Standing my ground in Currituck

4:15am. Frozen. I smell him before I see him. A huff, a snort—the sound of breath tasting my scent. Two red eyes burn in the dark. He sees my red headlamp. He no doubt is curious as to what I am. I see him blink. I of course know immediately what he is. My light cuts five feet, maybe seven feet ahead of me. No shape or silhouette. Only eyes.

Everything comes at once. This isn’t supposed to happen. My mother’s voice. My wife’s voice. Their disapproval murmurs in my head of my even being out there. My answers sound hollow now: It’s only a black bear. They’re more afraid of us than we are of them. I know what a bluff charge looks like. Only sixty-three fatal attacks since 1900. None of it matters. I stay awake the night before hunts, visualizing every possible situation out in my head. It’s part of the thrill in preparation. It’s why I was there so early. I couldn’t sleep. Still, I hadn’t prepared for this. I never read what to do when you’re fifteen feet from one in the dark.

Worse, knowing a six-hundred-pound bear is these woods. I fear the light. If I change it to see how big he is, will it anger him? So I stand. I stand for maybe five minutes. Finally, the eyes vanish. I don’t know if he went left, right, or straight. Gone. My 10mm Sig is in my hand. I think about leaving. I don’t. I proceed with the mission. I’ve walked to a hunting stand hundreds of times with what I can only explain as a pseudo of fear. What I thought was fear at the time. This—this was different. And when I climbed into my stand, I closed the door behind me, took a deep breath, and prayed.

The road east carried me five hours to Currituck County, North Carolina. Its November 7th, 2025 and its perfect weather for a fall hunt. The kind of weather that makes a man believe the woods are waiting for him. The local outfitter is walking me to the stand I will be hunting for the next three days. It’s a box blind about 9 feet off the ground down a freshly cut path that was just wide enough for a four wheeler to sneak through. I was prepared for three full day hunts. I wasn’t planning on leaving those woods until I had my bear.

I’ve been chasing this hunt for over 8 years. Back when I used to work at a steel mill just south of Suffolk, VA, the local boys would treat opening day of bear season like a national holiday. In that part of the world, most people hunt bear with dogs. The roads to work would be framed with trucks, dog boxes, and men in orange. Hell, our unofficial mascot of the steel mill was the black bear. Printing it on every hat and we even had a steel statue in front of our offices. Young and priorities elsewhere, I didn’t have my chance during my coastal living years to participate in that said national holiday.

This year, I finally made the call. Fourth Generation Outfitters-better known for swan and duck hunts-- listed bear as one of his offerings. I wasn’t sure if this was worth the fee. His fame coming from winning 6 world championship swan calling events. Yes, that’s a thing and no not his fame for bear. Still, I rolled the dice.  

The northeastern corner of North Carolina, brushing against the Great Dismal Swamp, is steeped in history. It once sheltered runaway slaves, confounded English soldiers traveling south by foot, and now grows trophy bears fat on peanuts, soybeans, and corn. Hyde County, just south, is notoriously known by black bear hunters. Bears there tip the scales at five, six, even seven hundred pounds. I wasn’t greedy. I only wanted to see one, maybe take a respectable 250-pounder for my first.

The first morning was theater. The full moon lit the fields, and the woods were alive. I could hear bears moving, snarling at each other. Shadows grew legs and shifted in the brush. I prayed one would hold until shooting light. At 5:20 a.m., one did. He lay down in a bed of peanuts, center stage, as if heaven’s spotlight had found him. For forty minutes I watched him eat and rest. I couldn’t judge his size in the dark. At 5:50 he rose, and I saw his belly drag close to the ground. Then he turned his head, and his silhouette grew monstrous. For the first time, I knew. This was a shooter.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and broke the silence of the woods with my fathers .375 HH Magnum. The bear ran 10 yards and bellowed his final breath in his death moan- a sound that chills a man but tells him he’s succeeded.

I’ll never know the exact weight of my bear. He was shorter than I imagined, but carried a density that defied reason—fat, solid, built like a boulder wrapped in fur. Three grown men unable to lift him onto the four wheeler and instead dragged him behind. We attempted to scale him. The shed roof sagged too low, the eye bolt bent under the strain. We braced the joist with lumber, rigged a deer crank scale to the winch of the four wheeler, and still failed. The scale read 460 while his head and shoulders lay flat on the ground. He was over 500, no doubt. A true trophy. Two other hunters in camp killed bears that day, but together they wouldn’t have matched mine soaking wet.

Days after my hunt I reflect on the experience. The bear is butchered and vacuum sealed in my freezer. Certainly a different way to feed family over the holidays. His cape is at the taxidermist for a three quarter mount and I look forward to his being apart of my life moving forward. Still, when I close my eyes I can feel the sense of being alone standing my ground with a bear that if it had wanted, could have causes considerable damage. His red eyes, I hear him breathing. I’m still frozen, and I cant wait to do it again.