THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 215 
A SOUTHERN OREGON BEAR STORY 
By JOHN B. GRIFFIN, Kirby, Oregon 
N this story I am not going to tell you of a regular bear hunt, but 
I am going to tell you of a few of the bears that Trailer treed, the 
fall that he was three years old. I say a few, for if I would tell 
you of every one, it: would probably take up more space than the 
editor would feel like giving up, as he caught twenty, all told, and 
the last one on the day before Christmas. ? 
I was living on Griffin Creek those days, running a farm four miles 
from Medford, and did not have time to go out hunting very often, 
so Trailer got to going out of a night and treeing bears, foxes, wild- 
cats and now and then a cougar. In the morning when I would get 
up I would discover that he was gone, and I generally would go out 
and listen and, if I didn’t hear him barking, I would wait until noon 
and then I would saddle a horse and strike out. I would then go to 
the top of what we called the divide between Griffin Creek and 
Sterling Creek, where I could hear off either way, then I would follow 
along the top of the ridge and every little while I would stop and 
listen, and at last I would hear his bow! wow! wow! Instantly I 
would throw up the horn and give it a long, loud toot to let him 
know I was coming. The effect would be magical. Instead of the 
bow! wow! wow! every few minutes, he and old Lion, my old standby 
that helped him tree so many, would turn loose too, barking steadiiy 
and joyfully, and there was a hunter who felt pretty joyful about that 
time, if you believe me. 
I generally rode my horse until I was within two or three hundred 
yards of them, then I tied him up and made my way cautiously up 
to near the tree. When I had discovered him, I most always approached 
behind a tree so that he couldn’t see me. After I got close enough, 
I walked right out and under the tree as quickly as I could, then I 
had him safe. There is no danger of them coming down after you are 
under the tree, but, as I have said before, just as sure as a person 
undertakes to rush up to a tree where a bear has been up any length 
of time, he will come down, and then you have got a scrap on your 
hands. So if young bear hunters will take my advice and always 
be cautious about getting up to the tree, you will seldom ever get 
into trouble and at the same time take no chances on getting a dog 
killed, or, if not killed, spoiled, for any number of dogs, after having 
been whipped out once, will not tackle a bear the next time. 
Well, as I said in the beginning of this story, that it was not 
an account of a regular hunting trip. I will just give you the stories 
of each bear he treed and the little scraps I had with a few of them. 
I used a .44 Winchester in those days, and although they are a back 
number now, we banked on them then and I feared nothing when I 
had my .44 with me. 
The first time that Trailer ever went out on one of these night 
hunts was in the fore part of the fall. One morning I got up and 
was choring around the house and hadn’t missed him, when all at once 
I heard the sound of his voice away off up the creek. I listened until 
I satisfied myself that he was at a tree, then I got the gun and started 
out. It was about two miles, and when I got there, lo and behold, it 
was a fox. I was a little bit disappointed, but Trailer was awfully 
tickled to see me come, so I up and shot the fox and went back home, 
but carried the fox along with me, Trailer walking behind, perfectly 
contented. I skinned the fox and stretched the hide in good shape, and 
IT guess Trailer thought he had done something worth while, for he 
