--- title: "I Hunted Japan’s Deadly Brown Bears, and Met the Greatest Bear Hunters in History." description: "Col. Robert Bruce White recounts an American Museum of Natural History expedition to Hokkaido, Japan, in search of the Yezo brown bear." date: "2026-09-14" modified: "2026-09-14" authors: - name: "Col. Robert Bruce White" job_title: "Outdoor Writer" link: "https://www.outdoorlife.com/authors/col-robert-bruce-white.md" url: "https://www.outdoorlife.com/hunting/hunting-japanese-brown-bears/" categories: - "Bear Hunting" - "Hunting" - "Predator Hunting" tags: - "Evergreen" - "News" --- # I Hunted Japan’s Deadly Brown Bears, and Met the Greatest Bear Hunters in History. ![A yellow image in a Japanese style of a man fighting a bear.]() *\Illustrated by Louis S. Glanzman / Outdoor Life\* *This story, “Meanest Bear of All,” appeared in the January 1960 issue of* Outdoor Life*.* This is not the usual adventure story about bear hunting. It can’t be, for we killed no bears. We worked long enough and hard enough, but such was our luck that the only mammal we collected for the [American Museum of Natural History](), which sponsored the expedition, was one common chipmunk. Although we were hunting in magnificently rugged country — Hokkaido, northernmost Japan — no one’s life was endangered even momentarily, and in point of thrills the show was a washout. In spite of these disappointments, we regard the hunt as a success. For one thing, we collected a fund of valuable information on the Yezo brown bear, which is one of the biggest, meanest, and least-known of all bears. And we had the rare experience of hunting with “hairy” Ainu who, as a race, have been the greatest bear hunters in history. ![A group of men in winter gear walk alongside a loaded logging sled on a snow-edged track, with snow-covered mountains behind them.]() Our party consisted of three Americans and a dozen or more Japanese, the same sort of combination we’d used successfully in hunting the rare goat antelope known as the Kamoshika (“We Hunted the Kamoshika,” *Outdoor Life*, January 1959). The principals were Thomas L. Blakemore, an Oklahoma-born corporation lawyer now practicing in Tokyo, leader; Prof. John Cushing, chairman of biologic sciences, University of California, and Kunihiko Shirai, a talented ecologist of the Japanese Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry. K. Masuhara of Tom’s law office acted as political agent and quartermaster, and I, like Tom, a field associate of the museum, served as recorder and photographer. At every camp, the government generously co-operated with us by providing forestry or game wardens who knew the area intimately, and who assisted in employing our porters, cooks, and hunting guides — either Ainu or Japanese. And from both government and university zoologists came the best of co-operation. Who are the Ainu? No one really knows. They are closely akin to, if not identical with, the neolithic peoples of the archipelago who were driven north onto Hokkaido when the great waves of invasion swept the world during the first millennium B.C. They may well have descended from the proto-Nordic population once widely spread over northern Asia; they may come from the same parent stock as American Indians, even Australian aborigines. No doubt they are a very ancient people, and they bear little resemblance to their Japanese conquerors. ![Two men in hunting clothes stand at the back of a small van at the end of a dirt road, beside a triangular expedition pennant.]() Ainu men have bushy hair, patriarchal beards, shaggy eyebrows, sparkling deep-set eyes, and a look of wistful melancholy. Their women, upon reaching maturity, tattoo their faces with hideous blue-black mustachios, their forearms with curious crisscrosses. In both sexes, the arm and leg bones — like those of cave dwellers — are peculiarly flat. Until recently, their culture was similar to Stone Age man’s. And their religion, a rude mythology, involves the worship of bears, which they hunt assiduously for all that. The Ainu have been largely absorbed by the Japanese with whose civilization they couldn’t compete; only a few full-blooded Ainu survive. Their history during the last century reminds you of the treatment of the American Indians. Today the few Ainu remaining exist by hunting, fishing, or maize cultivation, and a few more as tourist attractions in villages subsidized by the Japan Travel Association. Our guides claimed to be full-blooded Ainu. One named Genroku probably was. According to their testimony, they had killed scads of bears: one old man claimed 75, another 45, and Genroku 32. But their tracking techniques caused us to wonder if they knew any more about Yezo browns than was necessary to produce ferocious-looking bear wood carvings, at which one of the oldsters was quite adept. How big are the Yezo browns we were studying? From the 25 living specimens or pelts examined, I should say that they are by no means the size of Kodiak or Alaska browns, but probably a bit larger than our grizzlies. Old males are often six or seven feet long, attaining 8½ feet maximum, and they stand three or four feet at the shoulder. Heavily built, rather short-coupled, awkward, yet at times fantastically swift in movement, they are powerful brutes, quite capable of killing an ox with a single blow of their terribly clawed paws. ![An Ainu hunting guide stands in a village street carrying a long-barreled shotgun over his shoulder, wearing split-toed shoes, with a child behind him.]