This story, “In the Jaws of a Brown Bear,” appeared in the January 1951 issue of Outdoor Life.
Plan to hunt Alaska brown bears someday? Then listen to me. Perhaps you’ll learn something — something that I thought I had learned after forty years of hunting and guiding in brown-bear country. Oh, I knew the score all right. I’ve been around the big bears long enough to realize that they are savage, unpredictable brutes. But — for just a few moments — I became careless.
Because of that lapse, I underwent one of the most agonizing experiences a man can endure. Even so, I think I’ve been mighty lucky. Consider this: I have lain helpless while a big brownie slashed me from head to foot. I have felt savage fangs grinding across my skull. And yet I have lived to tell the tale. . . .
It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon in early June, 1949. Just a short time before, I had said good-by to a party of States-side hunters whom I guided on a successful hunt for bruins. Now I lingered outside my lodge, which is built on a high ridge. Below me lay my hunting range, a narrow strip of coast on the Gulf of Alaska south of Yakutat, and lying between the St. Elias Range of British Columbia and the gulf.
The day was young, so I decided to take my motion-picture camera and get some shots of the browns that were feeding on the delta of the Alsek River, just below the ridge on which I stood. Now usually, when I go on an expedition of that sort I carry a repeating shotgun, for there is no weapon that can discourage a charging brown bear more quickly, short of killing it. But this time I elected to carry a rifle. I had noticed quite a few wolves and coyotes around and I thought I might pick up a little bounty money.
I moved along the ridge for about a mile. Then I spotted a big male brownie busily feeding on the delta. Since the wind favored me, I was able to approach within forty yards of him and get some excellent pictures. Then I whistled. The startled brownie looked up at me, didn’t like what he saw, and lumbered away.
I turned back toward the ridge. Just as I did, a female bear pushed out of the brush about 200 yards away, followed by two cubs. Having caught my scent, she was considerably agitated. Seeing me, she retreated into the brush, but for only a few moments. I put my rifle down and got the camera whirring in time to catch the bear as she again emerged from the brush. She hurried toward the ridge, followed by her cubs.
After traveling fifty yards or so she stopped and wheeled toward me, calling to her cubs. It was then I realized that I was in a highly precarious position, for my rifle lay on the ground at least ten feet away. The cubs scurried behind their mother, one squealing loudly. That lit the fuse. The she-bear let out a snarl of rage and came for me.
I scrambled for my rifle, picked it up, and just managed to get off a shot as the bear reared up almost directly over me. I don’t know where the bullet hit her, but it diverted her only momentarily. The next instant a slashing blow on my shoulder and neck sent me crashing to the ground.
Then My Hand Went Numb
The maddened bear pounced on me, her vicious fangs tearing first at one of my legs and then at my shoulder. Frantically I tried to reach the rifle, which had fallen to the ground. But the brownie snapped at my arm and got it in her jaws. I heard the dreadful crunch of splintering bones, and then my hand went numb. Sickened with horror I fell back and tried to play dead, hoping desperately that the bear would return to her cubs. But she wasn’t finished with me.
Snarling angrily, she bit at my head. The big fangs ripped into my scalp, tearing a big flap of it loose and then grinding across the bare skull. The sound of those grating teeth was even more terrifying than the pain. I thought, “This is the end. My skull will be crushed.”
Despite everything I managed to lie still. Blood flooded down my face, pouring into my eyes, nose, and mouth. . . . Then the bear ceased ripping at me. Seconds passed. Where was she? I had no way of knowing, for when I opened my eyes I found them blinded with blood. Had she gone? No! I heard her talking to her cubs again, but now at some distance. Suddenly she snarled loudly. I tensed, convinced that she was returning to the attack. But she didn’t. Soundless minutes passed. After what seemed an infinity I cautiously brought up my left hand and wiped some of the blood from my eyes. Then, after another long pause, I slowly raised my head and looked around. The bear and her cubs were gone.
Rolling over, I managed to get to my knees. I retrieved the rifle and tried to jack a fresh cartridge into the chamber. But my right hand was useless. Finally, by sitting down and jamming the rifle between my knees, I was able to operate the bolt with my left hand. Now, if the bear returned I’d have at least one bullet ready for her.
But she didn’t return, so I started to pay some heed to my injuries. My right arm was badly mangled, with splintered bone protruding from the wounds, and it was bleeding profusely. Using one hand and my teeth, I managed to knot a handkerchief tightly around the arm above the wounds, thus stanching the blood flow. I was bleeding in many other places too, but I didn’t attempt any further first aid, for I wanted to reach my lodge before I stiffened up or collapsed from shock.
I won’t dwell on the agony of that mile-long journey. I managed to reach the lodge at last. There was a large kettle of boiling water on the stove, so I sterilized some cloths and started to wash the blood and dirt from my wounds. My arm gave me particular concern; a compound fracture is wide open to infection unless an antiseptic is applied. But when I got out my first-aid kit, I found there wasn’t a single drop of antiseptic left in the bottle!
Then I had an inspiration — I remembered a bottle of rum that I had buried under the floor, for use in an emergency. The rum was 151 proof, roughly 75 percent alcohol. I dug out the bottle, opened it, and poured the raw rum into the gaping arm wounds. Words can’t describe my agony as the alcohol bit into the bloody flesh. A wave of nausea and faintness rolled over me, but I hung grimly onto the table until it passed. Then I bandaged the arm tightly with gauze and cloth.
Up to now I had paid little attention to my head. When I looked into a mirror I almost collapsed in horror. My face was a repulsive mask of blood and dirt. A great flap of scalp hung down, and one of my ears was slit almost in two.
I washed away as much of the dirt and blood as I could. Then I gritted my teeth and poured rum all over my head. When the fiery pain had died a little, I pushed the scalp flap back into place, covered my head with a clean pillowcase, and pulled on a stocking cap.
That was about all I could do. Most of my wounds were fairly clean, but they needed the quick attention of a surgeon. I was beginning to get sick and weak, which wouldn’t do at all, because I had a four-mile journey to make before I could get outside assistance. That hike would bring me more than halfway to the camp of two fishermen, George Nelson and Jake Mollan. We had a prearranged signal for emergencies — two rifle shots followed by two more after a ten-second interval. I knew that if I reached a certain spot, they’d be able to hear my shots.
I managed to hobble the four miles on my injured leg, although toward the end I didn’t think I could make it. Then I fired the rifle signal and sank wearily to the ground. Perhaps I dozed or slipped into unconsciousness. In any event, it seemed only a few minutes before I heard the sound of a car, and saw Nelson and Mollan approaching.
The boys rushed me a few miles to Dry Bay, on the Gulf of Alaska, and put me aboard a cannery boat. The skipper didn’t spare the engines on the way up to Yakutat, which has a Government dispensary and a seaplane base. At the dispensary the Government nurse, Mrs. Anne Simons, cleaned and dressed my wounds. Next morning I was put aboard a seaplane. And within thirty-six hours of the attack on the lonely delta, I was in a hospital at Seattle, Wash.
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That powerful rum and the ministrations of Mrs. Simons stood me in good stead, for no infection developed. The doctors repaired my splintered arm and sewed up all my wounds, and in due time I was released. But I haven’t recovered the full use of my right arm. Perhaps I never will. Nevertheless I call myself a lucky man.
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