In the 1970s, two experienced hunters set out for Tuntsa from the church of Salla to hunt bear during the spring bear hunting season. On the way they held a conversation as follows:
“How do you actually hunt bear,” one of the men asked.
“We find a brook and walk along it, one of us on one side and the other on the other side. After all, all wild creatures gather along brooks in the spring.” And this they decided to do.
Creeping slowly and peacefully ahead, the men followed a river bank. Sometimes one went a little ahead of the other. The hours passed. The brook wound onwards. After a river bend, one of the men came across a bear walking along the river at its leisure, which reared onto its hind legs. Both froze in their footsteps, the bear and the hunter, the latter with plenty of experience of all kinds of situations.
The man took his gun, aimed calmly and, in his mind’s eye, already saw a bullet hit the bear in the chest, and felt the recoil on his shoulder. He drew the bolt and reloaded, again and again, all eight rounds. He turned around to see his friend who had crept up behind him and said:
“Come here quick and bring me some more cartridges,” he said in as small a voice as he could. Having heard his voice, the bear turned around and ran into the spruce forest by the riverside.
The man’s friend stepped closer and said:
“But you didn’t fire a single shot.”
“Damn it! I shot all my rounds,” the man retorted.
“Hell no, you haven’t! Not a single shot,” the other man said and kicked an unfired cartridge out of the moss.
The man looked at it in total amazement.
“Everything else went exactly as it was supposed to – I just forgot to pull the trigger,” he thought aloud.