Are You Afraid of Bears in the Backcountry?
Me too. Let me tell you how I’ve approached that fear over the years in the woods.
Growing up with an outdoorsman for a dad, we spent a lot of time in the bush. Like any good father, his first concern was protecting his kids — teaching us to watch our footing so we didn’t walk off a cliff, handling firearms safely so nobody got shot… the basics.
But if you’re like my dad and have an overactive imagination, then a peaceful walk in the woods wasn’t peaceful at all. It was a horror film scene where a bloodthirsty, thousand-pound grizzly comes charging through the trees and he throws himself into its jaws while yelling for the kids to run for their lives.
So we practiced all the bear precautions: bear spray, bells, hanging food, making noise, and running like hell to the truck if we saw a bear a mile away. We even carried a sawed-off shotgun. Safe to say, we entered adulthood with a healthy and irrational fear of bears.
Enter the Hunter
Fast-forward a few years — I’m out of college, have a decent job, and want to take hunting seriously. I gear up, scout my areas, and recruit my brother to be my standard hunting partner (because I can run faster than him).
We always had a bear plan. He’d point the gun, I’d grab the bear spray. One warning shot, spray the bear, unload the rifle, protect your head and neck… hope for the best. Experts say, “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.” I didn’t care. I was very afraid. And this time, Dad wasn’t there to take responsibility for that risk anymore.
Over time, we got more comfortable… maybe too comfortable. We saw a few big bears at a distance, but only had one real “close call.”
We were walking a boundary line near a gully, watching a pair of moose, when suddenly there was crashing brush and heavy breathing from their direction. We froze. My rifle was in hand but not chambered. A blur of brown fur exploded through the fence 10 yards up and kept moving — a small bear cub. Behind it, more crashing. Then came the mother: a huge mass of fur, teeth, and slobber. She hit the fence, stood on her hind legs, and stared us down. The fence was five feet tall, and she looked twice that. Two snorts later, she was gone — bounding after the cub.
We finished the hunt, a little rattled. Chambered round stayed loaded for the next hour.
Bow Hunting Changed Everything
The next year, I picked up a compound bow to chase early-season bugles. But here’s the thing: If I have a bow, I can’t carry a rifle. And in Canada, I can’t legally carry a handgun in the backcountry like our American friends.
So, I compromised — a Remington 870 tactical with a 14-inch barrel. Legal, deadly, and made me feel better. But when I saw hikers or other hunters, I’d avoid them like the plague. I felt like an idiot carrying a riot gun through the mountains.
As I started going deeper and staying longer, weight began to matter. The shotgun stayed in the truck more often. After enough trips without bear encounters, the fear dulled a bit. Until I started solo hunting.
Solo Changed the Game Again
Being alone, far from the truck, in the dark… that unlocked a new level of fear. I felt like a kid again, afraid of the dark — except now the monster under the bed was a grizzly bear.
I’d lay in my tent, ears straining for snapped twigs and footsteps. Some nights I stayed up listening; others I’d shove in earplugs and beg ignorance. Call me dumb, but if I can’t sleep, I can’t hunt. So I took the risk.
What I’ve Learned
I’m still afraid of bears. But I’ve learned how to manage that fear so it doesn’t ruin my time in the backcountry — or make me ineffective as a hunter.
Here’s what’s helped:
1. Bear Spray: Always within reach.
Not on your belt. Not next to a tree. On your chest — always. Get a bino harness and clip your spray to it. Practice crawling, shooting, and dressing animals with it on. Make sure it’s secure and easy to access. I’ve accidentally sprayed myself in the face — trust me, you want a solid setup.
2. Satellite communicator.
Keep it somewhere you can reach with two broken arms and a shredded face. I didn’t get one until I got married (my wife insisted). I’ve used it to message family from camp, call for EMS for someone with a broken leg, and to get help when my truck died. I won’t be surprised if it saves my life one day.
3. Clean camp hygiene.
I’m not talking wet wipes. I mean hang your food and your trash — pistachio shells, wrappers, everything. Bears care about smells, and they’ve got noses like no other. If you keep a dirty camp and end up in a defensive shooting, that’s on you. That bear didn’t have to die.
4. Learn bear behavior.
Read the stories. Watch the documentaries. Build your knowledge base so you can recognize what’s normal, what’s escalating, and how to respond.
I’m not here to tell you how to react in a bear encounter — run, play dead, climb a tree, fight back. But if you’re heading into grizzly country, you’d better have a plan. Control what you can: your gear, your camp, your knowledge, your awareness.
After that, you just have to live with the risk — or stay home on the couch playing video games, where the bears can’t get you. But if you’re reading this, you’re probably already counting the days until your next trip.
Take responsibility — and stay alive out there.