PRS PROFILE: BUILDING ON A HOBBY

BUILDING ON A HOBBY

With his military background and long-range shooting pastime, Mike Woods was a natural to join PRS.

PHOTOS BY MIKE WOODS

Mike Woods first pursued the sport of precision rifle shooting after the Veterans Administration encouraged him to find a hobby. Woods initially fought the idea, but eventually started looking online to see what was out there.

“Having a military background, I knew that I wanted something to do with guns,” he explains. “I have always been into long-range and precision shooting since I was a kid. As soon as I found PRS, I knew it was going to be for me.”

Woods made the leap into competition in March 2021, although it wasn’t without some uncertainty.

“My toughest shot would have to be my first shot,” he recalls. “It can be very intimidating. You have all these thoughts going through your head, but as soon as that first target rings, you know you’re in the right place.”

Ever since that first shot, Woods has become a mainstay in the Precision Rifle Series’ Southeast Region competitions – he’s based in Alabama – and has also competed in a few Pro Series matches.

“Last year I did a handful of events and this year I will double, and hopefully double next year as well,” he says of his competition schedule.

Going back to that first match, the Alabama Precision Shooter’s Challenge, Woods speaks especially highly of his fellow shooters.

“The squad I was on the first day was awesome. They knew it was my first time and as soon as I hit the first target, I could hear them getting fired

Mike Woods, who is relatively new to the Precision Rifle Series, credits squadmates for helping him progress in the sport. “(The) best shooters want you to be better and will help any way they can,” he says.

“My toughest shot would have to be my first shot,” recalls Woods. “You have all these thoughts going through your head, but as soon as that first target rings, you know you’re in the right place.”

Since March 2021, Woods has entered eight regional PRS or Bolt Gun matches, mostly in his home state of Alabama but also in Georgia.

up,” he says.

Woods has found this to be a constant throughout his PRS endeavors: the people really make the sport what it is.

“What I wasn’t prepared for was the interaction with the shooters,” he says. “This is the first time competing where the best shooters want you to be better and will help any way they can. So far, I have had guys stay after to help me with barricades or other positional shooting. Guys have helped me with gear and also with reloading tips. It’s like nothing I have ever experienced.”  Editor’s note: For more information on the Precision Rifle Series, visit precisionrifleseries.com.

MIKE WOODS’ RIFLE & GEAR

While Mike Woods started o his PRS career with a Tikka T3x Tac A1 in 6.5 Creedmoor topped with a Vortex Razor scope, he has been building “a more suitable gun” over recent months. Here’s what he’s currently running:

• Foundation stock • Impact Precision action • Hart Rifle Barrel chambered in 6mm GT • Area 419 Hellfire match muzzle brake • TriggerTech trigger • Leupold Mark 5HD scope • Armageddon Gear Shmedium Mid-Size bags

DAYS SOLO18

Bagging a big northern British Columbia grizzly bear was only half the battle for a guide hunting by herself.

STORY AND PHOTOS BY CASSIDY CARON

ith my scope dialed down as low as it

Wwould go, a round chambered and the safety off, I crept through a narrow passageway of 5-foot-tall willows. It was an eerie feeling. A city dweller might compare it to walking down a deserted avenue with skyscrapers on both sides blocking out the sun.

I stopped when I was certain my wind was blowing directly into where I had last seen the giant boar. He should be close.

“Hey!” I yelled. It was the first time I had heard my own voice in 15 days and it was a high-risk gamble. My guess was that the grizzly would stand on his hind legs to try and catch my scent, to see who had dared to invade his territory.

It was an idiotic idea, since it had equal chances of going one of three ways: 1) I could be presented with the perfect shot; 2) I could get charged; or 3) I could risk the bear of a lifetime vanishing, never to be seen again.

With only about 10 yards of open space between me and the willow jungle, I was really banking on the “not getting charged” part. I was more than two weeks into my solo hunt and this was a last-ditch attempt at a big bear. My reserves and resources were running out. I had hiked way too far to pack out an 8-plus-foot grizzly anyway. I wasn’t even sure I was capable of doing it and yet I had pushed on.

WITH RUMORS THAT British Columbia would end the grizzly hunt over bad politics, when I drew a spring tag in 2016, I decided I was going for it and took a whole month off work. My goal was to take a big grizzly.

I was by myself, as no one else was willing to take that kind of time to help me realize the dream. I drove 27 hours north, through the southern Yukon and back into the northwesternmost corner of BC. I was totally on my own, in search of North America’s biggest land predator, in one of the most remote sectors of the province, if not the world.

I spent the first week covering ground, glassing from

Author and hunting guide Cassidy Caron spent over two weeks by herself in British Columbia’s remote northwestern corner searching for the continent’s largest land predator – grizzly bears.

the road and doing day hikes. I was fully aware that while I was an accomplished solo hunter, a green (untanned, or raw) grizzly hide from this region could easily weigh over 100 pounds. It would push me to my limits to carry such a trophy over the endless spongy peat bogs and tangled willow flats typical of the subarctic.