() Rearing up on his hind legs — even behind the stout bars of a cage — a Yezo brown bear has a most formidable appearance. He should; in this stance his height is better than nine feet, every inch of it supercharged power. Silver-tipped pelts are taken occasionally, as are every imaginable combination of brown, black, red, and even gold. And when you find one of these big bruisers with a massive skull, high forehead, erect and rounded ears, and a sparkling golden mantle across its huge shoulders, I think you’ll agree it is one of the most beautiful of all animals. Concerning Yezo weights, opinions differ widely; reliable data are lacking. This is understandable. Only scientific expeditions carry reliable scales, and the task of transporting a huge carcass across precipitous, trackless forests is simply immense. One of our Ainu, the oldster claiming the record of 75 bears, said his best trophy weighed 120 kan, 992 pounds, but no other hunter we met claimed better than 660 pounds. A forestry officer said that in his district, Kamakita, five years ago a mighty higuma — brown bear — was shot weighing 1,320 pounds. Both these claims, like most hunters’ estimates, we question. ![Several brown bears of varying coat colors rest on the rock terraces of a zoo enclosure beside a bare tree.]() Tom Blakemore, veteran of seven other Hokkaido bear hunts, has weighed in one of slightly less than 600 pounds, which incidentally had to be floated down a raging mountain stream. Professor Inukai of Sapporo University, Japan’s top authority on the Yezo, says that two bears may be taken each year weighing 700, and the maximum probably never exceeded 900. To the Ainu, bear hunting has always been the most manly, exciting, and useful way in which a man could spend his time. In the old days, their bear hunts were incredibly serious undertakings. Before an early spring hunt began, the village elders convened with the hunters to ask favor of the gods. They prayed to the spirits of rivers and creeks to carry them safely across, to the gods of fire to comfort them in camp, and to certain mountain deities to bring them quickly to the spoor or dens of bear and then safely home again. Nor were local deities forgotten; prayer at every resting place or campsite was routine. Their celebration of a successful hunt, like their annual bear festival, was an amazing combination of religious fervor and drunken orgy. ![Four men in hunting clothes stand in a cleared forest camp; one gestures while the others listen, rifles slung over their shoulders.]() Thus, when encrusted snow still covered the hills and valleys, the braves set forth in search of hibernating bears, their sturdy Akita dogs merrily accompanying them. Having discovered the air vent of a den by means of the yellow discolored snow around it or the wisps of vapor arising from it, they cleared away the snow, and engaged in more fervent prayer. Then, with long poles, they poked into the lair to eject its drowsy occupant. The dogs, of course, were encouraged to excite it, and possibly a fire was lit at the entrance. ![Black-and-yellow illustration of an enraged brown bear standing on its hind legs with arrows in its back, grappling with an Ainu hunter while other hunters close in with spears and knives.]() **Illustrated by Louis S. Glanzman / Outdoor Life** If the bear didn’t promptly charge its tormentors, an Ainu brave would prepare himself to force the rascal into the open. He tied a cloth over his head, leaving only his eyes exposed; then, with merely a knife in his hand or girdle, he crawled directly into the cave. Amazingly, these people believed no bear would ever kill anything within its own lair (it is a fact that Yezo dens are remarkably clean). The Ainu believed that while the bear might be annoyed by such an intrusion, it would merely seize the visitor and thrust him into the rear of the cave. Once in back of the bear, all the hunter had to do was to jab the animal’s behind, and it would depart without further ado. However incredible might be this story that our guides told us about their ancestors, it is confirmed by the Rev. J. Batchelor in *The Ainu of Japan*, and by Professor Hodaka of Sapporo, two authorities on these fascinating peoples. But this is by no means all the story. Outside, the hunters and their dogs eagerly awaited the bear’s fast exit. On