ne year later, I can still hear the cries. Our stalk along the edge of a forest-service road in east-central British Columbia had come to a halt before that first wail broke the silence, followed quickly by another. They came in short bursts and sounded like panicked screams for help, which is what made them so disturbing. It was also the precise effect we were going for. “I want to sound as much like a crying baby as possible,” my buddy and hunting partner Ryan Callaghan, of First Lite, told me. The cries came from the fawn-moose distress call he was carrying, and we were hoping they’d sound desperate enough to lure in the predator we’d seen moments before—a mature boar black bear. We let the area fall silent again and waited. Callaghan was crouched along on the left side of the road, while our guide, Jeff Lander, and I stood on the right edge. Just ahead, the road curved to the right, giving Callaghan a longer vantage. Five minutes hadn’t passed before he turned to look at us and mimed his right index and middle fingers to his eyes, as if to say, “Are you seeing this?” We weren’t, and I whispered back to ask if the bear had re-emerged. “He’s coming right at us,” Callaghan said. I dropped into position, resting the fore-end of the .300 WSM Kimber on my left knee. Lander hid behind me, and when the bear came into view, there was no doubt: He was a shooter. “That’s the kind we want,” Lander said. The bear lumbered down the road, and you could’ve added thunderous sound effects each time one of his giant paws landed. He kept to the roadside where an escape into the thick bush was only a stride away for him. He got within 60 yards when he began to turn to his right.