My 19-year-old son, Tyler, and I glass for black bears feeding along the shoreline in Southeast Alaska.

The cold wind and salt spray stung my face like a bullwhip as the aluminum skiff bounced over the choppy sea. A hint of heat radiated off the tiny outboard motor, but the bitterly dank air swallowed that warmth before it even started to thaw my nearly frozen fingers wrapped around the throttle.

Snow blanketed the mountaintops and rainforest, making the season seem more like winter than spring. Yet, there we were, motoring around the Pacific Ocean in search of giant black bears foraging the beaches of Southeast Alaska.

"There's a bear," I said over the drone of the outboard.

"Where?" asked my 19-year-old son, Tyler, who was on his first Alaskan bowhunting adventure.

"Feeding in that green, grassy cove," I blurted, jabbing my other frozen hand in the direction of the bear.

As I cut the engine, Tyler pulled up his binoculars, and when he located the bear, I heard his teeth chatter with excitement. "Wow, Dad, that's a big boar, isn't it?"

Once the boat stopped bouncing, I found the bruin in my binoculars and confirmed Tyler's hunch. "Yep, that's a mature boar. We don't have much daylight, but that's a heck of a bear. Let's try stalking him."

Moments later, we anchored the skiff in shallow water, waded to shore, and raced through the dense jungle of Douglas fir trees, alders, Devil's club, and moss-covered tangles so typical of Alaska's rainforest.

Daylight was dwindling fast, but if we hustled, we might get a chance. Crisscrossing from faint bear trails tucked just inside the damp woods to open sections of kelp-covered beach, we closed the gap in about 20 minutes.

One more bend in the bay and we'd be right on top of this big boar. At about 80 yards, we slowed our pace, being more careful of sound and movement. Forty yards from the feeding bear, I had some genuine hope Tyler might get a shot. But as happens in many beach stalks, the wind swirled at the most inopportune time, and the bear melted into the jungle as day turned to night.

Sweat-soaked from the mad dash, and disappointed from yet another foiled stalk, we slogged back to the boat. With the late spring and infrequent bear sightings, this could turn into a marathon of a bear hunt, I thought.

In the short time we had been away from the skiff, the tide had risen dramatically. If we didn't get to the boat right away, we'd either be swimming or spending the night marooned away from the boat! Over the years, I've spent too many nights out without provisions and didn't want to add another miserable night to my list, especially with my son along. So I just waded -- belly-deep -- through the bone-chilling saltwater, reaching the gunwale of the Blue Finn boat just before swimming depth. Luckily, it was a short boat ride back to the landing, where dry, warm clothes awaited me in the truck.

As the hunt wore on, days turned into weeks. Infrequent stalks came up short time and again, and bears hit our baits only sporadically. Each day seemed the same: Return chilled and exhausted to the cabin around 11 p.m., eat fresh shrimp and crab we had caught, dry clothes, sleep, get up, prepare bait buckets, refill the outboard gas tank, shoot bows from the cabin deck, drive to the boat landing, check and replenish our four baits, check trail cameras, glass all day for bears on the beaches, return to the cabin at 11 p.m.…