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Sam Bice was a hunting buddy from the prairies of South Dakota. He's used to wind, but it's generally full of grit, not salt spray. We glassed and stalked black bears several years ago on Prince of Wales Island but didn't shoot any. Passing on those bears made a great excuse to return.

Our captain was Eric Swanson, a bear guide, commercial fisherman, and longtime pal. Swan and I have made many skiff hunts from our home in Sitka, and longer trips on the Wilma Mae. He came to Alaska with the Coast Guard and stayed for the good life.

Swanie loves bears and loves to hunt them. If that sounds like a contradiction, it's not.

Next morning we fired up the monster and motored into a crisp, calm dawn. Bright, fresh snow marked the frost line on the mountainsides, while tendrils of mist slid sideways up rich, green valleys as we chugged by. Over 100 sea lions basked in the glow as we idled past their haul-out on steep rocks along the shore. We savored the smooth seas and gorgeous scenery as we rumbled down Chatham Strait toward the black bear islands to the south. Yachting from Sitka to black-bear country is a 15- to 18-hour proposition, and the fine weather let us enjoy the cruise. We turned on the strange mechanical voice that narrates the NOAA radio weather reports, then chose a protected cove to anchor for the night.

By going early, we had the hunting grounds to ourselves ... no competition, no fuss, just three guys poking around this big wild country. We hoped for a big boar since adult males are usually the first to leave their winter dens. Early black bear density is low, however, and finding the right one can take time. April bears are usually well-- furred, but we always glass for imperfections. Although rubbed spots show as lightcolored patches in sunshine, a wet bear on a rainy day is much harder to read.

Sunset was several hours away, so Swanie cranked up the outboard on his 14-- foot aluminum skiff, and he and Sam motored off to check a big tidal flat. They found no fresh bear tracks, but noted beach rye shoots up to 5 inches high (prime spring fodder). They also found patches of grazed shoots marked by goose tracks and droppings. We dug into plates of roast chicken and baked spuds as we told tough-luck stories of bear stalks busted by the alarmed honks of spooked geese.

We hit the bunks early, but it blew hard all night. It is tough to rest when waves swat the hull as Wilma yanks roughly at her anchor cable and the rigging howls like a lost banshee. Next day the wind brought cold, driving salt spray, and we bundled up in layered fleece, wool, and rain gear. Our waterproof gun cases earned their keep as we hunted hard with little luck. The bears didn't like the weather any more than we did and stayed hidden in the dense coastal forest.

Then Orion smiled, and

the weather broke. A dawn patrol yielded nothing, but the balmy afternoon featured rich sun and a glassy ocean. Sam spotted the first black bear, a large adult male working the flats on a crescent-shaped beach. The wind was wrong for a stalk, so Swan shut down the motor and we drifted. After five minutes of foraging it idled off into the woods. With big grins and thumbs up, we saluted the pleasure of watching a wild Alaska bear.

The next one was totally unexpected, a quick glimpse of a black rear end busting into the brush on a tiny wooded island attached to a big island by a tidal sand spit. That bear was spooked and laid low for the 15 or 20 minutes we watched. We talked about a drive, but you can't rightly study a galloping bear in such a brief open space. The score: bears 2, hunters 0. Still, we enjoyed the excitement each critter stirred up.

Since the grass was greener on the other side of the bay, we motored in that direction. About a mile and a half from shore, Swan announced, "There's a nice one," then pointed out a glossy dark spot. Binoculars showed a fine adult black bear feeding in a warm pocket on the shore. As Swan ran the skiff in a long, slow circle downwind, the bear fed in an unhurried fashion, grazing on new grass shoots and pawing over mats of seaweed to gobble up hopping sand fleas. At one point it wandered into the woods for 15 minutes or so, and Sam was much relieved when it returned.