emerging into the snow, the bear was greeted with loud shouts and snarls, plus a cascade of spears and poisoned arrows. All of this usually accomplished little more than to increase the fury of the poor devil. Many of the spear thrusts would be quickly parried in the Yezo’s forepaws, and the poison (aconite from monkshood) might take 10 minutes to have any real effect. Meanwhile, the fight became furious. And when the bear stood on its haunches, the better to strike, one of the braves would toss aside his spear and arrows. Then, clasping only a knife, he’d run deliberately into the animal’s mighty embrace. Simultaneously he plunged his knife into the bear’s heart, and the fight was over — except for the clawing, mauling, bone crushing, and even scalping that, in its death throes, the bear might inflict on its assailant. Can you imagine the daring required to rush headlong into the arms of a wounded bear, 600 pounds of raging fury towering above you? The price of such a victory was often serious injury or death. To be sure, not every hunt included men brave or foolhardy enough to crawl inside a den to eject its occupant or, outside, to accept voluntarily a bear’s embrace. But there were other rash hunting methods. ![A hunting guide kneels in deep snow behind a large dead Yezo brown bear, holding a bolt-action rifle upright, with a bear cub lying in the snow beside him.]() Because Ainu spear thrusts were often parried and arrows yanked out by the bear, a spearsman might actually invite Yezo to attack him. Keeping his spearpoint under a cloth beneath his arm, he bravely approached the animal, eagerly awaiting the critical moment of attack. If, as the big bruiser advanced, it stood erect, the hunter took two or three quick steps sidewise or backward, allowing the bear to fall forward onto the upheld spear. Thus securely impaled, the beast could be quickly dispatched with knife and club. Then there were Ainu intrepid enough to enter a hibernation den with no better weapon than a knife, and in utter darkness do battle to the death. Let’s not kid ourselves about the bear’s winter sleep; it isn’t the profound stupor of chipmunk or hedgehog. When disturbed, a bear awakens fast enough, ready for instant defensive action. Near Shizunai we met a forester who, while skiing, had dropped into a bear’s snug diggings, and had been severely clawed and bitten before he could extricate himself. Another thing: there is no escaping Yezo browns by climbing trees. Unlike our grizzlies, the adult Yezo can climb quite well. Several years ago, according to Professor Inukai, a forester was killed by a wounded bear many feet aloft in a giant beech. ![A brown bear climbs high into the bare branches of a tree in a winter forest, seen in silhouette from below.]() Yezo-bear hunting, even with modern rifles, trustworthy ammunition, a steady aim, and cool head, is not without hazard. But you seldom find a .375 Magnum or other high-powered rifle on such hunts, modern scopes are rare, and shooting at a range of 150 yards or more isn’t usually done. The usual procedure is to withhold fire until there’s little or no chance of a miss. The Ainu hunter, like the Japanese, uses a shotgun of Russo-Japanese War vintage — a long-barreled, bolt-action weapon of 25 or 28 gauge. For ammunition he uses brass cartridges with black powder and homemade pellets, either solid balls or leaden cylinders that are flanged to provide twist. He carries this relic of a gun while stalking, surrounding a lair, or waiting days on end beside a likely bear trail. However dangerous the modern Ainu method, you must admit it’s an improvement over the old. In hunting bears or shika deer, the Ainu — a very muscular little man of about five feet four inches — has infinite patience, extraordinary indifference to cold and discomfort, but certainly no conspicuous talent for tracking. To us, this was quite disappointing. Their patience and stoic hardihood, moreover, depended in large measure on the availability of sake (rice wine), or shochu (a sorry vodka). If we hadn’t rationed the supply, I doubt that they would have ever been sober. And — because they seemed occasionally tight while stalking — I suspect they had some of the stuff cached away in certain remote spots. Sake and shochu seem to have supplanted the prayer ritual, and not for the better. However, there’s an appropriate old Ainu saying: “He who would catch a bear must never cry if he gets hurt.” Just as the Ainu are quite different from the Japanese, so their rugged island, which is about the size of South Carolina, differs from Honshu, the mainland. Of course Hokkaido has certain “Japaneseness,” meaning gnarled old pines, jagged cliffs half hidden in swirling mists, and rippling trout streams rushing through dark ravines. Sounkyo Gorge, for one, has cliffs rising abruptly 2,000 feet above the swift black waters. Her mountains may not be as high as the Japanese Alps, where we’d hunted Kamoshika the year before, but they are more volcanic. Smoke veils certain peaks at times; as I write, Mount MeAkan, near which we hunted bear last April, is in violent eruption. Clouds of steam hover above many valleys where hot springs make quaint little inns most attractive. Up north the vegetation is different, and so are the animals. And for five or six months each year, the countryside is blanketed with snow so deep that travelers must depend on long poles, striped red and white, to reveal the curves in the road. ![An Ainu chieftain with a long white beard stands beside his wife, who has a dark tattooed band around her mouth; both wear patterned robes and beaded necklaces.]