"You need to get to a doctor," he said. Everyone there agreed. That was the good news. The bad news was that it was an hour's walk (no more mule rides for me!) back to camp, and then a three-hour drive to the nearest clinic, in Orofino.

Luckily, "Doc," a medical doctor from Ohio, happened to be in camp. When I reached the cabins an hour later, he took one look at my blood-encrusted head and said, "You are going to need stitches. Hop in. I'll drive!"

By this time I was dizzy, disoriented and suffering from a king-sized headache. I told Doc I needed to rest a little, but he wouldn't hear of it. "We're going to town right now!" he shouted.

We took the winding, twisting gravel road that borders the Clearwater River. Every bump felt like someone was lightly tapping a brick on my skull. All along the way to Orofino, Doc kept chattering like a squirrel on a mountain of acorns. He wouldn't slow down or stop to let me rest. I thought about strangling him to shut him up, but couldn't find the energy. As it turned out, Doc was doing exactly the right thing, and it's quite possible that his obstinate, annoying performance helped save my life. Had he allowed me to rest or sleep, the concussion I suffered might have caused my brain to swell and eventually, kill me. Thanks, Doc!

At the clinic, the real fun began. The emergency room crew literally threw me into an empty cubicle and began the long process of cleaning dirt, leaves, twigs and rock chips out of my wounds. I had an X-shaped cut over my right eye, a major black eye and various deep cuts and scrapes on the top of my head. The process was a long, slow one, but the guides and Doc helped pass the time by joking with the staff about what a great horseman I was and ribbing me about how beautiful the doctor was. (I couldn't see her since my face was covered with gauze, towels and other important medical stuff.)

Some five hours later, I walked out the door with 35 stitches in my forehead, five staples in the top of my head and one award-winning black eye. My head felt like I'd been punted through the uprights at Mile High Stadium, but I was alive and in one piece . . . and ready to hunt bears!

We made it back to camp at 10 p.m., more than 15 hours after Sally and I had parted company. For two days, I couldn't see out of my swollen right eye, and the throbbing in my head made me wonder if touching off my .375 H&H Magnum rifle at a bear would be a wise decision. I continued to hunt -- on foot! -- and saw a few small bears early in the week. But I decided to wait till I saw a decent bruin before taking the risk of imploding my skull with the recoil and muzzle blast of the big gun.

By Wednesday, I was feeling much better, and it was fun to sit at the cookhouse table and watch the looks of amazement and dismay on my fellow hunters' faces. By week's end, I looked much worse than I felt and throughout, I actually felt no real pain, just a persistent throbbing under my skull -- a reasonable symptom, considering how hard I'd landed on that rock and how bad I still looked on the outside.

On Friday I finally had my chance at a bear about an hour before sunset, when a 250-pound boar came to a bait. Shooting from a solid sitting position over crossed shooting sticks, I touched off the shot, dropping the bruin face-down in his last meal. As the boom of the Ruger .375 echoed over the Clearwater valley, I gingerly probed my head for additional leaks and cracks, but found no additional damage. The stitches and staples held, and I had my first Idaho black bear.

Thanks to the fine work of the Orofino emergency room crew, plus a daily dose of ScarGo (a liquid anti-scarring treatment provided by a local nurse), I was back to normal a few months later. In fact, when I met the same outfitter and crew again in September for another bear hunt, they couldn't believe how well I'd recovered.

A year after my ordeal, I'm none the worse for wear. But that was a close one. I was lucky, and I know it. That same year, in fact, another hunter and his mule were killed while hunting in the same mountain range. Nevertheless, I hope I have a few more Western big-game hunts left in me before it's over. I plan to avoid mules named Sally from now on. In fact, I think I'll ride a mountain bike next time!