Understanding the Reality of DIY Backcountry Hunts: An Idaho Spring Bear Story
Spring bear hunting has become a bit of a trend over the last few years—and I’ll admit, I’ve been part of that wave. My first hunt in 2023 hooked me immediately. There’s something about that time of year, the awakening mountains, and chasing American black bear that pulls you in.
For the past three years, I’ve poured time, money, and everything I’ve got into hunting spring bears across the West.
But this story isn’t about success.
Where It Started
Like most hunters, I grew up chasing deer, elk, turkey, coyotes, and the occasional upland bird. Bears were never part of the plan. In fact, all I ever heard growing up was how bad they tasted, how greasy they were, and how much they stunk.
I remember the first time I ever saw bear sign. I was about nine years old on a second-season cow elk hunt in a heavily pressured Colorado unit. I couldn’t believe it—bears were actually out there, moving around while we hunted.
That moment stuck with me.
The Addiction to Spring
Fast forward to adulthood—trying to squeeze in every hunt I can before guiding full-time in the fall—and spring bear became impossible to ignore.
My first hunt gave me opportunities, but more importantly, it opened my eyes to what these hunts really are:
Long-distance logistics
Unpredictable mountain weather
Brutal terrain
And the need for multiple backup plans
If you want to do a tag justice, you better come prepared.
Hard Lessons Learned
There are a few lessons that stand out—lessons that apply whether you’re on a DIY hunt or booking through an outfitter:
1. Drive your own vehicle.
No matter how convenient it seems to ride with a group, don’t. Things go sideways in the backcountry. People clash. Emergencies happen. You need your own way out.
2. Always have a backup plan.
Actually—have three.
There is nothing worse than hiking into a spot you’ve studied for weeks, only to find it buried in snow with no Plan B.
3. Set shooting rules before the hunt.
Who shoots first? When? Why?
Figure it out before boots hit the trail. I’ve seen—and experienced—the frustration that comes when this isn’t clear.
Simple rules make for better hunts.
Going Solo
After those early hunts, I decided 2024 would be different.
I was going solo.
With a full season of guiding behind me and my gear dialed, I felt ready for a 10-day backcountry hunt in Idaho.
Right before leaving, my 4Runner’s transmission blew on the highway.
Perfect timing.
With the hunt days away, I scrambled and found what every guide recognizes instantly—a first-gen Tacoma. Wide fenders, sun-faded paint, black topper… and bald tires.
Good enough.
The Trip That Tried to Stop Me
Driving in before daylight, watching the sunrise over the Tetons—it’s hard to describe. It’s not just something you see, it’s something you feel.
About an hour from my trailhead, cruising a washed-out road, I hit a set of ruts that launched me.
The front end collapsed.
Blown ball joints. CV axle ripped out.
Just like that, the hunt was on pause.
Eight hours, two rides, and $3,500 later, the truck was back together. Two full days gone before I even stepped into the mountains.
Back in the Hills
Once I finally got in, conditions were good. Snow was melting, green-up was happening, and everything looked right.
Except for one thing.
No bears.
Deer everywhere. Elk scattered across the hills. But not a single bear.
On day two, I woke up with a throbbing bite on my arm. Turned out later it was from a black widow.
Didn’t matter. I kept glassing.
After two days of turning up nothing, I made a move—six miles off trail into a drainage where I had seen a bear the year before.
The Turning Point
On that hike, I spotted two guys packing in with llamas—heading into the same country.
I pushed hard, thinking I had beaten them.
That evening, after glassing a north-facing slope that looked like prime bear country, a rifle shot echoed across the drainage.
I threw up my binos.
There they were—those same guys—standing over a bear.
That one stung.
Early season, limited opportunities… and I had just watched one disappear.
Doubt Sets In
That night, I made a series of mistakes:
Set camp in the dark
Pitched my tent on an ant hill
Questioned my decision to leave my original spot
Sitting there in my sleeping bag, socks drying, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had outsmarted myself.
The Decision
The next morning, I packed up.
I sat and glassed, but something had shifted.
The weight of everything—truck breakdown, lost days, missed opportunity—finally caught up with me.
I made the call to hike out.
The Long Way Back
The route out wasn’t easy.
Steep north faces. Thick timber. A choked creek crossing that had no business being as difficult as it was.
Somewhere along the way, I found an elk shed.
A small win.
Eventually, I clawed my way back to the truck.
One Last Push
I had one more spot in mind.
I pushed in, set up, and hunted hard—but it just wasn’t coming together. Wrong winds, bumped animals, nothing clicking.
That night, hiking out in the dark, I saw two headlamps across the drainage.
At the truck, I met them—locals.
We talked. Shared stories, exchanged numbers, swapped a few spots.
Good guys.
What It Meant
I drove home without a bear.
But not without something gained.
This year, I’ll be heading back—this time with one of those guys I met that night.
Because that’s what this is all about.
Not just success.
Not just filling a tag.
But constant forward movement. Learning. Adapting. Grinding.
Final Thought
Not every hunt ends with an animal on the ground.
But every hunt, if you let it, makes you better.