() I like to recall the second of our five bear-hunting camps, Taizan-so, the lonely Japanese inn around which our Yezo hunting centered in northeasternmost Hokkaido. From the nameless peak rising high above the sheltering ravine, you could look easterly across the foothills and snowy coast, across the narrow strait separating us from the Russian Kuril Islands, to the grim, icebound cliffs of Kunishiri-shima 40 to 50 miles away. To the north you could see more austere hills and peaks, with the Russian Sea of Okhotsk serving as a backdrop. To the west and southward, inland, the view suggested infinity, with no sign of man-made things. On Kunishiri-shima the Red Air Force has built one or more fighter strips. From our comfortable quarters at night we could watch their powerful searchlights restlessly sweeping the starlit sky. Once by day, a red-starred jet reconnaissance plane appeared far above us, as though to learn what those Americans were doing in so isolated a spot. So deep were the winter drifts, so difficult the trail to Taizan-so, that the last guests previously to register there had left seven months before. We came fully prepared to camp out, but one glance at the spotless flooring, the snug comforters, the glowing brazier, then a bowl of fish chowder, convinced us that the sleeping bags and combat rations could wait. Later we discovered the hot springs out back — a pool in which all of us could bathe at one time in 110° of steaming comfort, despite snow banked to the eaves of the barnlike structure. After a tough 10 to 20-mile hike through heavy mountain snow, nothing is more refreshing than a bath in true Japanese style. What helps make tracking or just plain hiking so tough in these beautiful mountains is the dwarf bamboo, or sasa. Growing in profusion all the way from creek banks nearly to the timberline, attaining the height of a man on horseback in summer, then becoming densely packed on the ground by winter snows, sasa offers a continuously irritating hindrance. Further, you find it intermingled with loops and ropes of tough vines, and you get the feeling that the whole mess takes devilish delight in tripping you up. It clings to the steepest slopes, making your ascent or descent perilous when it is wet. I hate the stuff. Not so the Yezo brown bear who often builds a den beneath it or nearby, and carpets the lair with its fragrant leaves. Yet sasa that’s covered by hard-crusted snow makes hill climbing far easier than it would be otherwise; and the snow, of course, immensely simplifies tracking. Thus early springtime is the time of most bear hunts in this rugged country. All of Tom’s seven previous bear hunts were in early spring. Here’s how he describes the first five of those hunts for Yezo bears: My own experiences are perhaps a good example of the kind and variety of troubles that arise to plague the hunter. It wasn’t until my fifth try that I actually killed a bear, although on each of the earlier hunts we’d come reasonably close, and on one hunt a guide had shot a good specimen. On the first hunt, around 5 p.m. one day when I was ready to drop from fatigue after a 20-mile hike, we crossed a fresh and beautiful trail. I can never forget how every toenail of the large paws was etched in the snow. However, the hour was so late that we decided to withdraw for the night and resume operations in the morning. That evening, an extreme drop in temperature converted the surface of the snow into a sheet of ice over which the bear walked without tracks. He was moving rapidly, and by the time of the thaw the following day, he’d got a considerable distance away. It took us two days to pick up his trail, and by then he had moved into parts unknown. The second hunt was very brief; I had only four days in the hills. The guides (actually my fellow hunters and Japanese nonprofessionals) were not a particularly accomplished lot and, over my objections, spent a couple of days chasing a two-year-old cub that rewarded us by properly staying one day ahead. On the first day of the third hunt, we ran into a track that led us directly into a valley with a number of side ravines. The guides started to fan out, but in the process raised the bear before they’d expected to. This time