized how many bears there would be and how to tell the difference between a shooter and a bear that should be left for another day.

At this point, let me paint you a picture of my illustrious bear-hunting career. For the last five years, I’ve been out in Hook & Barrel’s proving grounds near Honobia, Oklahoma, armed with a bow and a wildly misplaced sense of confidence. And guess what? Total failure. Not a single bear sighting. Oh wait, that’s not exactly true—on game cams, I’ve got enough pictures of those freeloaders to fill an entire coffee table book titled Bears Gone Wild: The Feeder Chronicles. But in person? Nada. Zilch. They’re like the Bigfoot of my hunting life.

So, this bear hunt was redemption and a vendetta all in one. No more primitive weapons, and finally vengeance for five years of broken feeders, destroyed blinds, and chewed-up trail cameras. I was going to drop a bear in this target-rich environment. And by “target-rich” I mean bears everywhere!

On our drive to the stand, we had already encountered a huge boar. To say I wasn’t scared might be a stretch. Then another. “How many bears are out here?” I asked. “Just stay in your blind and call me if anything happens,” Shawn joked.

It wasn’t more than 30 minutes alone in the woods when a huge boar sauntered in. Thinking back to my prior bear hunting research and our guide’s advice on how to determine if it was a shooter or not—hip height (on all fours); its back is barrel height (on all fours); or it’s too big to fit in the barrel— and it is a shooter!

To be quite honest, I almost felt bad. I had only been there for 30 minutes, but hunting is one of those kinds of things—when the right target presents itself, shoot it! So, I did. And boy, am I glad I pulled the trigger! He was the most mature bear shot during our camp and one of the largest. Shawn estimated he was about 15 years old and 8 feet from snout to tail. He was a brute!

Day five was interesting. I had a conundrum on my hands—yes, I had another bear tag (and a wolf tag), but did I really want to shoot another bear that would most likely be smaller and less mature than the one I had shot the previous day? Or should I go for a run? As it turns out, it was Memorial Day back home in America, and every year I participate in the Murph. The Murph Challenge is a CrossFit workout named in honor of Lt. Michael P. Murphy, a Navy SEAL who was killed in action during Operation Red Wings in Afghanistan in 2005. It consists of a 1-mile run, 100 pull-ups, 200 push-ups, 300 air squats, and a final 1-mile run. Additionally, the Murph is typically done while wearing a 20-pound weight vest to replicate the body armor Lt. Murphy wore in combat.

So, the Murph it was, except I didn’t have my 20-pound 5.11 plate carrier with me. However, I did have 20 pounds of ammo and enough duct tape to make Red Green grin, so I taped the Hornady to myself and slung my rifle across my back. Afterward, still not satisfied, I took it further … a lot further! I stripped off the ammo and firearm and took off on an 18-mile run. Toward the end, I was getting pretty gassed, but the vision of a black bear chasing me kept me moving as I ran shirtless through Canadian bear country.

I was back before the evening hunt went out, and with the FOMO in my mind, I kitted up and jumped in the truck. There were no shooters that night. Instead, I was graced with the company of more adolescent bears than a Disney wildlife special. One particularly ambitious bear decided to take “getting close to nature” to heart and nearly climbed into my stand, probably hoping I was a giant marshmallow.

By now, I was practically on a first-name basis with the local bear population, and I had mastered the art of calm negotiations. Turns out, bears are more afraid of me (armed and slightly annoyed) than I am of them, though their initial curiosity about me kept my senses on high alert. After an in-depth discussion with the bear about the merits of the Hornady .450 Bushmaster and the life choices that would lead to it being demonstrated, he wisely chose to snack on the beaver instead of me. This left me staring at a station with no bait until 11 p.m.

It was my last day at camp, and I wasn’t about to kill myself again on another run. I opted to see what happened in the woods one final time. This time, Shawn took us to “the burn.” Northern Alberta experienced significant wildfire activity in 2023. During the 2023 fire season, over 2.2 million hectares (approximately 5.4 million acres) were scorched. So, I was looking for a black bear in a sea of absolute char. The forest was a shell of itself, burned to the core, and trees stood lifeless like black silhouettes—it was like I was hunting in a post-apocalyptic sci-fi movie. The forest was a barren wasteland and still had the distinct smell of fire and ash. But Shawn had assured me there would be bears.

Sure enough, just as the occasional weed popped up among the ruins, a small bear appeared. I was amazed. Amidst all the devastation, nature does what it does best—finds a way to recover. My time in the burn allowed me to reflect on many things, including, given my surroundings, the meaning of life. It was humbling and made me feel small in the universe again. It was the best possible ending for the trip, leaving me in awe of nature and the creatures that inhabit it.

One final thing: When I got home, I realized I’d left my favorite hoodie in the hotel. So now, somewhere in Canada, there’s probably a bear strutting through the charred wasteland, draped in my Sitka hoodie, sipping a Molson and telling the other bears how he made a human run 18 miles shirtless for no reason. Truly, a fitting end to my grand adventure. 

MOSSBERG PATRIOT: The Mossberg Patriot Synthetic rifle I used on the Canada bear hunt might carry a budget price tag, but it boasts a full set of features you’d expect on rifles more than twice the price. This value-rich bolt-action rifle, which combines modern innovation with traditional styling, is attractive and accurate right out of the box. When my big bruin stepped into sight, I didn’t have any worries. mossberg.com.

HORNADY .450 BUSHMASTER FTX BLACK: I was shooting Hornady’s .450 Bushmaster 250-grain FTX BLACK ammo. With high-quality cases, primers, and propellant, this ammo is made for the woods. The bullet left the muzzle of my Mossberg at about 2,200 fps and was still traveling at 1,835 fps at 100 yards. Better yet was the energy it delivered. The 240-grain bullet has a muzzle energy of 2,687 ft-lbs and still retains 1,868 ft-lbs of energy at 100 yards. MSRP: $52 for a box of 20; hornady.com.

SWAROVSKI GLASS: For optics, we were using one of the best—Swarovski’s z8-i-plus 1-8x24 riflescope. For our style of hunting, the magnification range was perfect. And, like all Swarovski scopes, the glass was top-notch, giving a crystal-clear view of my bear as I prepared for my shot. The large eye box provided rapid target acquisition and the short, 160-degree zoom rotation allowed for quick magnification adjustment. MSRP: $3,579; swarovskioptik.com.

FALCO HOLSTERS LEATHER RIFLE SLING: The leather sling from FALCO Holsters made toting the rifle a breeze. Plus, the shell loops kept extra ammo close at hand. MSRP: $69.95; falcoholsters.com.