I posted this on the Alaska Hunting forum and am not getting any lookers. Does anyone know the real story on this bear?
The "story" I got is that the girl who shot it was 9 years old she's from the Yukon and killed the Bear on the Alaska Peninsula this past October 2006. "Story" I got says the skull is 33- 1/16"!
What is the real story?

It looks to me like the length of pull on that rifle is a little long for her! Maybe she shoots it OK with the muzzle break and recoil pad on her shoulder though?????

Hell of a big bear...

try this bear

quote:

Originally posted by kw3126:
try this bear

A 9 year old girl shoots a 375 H&H, PRONE?

That's one tough kid.

KW thanks for the link to the real story!
The pictures look legit to me.

1st time i've heard of it -= GREAT

Cool story!

I thought I had seen her before, if you Google her name you will find out she has shot a few trophies at that tender age. all over the world no less.

She is probably not strong enough to off hand the rifle so she would be either prone or seated.
IN either case the longer pull will set her farther back from the scope and so long as the eye relief is adjusted properly and her cheek weld is consistent it really doesn't matter.

SO, THE longer pull of the rifle will aid in keeping her from eating the scope when recoiling.

One thing about her life... if she has traveled the world shooting big game at age nine, what will she need to do for "excitement" when she turns 11 or 12??

Sorry to be a wet blanket, but to me this looks like another example of the Jon Benet Ramsay syndrome. Parents living out their fantasies by exploiting their Children.
Grizz

Here the whole Story About this unbeleivable little girl, Enjoy!!!



By Larry Rivers



It was late September 2005 and Fern Spaulding, age 9, had just taken a beautiful Marco Polo ram in the Pamir Mountains of Tajikistan. We were going over the hunt and finishing up the paperwork in preparation for heading home to Alaska.



“We believe that Fern is the youngest person in history to have taken a Marco Polo in Tajikistan.†Kokul Kasirov, Director General of the “State Committee On Environment Conservation & Forestry†was telling us. “We are certain that no one in modern times has taken a ram at this age, and it’s improbable that anyone did so historically, given the methods and means available to them.â€

I had suspected that might be true but it was nice to hear those words of confirmation and they made me feel honored, thankful, humble and proud… all in the same moment.



Hunting Marco Polo in the rarefied atmosphere of the Pamir Mountains is a cherished dream of many a hunter and one that relatively few have ever realize. The reason may people never pass the “dream†stage of their Marco Polo hunt is a puzzle. For some its expense, for some its time, but for most it’s simply a matter of apprehension. They may have a fear for personal safety, about how they will respond to the altitude, or simply have a fear of the unknown. Consequently they never go and limit themselves to reading stories published by those who have had enough adventure in their veins to make the trip. It’s a unique group of folks that pursue these majestic critters, but even this hunt was out of the ordinary as the finger on the trigger was that of a shy 4th grade girl.



Fern is like any other girl in most ways. She has Barbie dolls strewn about her room; she sleeps with a stuffed animal under her arm and she has a cat that sheds hair all over the house. There is one difference, however, she lives, sleeps and dreams about hunting. I am at a loss to tell you exactly why she loves hunting, but at age five she was asking “Dad, when can I learn hunting?†When she was eight I introduced her to the little .223 just to see how she could handle the recoil. I shouldn’t have.



“Fern, aren’t you asleep yet?†“Dad, I can’t sleep! When I look at the ceiling all I see are caribou and rifles and all I think about is how good that rifle feels when it slaps me on the cheek.†“So, would you like to hunt caribou this year?†I asked rhetorically



I shouldn’t have…she didn’t sleep all night.



Just two weeks later she took her first big game trophy, a barren ground caribou that she shot at 322 yards. “That will be the end of that.†I thought. It wasn’t.



“Dad, I really want to hunt a Gemsbok.†“Fern, what’s a Gemsbok?â€

“Dad, how old do I have to be to hunt a brown bear?†“Maybe 12.â€

“Dad, can I have my own rifle?†“Fern, go to sleep.â€



And that’s how it started. There was no putting her off, I had to do something, so I visited Great Northern Guns, in Anchorage, and bought a Remington Model Seven in 7mm x 08. It’s a small round, but if you are 4’6†and 65 pounds the first time you pull the trigger it sets you back on your heels! “Whoof-da†she exhaled after that first shot. She shook her head to clear it a little, and chambered another round. That night she was black-and-blue from her shoulder to her elbow, and smiling ear-to-ear as she cleaned every part of her rifle. Dad took it away until a muzzle brake could be installed. It took three days…it took forever.



“Dad, is my rifle done yet?†“No Fern, not until tomorrow.â€

“Dad, I need to practice…is my 7mm - 08 big enough for Gemsbok?†“I don’t know Fern, what the heck is a Gemsbok?â€

“Dad, what makes bullets work?†“They are called cartridges, Fern, and I will show you how they’re made.â€



Well…I shouldn’t have.