I got a fine look at a rapidly moving bear 200 yards away. In fact, I sent four unsuccessful shots after him. I felt robbed. In the course of the final flurry of activity leading up to the shooting, the screw holding the scope to my rifle had come loose; on the first shot, the scope sailed over my head, leaving me no choice but to blaze away with open sights. All that can be said is that the bear presumably acquired some education. The fourth hunt was the real heartbreaker. After four or five days of reconnaissance, we were in the final act of closing the ring. The bear was in the valley below me, and hunters — according to plan — were moving slowly up the valley from the opposite end. Action within a few minutes seemed certain, and by that time, I was ready for it. But the action we got wasn’t what we expected. One guide, also standing alert at a hilltop, had been adjusting his ancient rifle. It was some kind of a .44 caliber affair with a tubular barrel that had ejectors coming out of the side, all apparently made of brass instead of steel. He accidentally discharged this ancient firearm, and the slug hit his companion in the back. In that split second, our bear hunt ended, and we faced a rescue operation that I’ll never forget. We had to carry the wounded man on a litter through very deep snow, down in and along an icy stream, and finally up and over a mountain. That ordeal left me as bushed as ever I can remember. When, on my fifth hunt, I finally got a bear, it came as an anticlimax. I was returning to camp after a hard hunting session when I practically stumbled onto the Yezo. I felled him with a single shot at 150 yards — no stalking, no effort. Nonproductive hunts such as the first four Tom describes, are an old story to Japanese bear hunters. For instance, the inveterate hunter who has headed the Hokkaido Hunting Society for about 30 years has personally accounted for only three bears in his career, although he has participated in many other hunts on which other members of the party were successful. The hunts in which I participated with Tom followed a pattern that’s fairly well established. From dawn to dusk, sweeps are made from the base camp. And although spending a night in the open is unusual, we often carry minimum overnight gear for this contingency. Routine procedure is to climb up and along a prominent ridge, changing tactics now and then to search for tracks along its slopes or in the valleys, either afoot or with field glasses. Once spoor is observed, the first problem is to estimate where the bear is now, and where it will be hours hence. Then we plan the ambush or final hunting tactics. Obviously, tracking is of vital importance. All this may be complicated no end, for Hokkaido is wild, rough, and unreliably mapped. And things may be thoroughly snafued by guides, Ainu or Japanese, drunk or sober, whose woodcraft is delinquent. What would you do with a guide who, having discovered a charcoal burner’s week-old footprints in the snow, jumped up and down ecstatically, shouting that they were day-old tracks of a brown bear? (Natives wear split-toed shoes — see photo.) When spoor or bears were discovered — we actually tracked two bears, coming within 150 yards of one only to learn it was too small for museum purposes — our procedure varied with the time of day, the terrain, weather, and wind. Our pattern is one of broad envelopment. The party is dispersed, one hunter to a given mountain pass, others to a certain slope or promontory. At a specified time, then, a hunter advances into the area decided upon, hoping to either shoot the Yezo or drive it toward another party in ambush. Quiet is strictly maintained, not even a bevy of plump hazel-grouse or a pair of handsome shika deer being allowed to distract us. Windage is important because Yezos have exquisitely sensitive noses in addition to their excellent hearing. It’s been our experience that they are more disturbed by getting wind of human beings than by any noise we make, or even by our appearance. In the summer, the Yezo cannot be successfully hunted in the great trackless forests; the undergrowth is much too dense. Nor is the Yezo taken, like Alaska brownies, by following up the coastal streams when the salmon are running. But in the autumn, a popular way of hunting is night watching over kills or in orchards or pastures where prowling bears have been reported. [![January 1960 cover of outdoor life]()]() *The cover of the January 1960 issue of *Outdoor Life,* which contained this story. Want more vintage OL? [Check out our cover shop.]