Battered and bruised, with a concussion, author Stephen Carpenteri returned to camp to fill his Idaho bear tag. Photo courtesy of Stephen D. Carpenteri

I had dreamed about my Bitterroot Mountain bear-hunting adventure for months prior to landing in Missoula, Mont. But my trip of a lifetime turned into a nightmare just one hour after falling (literally) into the saddle.

For most of the day before, three hunters and I had driven west from Missoula through Orofino, Idaho, and then north to our outfitter's spring bear camp along the Clearwater River in the Bitterroot National Forest. The drive along the river took about three hours, but seemed to last all day, along winding, twisting mountain roads. Little did I know that I was destined for a much longer, more miserable trip just 24 hours later!

We were to hunt black bears over bait, and things were looking good for our week-long hunt. All the baits had been hit in recent days, and hungry post-den bruins were raiding the outfitter's base camp donut supply every night. Bear tracks and sign were everywhere. The four of us went to bed that night full of enthusiasm and anticipation. This was going to be one hunt to remember!

At dawn, our outfitter met us at the cookhouse for breakfast and told us the plan for the day. We'd ride with him on mules into the high country to replenish baits during the morning, and then go back up after lunch to hunt over the most active bait sites. This would give us a chance to see some country, select our stands and practice our equestrian skills. At that point, I had no idea that my one and only lesson in mule riding was going to take less time than eating breakfast!

I should have known trouble was ahead when my mount -- a dark-colored beast named Sally -- shook violently from head to toe as we were being "introduced." Sally was touted as the gentlest pack animal in the outfitter's herd, but I had my own ideas as I stood there trying to cozy up to 700 pounds of disinterested Idaho mule. I'm no Hopalong Cassidy, and by the way I flopped into the saddle, I'm sure Sally had me figured out. But the next thing I knew, we were last in line, plodding along behind the outfitter, three wranglers and three other hunters. So far, so good!

We left the road and started into the high country. I became used to the rhythm of the ride and actually started to enjoy the trip. Every so often, Sally would stumble or slip along a sharp turn in the knife-edged trail, and I would stiffen up like a week-old cadaver -- admittedly not the best technique for trail-riding. A couple of times I nearly fell over backwards when Sally hesitated and then hurried to catch up to the train.

About 45 minutes into the ride, I was starting to think I had this whole mule-riding thing down, more or less. The outfitter topped a ridge, stopped and then waved for us all to dismount. We'd reached our first bait station, and apparently a bear had been at the bait. We rested and talked while the guides re-baited the site, then we mounted up and headed for the next bait.

The next few seconds remain a mystery to me but later, I was told that the bear had not exactly left the area. It was, in fact, in the process of running past us! The mules scattered in all directions, and Sally decided she'd had enough of tiptoeing along the precipice. As she bucked and jumped down the trail, I did my best to hang on, but my 50 years of not riding mules led to what happened next.

Sally twisted and hopped another 10 yards in perfect rodeo fashion, and then stopped -- suddenly. Unfortunately, I did not. I flew over her head and landed with a loud crack on a sharp, pointy rock. Or at least they tell me that's what happened. Next thing I knew, I was standing in the trail with blood streaming down my face, my glasses broken and everyone standing around looking like they'd just eaten a raw, rotten onion.

"Is that his brain sticking out?" asked one of the young wranglers. At that point, I knew I had something more than a few cuts and bruises.

Suddenly, the mountains began to spin, and I nearly fell over. Blood was spilling down my face and neck and dripping down my arm onto the ground. The outfitter rode up and looked at me like he'd just lost his whole operation in a poker game.