I saw a good number of bears that week, but nothing impressive. I felt a deep sense of foreboding that I was hunting my last British Columbia grizzly. I wanted it to be special. Plus, there is a sort of madness that sets in with prolonged solitude. Like a slow muddy stream winding its way down to a waterfall, it’s a relentless journey in the direction of recklessness.

On day eight, I went deep. I packed up my tent and a week’s worth of supplies. I hiked 9 miles on the first day, crossing two rivers churning with the milky water of snowmelt. e water came to just below my waist (knees for most, but I’m short). I had to strip down and cross in my sandals. When I came out on the other side of the icy depths, my flesh was blue and goosebumped.

I set up camp and spent a few days watching for bruins from the valley of high sheep slopes. I didn’t find any. e spring leaves were quickly popping out I KNEW GOING further in could create big problems and yet, for some reason, I packed up again and ventured into no-man’s land. I set up my second camp 17 miles from my truck. Just after putting up the tent, I watched a giant bear come over the skyline of a mountain further down the valley. It descended toward my camp.

Any rational thought I was capable of died!

I climbed to higher ground, going nearly 2 miles from my camp to try to relocate the bear. With the valley plugged with freshly leafed-out shrubs, it was hard to spot. Finally, I detected some movement. It was a panicked cow moose running through the brush!

I panned the spotting scope, combing the direction she had bolted from. And then I saw him. Like a trailer for a Jurassic Park movie, the massive boar was gulping a freshly born moose calf, tossing the wet, limp body in the air, his huge jaws devouring it with each toss. Within five minutes, the calf was gone.

I watched the boar, 900 yards below, lick his thick, black lips. His huge square snout lifted, sniffing the air, not satisfied with just one calf. He began to lumber down a small creek and disappeared into thick willows.

It wouldn’t take me long to close the distance. By the time he emerged into a bit of an open grassy flat, I had the stalk all planned. e problem was, he never came out. So I waited. And waited. It was fast approaching the longest day of the year. In the far north that means daylight for 22 hours. Darkness never came. But neither did the bear.

A rain squall rolled in with a biting wind. I had been sitting exposed on a mountainside for hours and I was freezing. I physically couldn’t sit any longer. My camp was 2 miles in one direction, the last location of the bear 900 yards below. It was go, or pull the pin entirely.

I memorized the two little spruce trees and small grass opening very close to where I could see bits of the bear, fast asleep in the thick brush.

After a week of glassing and day hiking off the road but not seeing the caliber of grizzly she was after, Caron backpacked into the wilderness, setting up her first camp 9 miles from her rig. With good weather, going even deeper into the backcountry seemed like a good idea at the time.

Fog veils a mountain one morning after a night of rain.

A pair of small bears got a pass early in the author’s hunt. The provincial government has since banned hunting grizzlies, drawing scorn from Caron but also reconfirming her all-in effort during the 2016 season, the second to last.

FROM THE MOUNTAINSIDE, I had ranged the trees and the bear. It was about 20 yards from them to him. I inched my way down until I was at those trees. ere was a very small gap of open ground. My senses have never been more heightened. I could smell the gamey musk of the boar nearby; I even thought I could catch the tainted whiff of the guts and fresh blood from the moose calf he had devoured.

Aware of the danger and yet hedging my bet, I moved until the breeze was at my back and yelled, “Hey, hey, hey!”

It worked. I was more shocked that it actually happened the way I had envisioned than by the giant grizzly now towering on his hind legs above the willows! He was less than 15 yards from me. Two-thirds of his huge body stood above the bushes that formed such formidable tunnels. ere was no prep, and no anticipation for the shot. ere was not even really any aiming. I was so ready for this close-quarters encounter that I snapped the gun up to my shoulder and, in a millisecond, shot him dead-center in the chest. e 7mm roared and so did he. He flipped over backward and vanished into the thicket. Mechanically, I cycled another round, expecting 600 pounds of dying fury to explode out of the bush right at me. Nothing. Nothing except, way too close, the blood-curdling sounds of teeth snapping, roaring, thrashing. And then, silence.

Having never shot a bear in a situation like this, or even seen it done, the scariest part of the whole ordeal was wading into that thick brush after the minutes of silence to find him. And there he was, massive and still. For an interior grizzly, he was huge. And old. His scarred cinderblock-like head told the tale of decades of fierce living on that unforgiving tundra. I was overcome with a deep sadness and respect.

It was truly a hunt that pushed the limits of what was possible. I felt that the effort, the hardship and the solitude somehow made me worthy of taking such a magnificent creature. fact, my struggle was only beginning. As I began to skin the bear, I realized that the small bushes and soft moss that formed his final resting place were working against me. With nothing to tie a rope to, there was no leverage. I managed to flip the bear on his back. But then, when I had him about threequarters done, rigor mortis set in. I could not for the life of me flip him back over to finish the job.

It was the early hours of the morning, a dusky half-light. I was absolutely exhausted. I had to gut the bear and remove the quarters to finally maneuver him to where I could complete the skinning job.