() Outdoor Life* In the fall, there’s a real element of risk in penetrating the mountain slopes in bear country; the margin of time you have for evasive or defensive action is slight. If a bear suddenly breaks out on you as you’re climbing through his home terrain, your responses and your shot must be swift and sure, and it’s obviously difficult to be constantly alert for bears as you make a difficult climb. I don’t mean to imply that bears are always lurking in the bushes. But it is a fact that in the autumn of every year the bear population of Hokkaido gets in its licks by killing one or two persons, and scaring the daylights out of many others. Although Yezo brown bears behave comically enough in zoos, their conduct in the wilderness is at times so savage, and their forays into villages and farms so destructive, that they become almost a plague. If their autumn supply of nuts and other food has been scanty, the bears may migrate from the high ranges before hibernating and plunder the orchards, grainfields, pastures, and even storehouses of upland villages. Such bears are greatly feared by farmers and woodsmen. They should be; hunger at bedtime sweeps away a bear’s natural fear of man and his rifle. Now every farmer must exercise caution, for raids on livestock are common, and unprovoked attacks on man are not unusual. A bear raiding a pasture must be a savage spectacle. Yezo’s mission isn’t merely to kill a single horse or cow for dinner, but if possible to destroy the entire herd. He doesn’t charge in the storybook manner, erect and ready to clasp his victim in a crushing bear hug. The crazed brute charges in great leaping bounds, like a huge dog chasing a cat. Meanwhile he slashes to right and left, perhaps killing a horse with one cruel swipe, certainly cutting horrible gashes in throat and shoulders. Having maimed or killed several, the raider selects one victim and drags it into the bush. He may enjoy a feast then and there, or he may bury the carcass under forest debris for feasting at leisure another day. In 1958, nearly 1,000 horses, cattle, sheep, and hogs were slaughtered by hungry bears on Hokkaido, and the bears did agricultural damage to the tune of 14 million yen. For a bear population estimated not to exceed 3,000 adults, this is substantial. Little wonder that angry farmers, armed only with shotguns, accounted for more than half the 478 Yezos killed during the average year recently. Dogs are often used in Hokkaido hunting, not for ringing or attack as in Europe, but exclusively for tracking. Good dogs for this work are hard to come by, and the favorite breed is the Akita, a sturdily built, erect-eared, sickle-tailed pooch resembling a yellow-brown or black-and-tan husky. Such dogs are standard equipment of Ainu “Old Men of the Mountains” who specialize in locating the dens of hibernating bears. One such hunter we heard about in southern Hokkaido but couldn’t locate was supposed to have a chain of bear dens which, during late winter or early spring, he would lease to Japanese sportsmen for a good fee. We weren’t told, though, how this Ainu managed to get the bears out of hibernation. No doubt the basic reason for our failure to bag bear specimens was the lateness of our start. In three of the areas we hunted, the snow had virtually disappeared, making tracking too difficult. Only at Taizan-so was the snow adequate. Why then did we abandon our effort in this unusually attractive spot? Because, of all things, our guides had to return to their villages to register for continued unemployment relief. > #### Public Land Grizzly Tee > > [![The outdoor life public lands grizzly t-shirt]()]() > > [Browse the Collection]() Then there’s the Tokyo whiskey distiller who tracks his big game by helicopter. It was with a certain malicious glee we learned that in spite of this posh equipment, he had no better luck than we had on shanks’ mare with the Ainu. And during all of April and May when we were there, a Tokyo television team was in the field vainly trying to film Yezo bear’s family life. It would appear that the bears, all 3,000 of them, must have convened in one of Japan’s glorious national game reserves while all this shooting talent was out hunting them in the field. Yes, Yezo brown-bear hunting in Hokkaido has certain disadvantages. So has black-bear hunting on Honshu where the browns are unknown, and likewise hunting for kamoshika, shika deer, wild boar, or even yamadori pheasant, which some authorities call the world’s best upland game. Notwithstanding these shortcomings, I’ll still take Japan for either gun or camera hunting, and my safari experience includes many areas of both Asia and Africa. **Read Next:** [I Faced Man-Eating Tigers, Vicious Wild Boar, and Roaming Bandits in Korea]() However, you can have the Ainu. No doubt they were once great hunters, but — in our observation — this is no longer true. On the other hand, the Japanese sportsmen, scientists, foresters, and farmer-hunter-guides I have known have been consistently able and jolly hunting companions. Their country is one of extraordinary beauty, charm, and hospitality. You may not always bring home a trophy, but your hunt there will be quite rewarding in many other ways. *This text has been minimally edited to meet contemporary standards.*