“Dad, I need a Barnes reloading manual.†“Why do you need a Barnes manual for gosh sakes?â€

“I’ve been reading about Barnes bullets and that’s what I want to shoot.†“Ok, Fern, no go to sleep.â€



It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know something was wrong with this girl. I was trying to remember if I had dropped her on her head when she was little. The next time I was in town I picked up a new Barnes manual, a set of dies, and a box of bullets. We loaded up 50 rounds that first night. She shot them all the next day and we had to send Grandma to town for a new supply. You would have thought Grandma was being sent to buy “Playboy†with the initial response she had to buying gunpowder and bullets for her granddaughter. Not long after that something woke me up in the middle of the night. I found Fern reading under the covers.



“Fern, it’s 1 a.m. put that book away!†“Dad, can’t I just finish this page?â€

“What are you reading?†“My Barnes manual, I think I need a .375â€



READING HER BARNES MANUAL! A .375! I don’t know where I missed the train, I was still back at the “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home.†part of parenting. From then on there was just no point in resisting it. She started loading 120 rounds of ammo twice a week so she could burn it up after school. I started buying powder in 12 pound tins and longed for the old days when a new Barbie had fulfilled all her dreams. Things were getting serious, and potentially expensive. I took her to “Toys R Us†to see if I couldn’t generate an interest in a toy kitchen or maybe a skateboard. She wouldn’t go in. “Dad, can we visit Knight’s Taxidermy instead?†I started praying “Dear Lord, please heal this little girl of this terrible affliction.†It was only February.



About that time I was scheduling a group of clients for a Marco Polo hunt and there was a chance to book a space for Fern. I have noticed that life passes most of us by while we are getting ready for it, and we usually live to regret it, so I grabbed the opportunity. I myself had taken a Marco Polo in 2001at the height of the Afghanistan War, a time when most clients had canceled their trips due to their concern for personal safety. It’s not that I was brave, it’s just that I had worked and traveled throughout Russian and Central Asia for the previous 20 years and I knew what few others realized, that Tajikistan was politically stable, very friendly to Americans, and safe for tourists, in spite of the unrest in neighboring countries. John Pulskamp, Brian Gray, my wife Robin and I had gone ahead with the hunt and we had a wonderful time and fine success.



Now it was January of 2005, and I was preparing to return to Tajikistan with Bill Centers, Eric Becker, Gene Montgomery, my wife and our two youngest daughters, Fern and Robin. (Age 7 and 9). It was a great opportunity for the kids to visit the Pamirs, see the Kyrgyz yak herders that live there, and to travel a section of the ancient “Silk Road†that passed through Central Asia. We spent the intervening months in preparation. Fern burned up over 2000 rounds of ammunition and we went on a hunt or two for practice.



September found us in Tajikistan. We arrived in Dushanbe tired from the flight but excited to have arrived. The weather was good and a flight would leave for Khrog in an hour. That spectacular flight would cut perhaps 16 hours off of the drive to camp and I knew from experience that the drive was the worst part of the entire trip. If we waited a day to rest in Dushanbe the weather could change and then we would have no choice but to take the road. Customs clearance was painless and in a few minutes we were on the flight to Khrog. Let me tell you that even though we were tired we stayed wide awake for the entire flight. I’m not sure if it was the breath-taking scenery, or just how close that scenery was to the wing tip, but it kept our attention. Perhaps it was a little of both. “This airplane is obviously not new, and the pilots look to be over fifty†I thought to myself. “They must survive the flight on a fairly regular basis!†All joking aside, the trip was absolutely spectacular and I must have shot two dozen photos.



We arrived in Khrog hot, dry, tired…and our vehicles were waiting. One thing about Americans, when they arrive for a hunt they have focus. They aren’t interested in culture, architecture, fine dining or chatting, they just want to get into the field. That probably comes from our German heritage. The German in me was ready to go, while the Irish genes wanted some sleep. One thing is certain, however, our hosts aim to please and they had learned the lessons taught by hundreds of past clients with focus. We set off immediately. The route to camp climbs rapidly and deteriorates exponentially to the altitude being gained…and you gain a lot of altitude!



The first day in camp is normally a rest day to rest while the body adjusts to the time change and the altitude. Personally we were 11 hours off our schedule, and breathing the noticeable thinner air of base camp, located 4215 meters. At the official exchange rate that translates into 13,700 feet. The first day was bright, the morning crisp and the scenery was starkly beautiful. Fortunately, for us, not so beautiful that it took your breath away because we didn’t have a lot of breath to spare. It may sound high, and it is, but remarkable it’s not as difficult to adjust to as everyone imagines. Usually folks find that they acclimate in just a day or two, and that was the case for all of us, including the girls. By early afternoon of that first day everyone was relaxed, somewhat recovered, and ready to sight in the rifles. Our PH was the well known Ottobek Becmurodi, a very organized and professional individual to say the least. Furthermore he has a wonderful personality a great smile, and the best part of all is that I count him as a friend. His staff of guides, cooks and camp help are what make hunting Marco Polo the exceptional experience that it is.



