October 10, 2025 – My Last Images of a Grizzly Bear on an Incredible Hunt’s Photo Adventure with Don Toothaker
You know that old saying — you don’t have to outrun the bear, just the person next to you?
Yeah, well… apparently, I missed that memo. Because I was the guy running toward the grizzly.
Now, before you question my sanity (and I know you are), let me explain. It was late afternoon on our last day, the light was golden perfection, and this bear was up on a ridge across the Yellowstone River. If we hustled — and I mean Hustled, capital H — we could set up almost at eye level with him. That’s every wildlife photographer’s version of front-row seats at the Super Bowl.
So, I ran.
Two cameras. One tripod. Zero oxygen.
At 7,794 feet in elevation, every step felt like breathing through a cocktail straw. The ground was soft and uneven — a curious mix of hooved potholes from two-thousand-pound bison and lumpy vegetation that felt like running across a field of dinner rolls. I tried to be careful, but let’s face it: at my age, when someone says, “rolling a joint,” they’re talking about an ankle.
Still, the thought of that perfect bear shot kept me going. I was one heroic step away from a Pulitzer… or a pulmonary event.
When I reached the riverbank, lungs screaming for mercy, there he was — the bear — head down, meandering along the ridge like he owned the place. The lighting was gorgeous. All I needed was that magical moment when he lifted his head and looked my way.
And then he did.
Oh, sweet photography gods!
Then he didn’t.
He turned and lumbered up the hill.
I gasped a polite “Noooo…” that came out more like a dying accordion.
Then — wait — he stopped!
Sniffed the air.
Turned back toward the river!
Every camera shutter in the valley clicked like castanets at a flamenco concert.
At one point, I noticed a gentle slope down to the river — perfect crossing spot. My brain, swollen from altitude and optimism, hatched a brilliant plan: leapfrog ahead and wait for him. Steve joined me, and I confidently explained my “expert” reasoning, based on my intimate, encyclopedic knowledge of all things wild.
Yeah. He never showed.
Apparently, the bear hadn’t read my script. Back at the van — panting, wheezing, and 10 IQ points lower — we spotted him ambling the other way, back up the ridge.
That’s when it hit me. Yellowstone isn’t a zoo. It’s a place where the wild makes the rules, and we’re just clumsy extras with cameras and high hopes.
Still, what a rush. Wild. Beautiful. Unpredictable.
(Except, of course, for Old Faithful — the one thing that actually shows up on time.)
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