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I knew the griz was gonna charge. I’d been bluff-charged by enough bears to know this beast wasn’t bluffing. The breeze, once friendly, had betrayed my presence. As soon as he caught my scent, he emerged from the brush popping his teeth, slobbering profusely and pouncing up and down on his freshly killed moose. As impressive as this display was, I knew that once he pinpointed my location, the real show would begin.

Strangely, I was unafraid. Instead, a mixture of anger and guilt swept over me: anger, because just a few weeks ago, my best huntin’ buddy had died on the mountain; and guilt, because I too should’ve died. But I didn’t. And in this moment, it seemed as though the only thing between me and home was this insane animal.

Refusing to become bear scat, I lifted my .454 Casull hand cannon. The movement, though slight, gave me away. He spotted the motion, leapt over the moose carcass and came at me full tilt. Even though this animal probably weighed close to a thousand pounds, he came with haste. Grizzlies can outrun the fastest racehorse the first one hundred yards.

Every time his front paws hit the tundra he blew—“Shoo!” “Shoo!” “Shoo!” “Shoo!” He sounded like a steam engine locomotive and looked as big. Every jump brought him twenty feet closer, so I had just seconds to aim, exhale, and pull that trigger. If my first shot didn’t count, the moose would be his entrée. I’d be his dessert.

I’ve heard it said