Now, in case you don’t know, I have been a PH myself for well over 30 years and I understand that the first thing any PH wants to know about his client is how well they shoot. Testing to see if the “scope was knocked off by the airlines†is a great way to find out. It helps us make a lot of decisions later in the hunt. Those same 30 years of experience have taught me to recognize the difference between curiosity and skepticism when I see them on the face of a guide. I am fairly certain we were not dealing just with curiosity when that sleepy little gal in camo clothing walked out with her rifle. As always, however, they were wonderful hosts, and they set up a target for her about 100 meters away.



“Do you mind if I shoot a little further†she asked. “Dad doesn’t like me to waste ammunition on easy shots; I would like to start at 350 meters if it is OK with you, and do you mind I shoot prone instead of from a rest?â€



Now that created some interest. The target was moved to 350 meters. Two shots, two holes, two inches above the bulls-eye.

I knew they were happy when they threw up their hands and exclaimed “OK, OK, you shoot better than your dad!â€



I hate it when they say that.

Now it was dad’s turn to have some fun.



In a husky voice I said “Fern, would you mind shooting that rock out there? The range finders say its 450 meters.†We dad’s like to do that. We justify it by saying something like “It helps boost the guide’s confidence in the child.†but actually it’s just showing off.



“How many shots Dad?†“Oh, two should be enough.â€



Two were enough. Those Barnes bullets left nice copper rivets on that little stone about 6†apart.



The next day the hunt started at 6 a.m. when we loaded up the jeeps and headed into the mountains. Each hunter had a jeep, driver and two guides. The first day we saw perhaps 400 sheep but did not take one. The second day we saw another 350 sheep, plus one old ram that went over sixty inches, but he also went over the mountain. We walked back to the jeep and drove around to where we might see him if he came down, but it started to snow and the clouds dropped to the valley floor before we could find him. Weather like that is not for sheep hunting, you just drive all the rams out and never see a thing, so we called it a day. The third day we woke up to find snow on the ground and fog. Having snow is actually a great situation as it helps us clients see the sheep that only the guides can see otherwise. It’s kind of humbling for a PH to say, but I might as well have left my binoculars and spotting scope in Alaska where I had apparently left my Marco Polo eyes. The optics I brought with me generally served only as excess baggage. I still packed them along every day, and stared through them intently throughout the hunt, mostly so that I would look good in the pictures.



By noon of that third day the skies had cleared and we climbed in the jeeps and hit the trail. It was our fourth day of riding cross country in a jeep and I am still not sure why our hearts, kidneys and bladders are attached in their proper places. We returned to the valley we had been hunting the day before, and there on the valley floor were perhaps 50 rams feeding through the snow that had fallen during the night. Another 45 to 50 ewes and lambs were on the mountain side and another group of 18 rams were above us watching every move we made. Three or four of the rams in the valley looked interesting so we put on our white camo and headed up into the snow on foot. The stalk was not unusual in any way; we just worked hard to cut the distance between us and the rams that were feeding away from us. We had walked about 2 miles into the valley when another group of rams moving across the mountain side came into view and spotted us. We were pinned down and there was nothing to do but wait. Fern watched the rams through her scope, peeled off her whites and fell asleep on her rifle in the sunshine. I turned on my GPS and checked the altitude, 14,858 feet. Amazingly the altitude was no longer really an issue; it was the third day and it was starting to feel normal.



Eventually the sheep moved off and we quickly moved closer. For awhile we could walk, hidden in the snow with our whites, but soon were reduced to crawling on our bellies through the brown rocks. At some point there are always too many people moving around, so Fern and I crawled ahead and got her into position to shoot at the rams on the valley floor. Just then we heard a low whistle from Ottobek. He was pointing up and saying “The one on the left is a good ram!†The sheep on the hillside had gotten up and were walking back toward us. This time they had caught us in the rocks wearing our whites and we must have stood out like Alaskan tourists on Waikiki Beach. And just like those tourists, I’m sure we were so white we glowed in the dark. Ottobek was getting anxious. “Shoot, shoot!†That’s all it took. Fern slid off the rock so she could shoot up the mountain instead of into the valley, and slipped a round into the chamber while she was asking;



“Which one Dad?†“Ottobek says the one on the left.†I told her.

