My closest was hunting in the Brooks Range of northern Alaska with my old Pop and a buddy of his about 1989. We spent the morning scoping out a valley and spotted a big beautiful silver-back Toklat Mountain Grizz on the tundra about 5 miles away. Hours after heading out we crested a knoll only to see this Grizz reared up on his hind legs, smelling us the moment we spotted him about 200 yards away. Pop's partner, since the first shot was Pop's by drawn straws, (I was the shotgun man. Last line of defense.) yelled "Shoot him Bob!" at which time Pop hauled up with his 30-06 and after a moment's pause fired offhand hitting the Grizz in the shoulder. The Grizz did a flip and reared back up, catching our scent again and headed towards us at full speed. Pop shot the second time, hitting him in the paw (a Grizz running at 30 mph is a hard target to hit). My memory after this moment is of Gordon, Pop's best buddy starting to scream, "Shoot him again! Shoot him again!" as I, at 17 years old, racked a 3" 00 Buck Shot shell into the chamber and made a little water in my Wranglers as Gordon dropped his rifle and pawed at the .44 Magnum on his hip. Pop, a Vietnam Combat Vet, Purple Heart recipient, racked another into the bore of his old Model 700 and stood there, aiming through his 3x9 Unertl scope, frozen in time in my memory, with Gordon screaming and me peeing and Pop standing there....Pop fired, "BANG!" and the Grizz at 30 yards away let go his legs and slid on his chin about 10' before sliding to a stop about 30' from us, with a clean white hole in his forehead...... I still dribble a bit when I think about that day. Many of that generation, and most of the one before, were men.