Sam and Swan quietly rehearsed their stalk as we approached the volcanic reef that formed a jetty about 300 yards downwind from the bear. We held the metal skiff off the rocks as we passed rifles and hunting packs ashore. The oblivious bear kept feeding as the tightly focused hunters crept toward the woods. I stayed with the skiff as Sam and Swanie stalked 100 yards north along the forest edge to a smaller reef. There they crouched to carefully glass the trophy. Swan whispered to Sam, "It's a well-furred boar. I think it will square about six-eight or six-ten. I don't see any rubbed spots, Sam. I think we can find a bigger one, but it's your choice ... . "

Sam didn't hesitate, "I want this one." He tried a position that wasn't stable, then slid to a higher notch and carefully placed his .35 Whelen on his hat. Sam settled into a rock-solid hold, controlled his breathing, and squeezed off a round. His handloaded 250-grain Hornady spire-points chronograph at 2555 fps, and this one smacked the bear with a slight forward angle through the liver, top of the heart, and lungs. The blackie spun, took three short steps, looked back, and collapsed. My laser rangefinder later confirmed the distance at 198 yards, a long shot for black bear. Swan loves a good stalk and generally gets closer, but hunters know you sometimes take the shot you are given.

We hustled up to the kill. The fur was luxurious, even on the bottom of the feet between the main pads and toes, and the claws were extremely long. Swan's size estimate was conservative, and we happily took photos and congratulated Sam on his trophy. After the long stalk, Sam found he was carrying a load of adrenaline; his hands trembled as it filtered out of his system. I hope I, too, never lose the predator's feeling of awareness and excitement I first found as a kid hunting moose and caribou with my dad.

Then the work began. We skinned and butchered the bear on level, dry ground covered with dead grass stalks, then packed up the meat and headed for the skiff. Swan led the way with the bearskin draped over his shoulders like a big fur coat. Back on board we celebrated with a fine dinner of crab fresh from the pot and a shot or two of hooch. Although we were confident we'd find bears, the lack of fresh sign was something we'd been carrying in the back of our minds. It felt great to see some critters and connect with a good one.

The next day Swan worked on the hide, skinning the feet and head, turning the ears and gums, trimming the fat, and generally engineering the transformation from hide to rug. I expect he enjoyed the peace and quiet as Sam and I took off to hunt a huge tidal flat for wolves. We found some tracks and glassed long and hard, but no luck. As Dad once said on a dry moose hunt, "Tracks make mighty thin soup." Still, it was a gorgeous day, highlighted by an otter humping across the flats for close to a mile. It must have had a run-in with an eagle, because it stopped every 30 seconds or so, crouching like a piece of twisted driftwood while it searched the sky for incoming birds.

Over a leisurely supper we debated our options like kids in a candy store, figuring how best to spend the rest of our precious time. We left the next morning on a slow trip home, with piles of adventures in mind. One misty watercolor day we anchored in front of a beautiful wild river and fished for 14- to 18-inch Dolly Varden char and big steelhead. Sam was tickled by the curious young beaver that nudged his drifting bobber, then swam over to sniff his hipboot-clad legs. He told us later, "Ya know, those beavers have pretty big teeth."

Observing wildlife was a top priority. We saw no brown bears, but spent much of a sunny afternoon watching six Sitka blacktail deer feed on skunk cabbage shoots and other spring forage. Their condition looked great after the mild winter, and my mind projected lines for steaks, roasts, and chops on their sleek sides. Sam focused his video camera on whales, seals, sea otters, and a herd of Dall's porpoises that swooshed under Wilma's bow. It's amazing how fast they swim with so little effort. He helped run crab and shrimp pots for all the fresh seafood we could eat and did more than his fair share with a fork.

The image that sticks in my mind, though, is the day we docked at Baranof Warm Springs and crunched through 6 inches of old snow up the ridge toward a scenic cutthroat lake. We scrambled down the side trail through rocks and hemlocks to two big hot-spring pools near a churning falls, peeled off our ripe hunting clothes, and slid right in. Steam rose in the quiet air as we savored the hot bath and sipped an icy beer or two. The high screeching giggle of a bald eagle soared over the background bass of the waterfall as we tried hard to convince Sam how rugged life is up here in the cold frozen north. He just grinned and shook his head

For information on taking an Alaskan coast black bear hunt of your own, contact bear guide Eric Swanson at Coastal Wilderness Charters (Dept. AH), . Box 6330, Sitka, AK, 99835.