The Maine bear hunt is on!

Unless you are an agitator with the Humane Society of the United States, this is a good story, a good hunt, and a good time of year. The weather in early September is splendid. Excited hunters come from all corners of the country to harvest a Maine black bear. If they are lucky they’ll go home with a one-of-a-kind rug and, if the meat is cared for, a cooler of delicious, lean wild meat. Guides and outfitters will pick up a few bucks.

So will Maine’s rural economy, especially the gas stations and mom and pop stores. State bear biologists will gather bear management data, and the modest bear harvest will help stabilize our mushrooming bear population.

There was a period in my life, and my wife’s, when we were serious bear hunters. We did the weekly baiting with stale donuts and fryer grease procured from local businesses. We hauled and put up multiple tree stands on the edges of dark and swampy fir-choked thickets. We both loved it, especially Diane. She killed a bear and we ate it all. The bear burger in the spaghetti and lasagna was special. I never did kill a Maine black bear, but I watched a few from tree stands. What a kick!

One afternoon a big sow and three cubs showed up at my bait site. Momma bear ate a few old donuts and then backed off to make room for the cubs. When the youngsters got piggish at the bait the sow clicked her teeth and the cubs scampered off only to return at Momma’s signal.

On another occasion, just before dusk, a small male bear materialized before my eyes by the bait site. It looked up at me. I froze. Then he relaxed and went at the grub. “Should I or shouldn’t I put his lights out?”

In the scope I saw that his ears were big and his head small: a youngster. I didn’t have the heart to send a .50 caliber muzzle loading sabot his way.

Once in Labrador, as camp manager, it was my job to dispatch an old rogue boar that was scaring the sports and refusing to leave the vicinity of the cook house. (We had permits for such encounters). Terminating the old bruin was just something that had to be done. I would rather have shooed him off, but he was not shy.

Diane and I cherish our memories of days at bear camp. The routine was a pleasant one. A big meal at mid-day, topped off with homemade blackberry pie. Then we camoed up and headed for our respective tree stands. A late afternoon vigil in the September woods, waiting and watching for that black form to suddenly appear, tends to keep you awake, even with a too-full tummy.

At dusk in the dank fir thickets, climbing down from the tree stand and putting both feet on the ground in known bear country is also an exhilarating experience. Bear guides tell stories of having to retrieve a client from a tree stand who just couldn’t quite bring himself to descend the ladder in marginal light.

I guess that it was all the preparatory work that brought our bear hunt days to an end. Today, we still miss the bear camp regimen, the weather, the food, the company and hunt anticipation. We may try it again one day, as long as we can still clamber up a tree stand or find an outlet that will furnish us with old donuts and fryer grease.

Or maybe we will just go to bear camp, pick blackberries, eat a full course meal at mid-day, and watch the fading September sun angle its way down amid the blushing swamp maples and jagged fir thickets.

The author is editor of the Northwoods Sporting Journal. He is also a Maine Guide, co-host of a weekly radio program “Maine Outdoors.” His e­mail address is paul@sportingjournal.com. He has two books “A Maine Deer Hunter’s Logbook” and his latest, “Backtrack.”