Camera Trapping Grizzly Bears in Montana
Ever since capturing my internationally award-winning print Grizzly Remains, I’ve been drawn back to a single question: what else is possible with these formidable animals? This year, I set out to explore that question by deploying a series of DSLR camera traps in the wilds of Montana, hoping to capture grizzly bears on their own terms, far from roads and human presence.
The project began long before I set foot in the field. Over the past decade, I’ve accumulated a large collection of data points—tracks pressed into the earth, scat, scarred “bear trees,” well-worn travel corridors, den sites, and other subtle signs that bears leave behind. I studied these records carefully, looking for patterns. Once I identified a handful of promising areas, I returned to them on foot, searching for fresh sign that suggested the bears were still moving through these areas.
With a few strong locations narrowed down, I began installing the camera traps. I returned several times each month to check the equipment and make sure everything was still functioning. Bears—especially black bears—have a talent for dismantling camera setups, and I wanted to minimize downtime caused by dead batteries or curious paws knocking things around.
About a week after the cameras went live, grizzlies began appearing on a few of them. Camera trapping is always an exercise in patience and luck. Often the bears passed through too quickly, or they were headed in the wrong direction, and sometimes they arrived under the cover of darkness. Still, there were a handful of moments when they moved through during daylight, offering brief but compelling glimpses into their lives.
As spring gave way to summer, one location consistently produced activity. A few of the bears, however, seemed uneasy around the cameras. During one maintenance visit, I spent extra time studying the scene, searching for a way to better conceal my setup. A fallen tree crossing the path offered the solution. I secured the camera beneath it, tucking it out of sight. A few weeks later, I captured the image I had envisioned—an older, pale-blond grizzly passing through the frame at night, unaware of the lens watching quietly from below.
A large grizzly bear I captured using a DSLR camera trap on a summer night in Montana. I took some artistic liberties with this one during post processing, since the light from one of my flashes was visible in the upper portion of the photo. At first, I decided to remove the light from the flash entirely, but something about it didn't quite feel right. I sat on the image for quite some time before coming up with an idea. What if I was able to use the light from the flash to my advantage and turn it into a more natural looking light source, say, from the moon? I went back and reprocessed the image, diffusing the light through the trees. I think in the end, my mistake with the flash was actually a blessing in disguise!
After that, the activity slowed. Months passed with little to show for my effort. Then, in the fall, I returned to an area where I’ve encountered grizzly tracks year after year. There, I found something unexpected: a small stream filled with spawning salmon. I had my suspicions. I hung a few simple trail cameras to monitor the area and returned a few days later to see what they had recorded.
What I found—grainy though the footage was—stopped me cold.
When most people imagine bears fishing for salmon, they picture Alaska: wide rivers, churning water, and massive brown bears snatching fish from the current. Montana rarely enters that conversation. And yet, in a few overlooked corners of the state, that ancient behavior still plays out each autumn. Both grizzly bears and black bears are known to use these salmon runs, though the opportunity is highly localized. Most Montana bears will never encounter salmon at all, relying instead on roots, berries, insects, carrion, and ungulates to survive.
As I reviewed the footage, I realized I had captured two different grizzlies fishing. The next day, I returned with a DSLR camera trap in hand and placed it near a stream crossing the bears were using. Over the following two nights, the bears came back. They were wary of the camera and shifted to another stretch of the creek to fish, but I still managed to photograph both of them under nearly full moonlight.
Fall is a critical time for bears. During hyperphagia, they consume as many calories as possible in preparation for winter. With that in mind, once I had the images I was after, I removed the DSLR trap to eliminate any disturbance. In its place, I hung a few small trail cameras, which have a much smaller footprint and are silent in their operation.
The bears continued to return night after night for the next week and a half, feeding on fish that lingered in the shallow water. They weren’t alone. One by one, other species appeared on the cameras: a family of otters, a mink, a red fox, a pine marten, a muskrat—and most unexpectedly of all, a great horned owl. The owl proved remarkably skilled at catching fish and returned repeatedly for nearly two weeks, long after the bears had moved on.
The images I captured during this brief window document a primal relationship that persists quietly at the edge of perception. A grizzly bear fishing for salmon under an autumn moon in Montana feels improbable only because so few people ever witness it. But improbability is not the same as impossibility. In a state defined by wide-open spaces, towering mountains, and long winters, this story unfolds in shallow water, under the cover of darkness, for just a few fleeting weeks each year.
Then the fish are gone.
The bears move on.
Snow returns.
The stream empties.
All that remains is the memory of the moment—waiting for autumn to begin the cycle once again.
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