I stuffed the green hide into my pack – one of the best packs on the market. e carbon fiber frame snapped as though it was constructed of toothpicks. I had a little over 2 spongy, moss-filled miles to go back to my tent. And then, after that, 17 miles to the truck. What had I done?

It was 5 a.m. when I stumbled into my camp. I sort of fell over with the heavy load and had to eject myself from the backpack harness by lying on my back like a harassed turtle. Once free, I crawled into the tent and passed out.

I woke up later in the morning. I brewed as good an instant coffee as you can brew, and set about turning the bear skin. I fleshed it out and then lightly salted it with the quart of salt I had packed in. I rolled the hide and hung it. Hopefully some moisture would drain out while I made the first of the two long trips it was going to take to get everything to the road. Trip one: camp, rifle, bear skull.

Still energized by my success, I made fairly good time. Conditions had turned wet and my feet were pressure-cooking in my boots by the time I made the first river crossing. Water that had been “milky” was now chocolate milk! Warmer weather had turned the river into a deadly, surging mass of brown. I could hear boulders rolling in the current. It was too dangerous to plunge in with my heavy pack so I stripped completely, donned sandals and walked across empty, just to make sure it was possible.

It was sketchy. Chest-deep and fast, the current pushed hard and I ended up

Caron with her bear, an old, battlescarred, long-clawed interior boar taken on day 15 of her solo backpack hunt.

20 yards downstream from where I had started. I had to recross and load the pack. I did not buckle my straps in case I tipped over, and tried to step exactly where I had on the empty run.

I also tried not to think about the thousands of dollars worth of optics I had onboard as I lurched precariously through the turbulent water. Despite the different color, the water was not any warmer! en I had to repeat that whole performance on the second crossing.

Finally, my truck was in sight. I arrived at it, dumped the heavy pack, changed into dry clothes and indulged in a warm – yet delicious – can of beer. I collapsed in the backseat and eventually inspected my feet. ey resembled raw hamburger. I’ve spent most of my adult life in extreme conditions in the wilderness, but this was a new level. For some inexplicable reason, the skin under my toenails was inflamed. e nails had been forced straight up, like bad eyelash extensions. ey had scraped and dragged against the top of my boots. It was painful, aggravating and disgusting.

STILL, I SET my alarm for early the next morning. I was enjoying a droolworthy sleep when it went off. at’s when the reality of what came next really set in. I wasn’t even half-finished.

I had to hike back 17 miles and retrieve a huge and heavy bear hide. e hide would weigh more than the entire camp, rifle and skull that I had just packed out.

I was aching and drained, but the bear hide waited, indifferent to the shape my feet were in. ey were so bad, I put my hiking boots in my pack, along with a few snacks, and walked the entire way back wearing running shoes. Safe to say those were a write-off after! e river crossings weren’t quite as intimidating early in the morning, and the runoff was a bit lower. I regretted not having my rifle when I saw, in muddy stretches of trail, that my tracks from the day before had been nearly obliterated by huge grizzly tracks.

Traveling so light, I made it to my old campsite faster than expected. I was relieved to see that the bear skin had lost maybe 10 pounds already from the skiff of salt I had applied. I had a short nap under a tree and a snack, booted up, and loaded the hide. en I turned around and hiked the most grueling 17 miles of my entire hunting career.

I was at my physical limit. e hide was impossibly heavy, the broken frame of my pack was digging into my back, my boiled toenails were scraping against the top of my boots, and the sticky humid heat was bringing out the first mosquitos in swarms.

I was almost delirious when I reached the river again. It was angry and surging. I realized there was no way I could walk across safely with that much weight. So I slumped on the shore using my pack as a pillow, oblivious to the blood-sucking insects feasting on me. I slept.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the water level was lower and it was still light enough to see. I made it across and then did the same with the second river crossing.

When I reached my truck, I just sat down and cried. I was impossibly fatigued, injured, overwhelmed by what I had done, and absolutely maxed out. I have never, on any other hunt, pushed myself to such physical extremes. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. And yet, it was humbling and gratifying.

I ENDED UP losing five toenails and hobbled painfully for several weeks after. But I had endured the hunt of my lifetime, pushing myself to a limit I’m not sure I ever want to push again. at bear will always have a special place in my heart, hard-earned in a pursuit and an adventure worthy of the hard life he had carved out in those northern BC mountains.

As I had thought, the grizzly bear hunt in British Columbia soon fell victim to the unrelenting march of a proudly “woke” government. With absolutely no science to back their decision, all grizzly bear hunting has been “canceled” in this beautiful, majestic province. It was once a landscape that asked people – people like me – to push themselves to their limits, to explore who they really are, and to find themselves by flirting with danger and embracing that part of human nature that is called to ruggedness, adventure and challenge.

Sadly, these values and this call may not be heard by the next generation. And our world will be poorer for that.  Editor’s note: Cassidy Caron is the owner of Compass Mountain Outfitters. For more information, visit compassmountainoutfitters.com.