This is Randall True's first-ever bear, a well-furred 200-pounder.

In contrast to mine, Doyle's stand was in a wind-protected canyon, and just after sundown the golden-nosed bear with the pumpkin-sized head suddenly appeared behind the bait. Seconds later, my partner buried a three-blade broadhead deep in the bruin's chest from 14 yards. The 450-pound animal galloped 100 yards and dropped.

As we admired Doyle's massive, thick-furred bear late that night in the skinning shed, Randall and Gene were happy. But not quite as happy as they might have been. Neither had seen a thing.

"I'm going to move those boys," Danny said. "We've got a couple of hot baits nobody's hunted this year. It's time."

For Randall, the fifth evening was a charm. Thirty minutes after Danny drove away from the bait, a twig cracked in the forest. Seconds later, a burly black animal stepped between two trees. When Randall saw that the top of the bear's back was even with the second barrel ring, he scarcely waited for the bear's lips to connect with maple bars before he sent Easton aluminum sizzling through the air. The Thunderhead 100 broadhead severed spinal cord, and skewered lungs and heart for a near-instant kill.

Gene saw nothing that night, and I saw two sows and one small boar. Even immature males are blockier in the head and body than females. Vee-Bear had quit coming in, and now, in my mind's eye, he was starting to look really good. Still, Danny had seen huge bears in this area, so I remained adamant about holding out.

Gene Arneson put in six long days to take this bruin and earn that smile.

Around Gene's new bait were tracks galore, including one front pad that measured over five inches wide, which could mean a six-and-a-half to seven-foot bear. But such animals usually show up late in the day, as smaller and less-wary bears appear first. Gene wasn't about to pass up any "two-ringer" at this point, and who could blame him for that?

EVENING NUMBER SIX was perfect. Seventy-five degrees, calm, and buggy as heck. I pulled down my headnet, slipped on my gloves, and started to read my John Grisham novel.

Then, just before sundown, a black blob appeared on a logging road 100 yards to my left. I'd barely got the binoculars to my eyes before he disappeared, but my heart leaped during that one quick look. I'd never seen this bear before. He had an odd, coal-black snout. And he was big.

I put down the book and grabbed my bow. Minutes later, a patch of black appeared behind the bait. I gulped...and then relaxed. It was a small bear I had seen the night before -- a male with a light-colored nose. He trotted to the bait, snatched a scrap of beef, and ran like crazy. My fingers curled tighter around the bowstring.

Light began to fade. Still no black-nosed bear. And then it happened. The bruin looked as big as a Mack truck when he stepped from behind a pile of logs barely 20 yards away. He froze, swiveled his heavy head, and sniffed the air. Then he shuffled slowly and carefully toward the bait. In seconds, he was in front of the barrel. I sucked in my breath. The barrel had disappeared!

As the bear dropped his head to feed, I began to draw slowly, and in a flash the bear galloped away. He had heard the rustle of my clothes. I swung my 20-yard sight after the animal, and when he paused briefly at the forest edge I released. The distance was 22 yards.

The Super Slam shaft hit with a plunk!, and the bear vanished like smoke. Seconds later, I heard his death moan deep in the trees.