“Ok, I see him; the tips go all the way around and are pointing down. I like him.â€



I was checking the range with the range finders. “It’s 400 meters, are you comfortable?â€



“Yes, he’s going to run, I’ll try to drop him right there.†The BANG was all but absorbed by the vastness of the valley, but there was a spray of water droplets from off the ram’s hair and he simply disappeared. The others spun around and the skyline was empty in the blink of an eye. The whole thing had taken about 4 seconds. I looked at the GPS to check the altitude - 15,401 feet. You could not hear a thing…the guides were yelling to loud.



“Fantastic, Fantastic, Fantastic Shot!â€



Ottobek ran up to us with a huge smile, shook Fern’s hand and asked “Can I borrow your rifle?†He then took off toward where the sheep had last been seen… just in case.



“He’s not going to need it.†Fern said quietly. He didn’t. The ram was laying in its tracks, shot just where she said he would be.



It took about 15 minutes for Fern to sit with her ram before anyone could move it. She stroked his sides, looked in his face, and counted the rings of age on his horns…and then she put some grass in his mouth. She had learned that in Africa last April when she had taken a couple of Gemsbok with Boet Nel Safaris, but that’s another story.



Home Page Photo Galleries - Stories and articles - Equipment lists - Hotels - Sporting goods - Taxidermists

Tajikistan: Marco Polo
Russia: Russian Brown Bear - Snow Sheep

I couldn't disagree more with Mr. Grizzly Adams. I was 8 when my Dad retired from the USAF and we moved to Hope, Idaho where he and a partner had bought a fishing resort. The first fall when he shot and dragged a deer down in the snow from the hills behind our house I was hooked. Shooting and hunting became my number one passion and still is. Great story and many kudos to young Fern... she'll probably be the next Cindy Garrison.

All can say is I am jealous as hell. I 50 years old and haven't shot a brown bear , ram or gembuck.

It must be nice to have parents with money we could hardly afford shells for the 22 or shot gun when I was nine.

Other then that good for her and her dad I only wish that I could have afforded that for my kids.

I think she's going to be one very high maintenance chick when she grows up!

quote:

Originally posted by brianbo:
I couldn't disagree more with Mr. Grizzly Adams. I was 8 when my Dad retired from the USAF and we moved to Hope, Idaho where he and a partner had bought a fishing resort. The first fall when he shot and dragged a deer down in the snow from the hills behind our house I was hooked. Shooting and hunting became my number one passion and still is. Great story and many kudos to young Fern... she'll probably be the next Cindy Garrison.

Sorry, but it's one thing to introduce your kid to hunting, quite another to purposely put them in a potentially life threating situation.
Grizz

Grizz

Did you ever think that maybe she ASKED to go on the bear hunt? I'm sure she had plenty of backup to protect her, so I don't see where the problem lies. She doesn't look exploited to me in her pictures, she looks quite happy and it seems as though she handles her rifle very well. Maybe you're just a tad bit jealous. If that is the case, then I guess you'll just have to get over it. Congratulations Fern, more power to ya!!!

AND I thought I was hot shit when I killed my first deer at age 7.... with a Remington Model 721 in .270 Win.

BUt you want another example of HIGH MAINTENANCE...
my gunsmith and 30+ year friend is also a class 3 dealer. Which means machine guns... which means LOTS of ammo. His daughter as she was growing up thought nothing of sitting down behind a .50cal and burning belts at a buck a round. I saw her burn through 3000 rounds of .3006 through a 1917 water cooled Browning in about half an hour and then wondered where another can of ammo could be found. when she was about 11. The older she got the more expensive her shooting habits became.

Her senior year HS yearbook pic she is dressed in this rather tight floor length red dress her blond hair down to the middle of her back and holding her 8&3/8" S&W .44 looking like any Bond Girl.

It was cheaper to send her away to college then to have her home where she could shoot.

I share in her joy-good for you Fern!

It is a fine thing to have a supportive parent "in all respects".

I agree with Grizzly Adams. I remember the story of a kid that age who became a pilot .She was going to be the first of that age to go cross country IIRC. They got very caught up with all the publicity, so much so that they ended up ignoring weather conditions ,flying overloaded and the kid, pilot and father dying as a result !!

quote:

Originally posted by LAWCOP:
AND I thought I was hot shit when I killed my first deer at age 7.... with a Remington Model 721 in .270 Win.

I hear ya......same age, but I was using a single shot stevens in 25-20 that my dad's partner in the gunsmith shop and I had made an ejector for and refinished the stock.....He ended up with it, but one day I'd like to have that gun again.

More power to her is what I think......
My folks didn't have the money to hunt critters like that. My first years of hunting was more out of necessity than anything else. Had I been given that opportunity, I'd been all over it.

Am I jealous.......???? Hell yes I am. Damn lucky girl.