Just before last light, Fennessy tapped my shoulder and pointed. A pair of black ears stuck out over the top of some bushes. Minutes went by, and the bear didn’t move. Then he slowly stepped into view—a large bear, though not a color-phase, with a white diamond on his chest and a notch in his right ear. “That’s a good bear,” Fennessy whispered to me. I picked up my bow and clipped the release. Cautiously, the bear approached the barrel. His back reached the top of the 55-gallon drum—a great way to field-judge a shooter, especially in Idaho, where bears tend to run small. The bear kept moving, past the barrel, and went right for the pile of logs. Ben and I looked at each other, smiling. The bear dug out the planted carp, then ran off, fish in maw, back behind the bush where we first spotted him. After a few seconds, we could hear him chomping away. I leaned into Ben and whispered, “I think it’s worth it.” We bumped fists.