This story, “Doctor’s Orders,” appeared in the September 1954 issue of Outdoor Life. You can read more stories about Frank Glaser, Alaska’s Wolf Man, from our archives here.
Billy Fraim had just started hauling passengers — or trying to — from Valdez to Fairbanks over the Richardson Highway. The road was a veritable quagmire — really suitable only for horses. The Black Rapids Roadhouse, which I owned and operated, was on this road. One spring day in 1921 Billy arrived at the roadhouse.
He came from the direction of Valdez in a Model-T Ford, having taken all day to drive from Yost’s, an abandoned roadhouse 25 miles to the south.
As he pulled to a stop the mud-spattered car was spouting steam two feet into the air. And Billy was excited.
“Frank, you’ve got to do something about those bears down by Yost’s,” he said.
Billy was in his 20’s then, rather small, with sandy hair. He looked like’ a very serious schoolboy.
“Who, me?” I said. “That’s way out of my territory, Billy.”
“But somebody’s got to do some thing. It isn’t safe to travel that road,” Billy was almost shouting.
The three passengers, two women and a man, stood next to Billy and loudly agreed with him. They kept shaking their heads and looking at the hood of the steaming Ford.
I wasn’t too surprised to hear Billy’s complaint. I’d heard that the grizzlies near Yost’s were thicker than fleas, and every now and then someone traveling the old road was scared pink by one of them.
Billy went on to tell me what had happened. “Frank,” he said, “this morning I came around a bend near Yost’s, and one of those white-colored bears — a reg’lar monster — was right in the middle of the road. I guess I got excited, and instead of slowing down I yanked the throttle and went faster. You know, the road’s pretty good there for a ways.
“I scared the bear all right — at first. He ran down the road ahead of us, but I gained on him. That was a mistake.”
The three passengers stood behind Billy, nodding and looking solemn.
“All of a sudden,” Billy continued, “he stopped running and stood up. Lord, man, he must have been eight or nine feet tall — I looked up at him — and he wanted to fight the car!”
Billy reached over and patted it like it was a horse of something.
“I slammed on the brakes and the reverse pedal both at once. Practically threw my passengers through the wind shield.”
By then Billy was waving his arms in my face and the passengers were all talking at once, trying to help Billy tell the story.
“I’ll bet I wasn’t five feet from that monster when I stopped. The women screamed and I yelled and honked the horn and raced the motor — and that bear, on his hind legs, walked right up to the car. Snarling! It happened so quick I didn’t have time to back up. He swatted the hood once, then I guess the noise scared him and he took off into the willows. I got out of there fast, believe me!”
I looked at the hood of the Ford, and sure enough it had been bashed in and there were deep claw scratches in the metal.
That fall Dr. E. W. Nelson, chief of what was then the U.S. Bureau of Biological Survey, spent about a week at Black Rapids collecting small bird and mammal specimens. He was a tall, gray-haired, distinguished-looking man in his 70’s.
I was interested in his work and took time off from my market hunting to show him around. One day, as he was searching the country with his glasses, a cream-colored grizzly wandered out along a gravel bar of the Delta River.
“Frank, isn’t that an unusual color for a grizzly?” he asked.
“Gosh no, Doc. Most of them around here are that color,” I told him.
“How common are they?”
“Too common, as far’s I’m concerned. They give me a scare every now and then. Why, there’s a place up the road that’s just alive with em,” I said, and mentioned the flat river bar near Yost’s abandoned roadhouse, where Billy Fraim had been.
Dr. Nelson was excited and made me tell him more.
Remember — this was 1921, and museums and other scientific outfits were still finding new species of birds and mammals. Many expeditions were made to Alaska simply to collect specimens.
As a rule the cream-colored grizzlies were not especially large, I told Dr. Nelson, but they showed a nasty temper at times. While market hunting, I often killed two sheep and cached one on a glacier while packing the other out. Too often, when I returned, a cream-colored grizzly would be feeding on the second sheep. I killed a few that refused to leave (those whose meat was worth reclaiming), and occasionally one charged me. Most of them would high-tail it when I yelled, but there were too many that wouldn’t. As far as I was concerned, they were a nuisance.
The Alaska Road Commission teamsters hated them and complained bitterly about the runaways and near runaways of their four-horse teams — especially around the river bar near Yost’s. Somehow they didn’t appreciate it when all four horses tried to turn and climb on the wagon with them. And they didn’t enjoy trying to rein down four terrified runaways that bolted when they saw or smelled a grizzly.
After I told Dr. Nelson all this he asked if I’d be willing to collect a large group for the Biological Survey. The Survey had bears from other parts of the Alaska Range, but none from that particular area. I had long wanted to hunt there anyway, so I agreed to do the collecting job for him the following spring.
There was little traffic over the Richardson Highway during that winter of 1921-22, and the shells I ordered from Fairbanks never showed up. Come spring, I rummaged around the road house for a full day, hunting for ammunition, finally coming up with an assortment of about every kind of .30/06 cartridge ever made. I think some of the stuff was at least 10 years old. I had a few 220-grain loads, some 180’s, and others of 150, 145, and 172 grains. Some way to start a grizzly hunt!
I started out May 15 by dog team and drove up the Delta River on the ice toward Yost’s old place, where I planned to set up quarters. It was about noon when I pulled into an Army signal station a couple of hundred yards from Yost’s.
The two soldiers stationed there were just leaving to visit another station 20 miles down the trail where they planned to stay awhile. I told them why I had come and got permission to tack any hides I collected to the Signal Corps station buildings. These included a log telegraph station, a log barn, and an oversize cache.
Isabella Pass, where Yost’s is located, is one of the windiest places in the Alaska Range. The wind howls through it from the south, then whistles back from the north. Snowdrifts build up to remarkable heights, and when I continued on to Yost’s I drove my dog team right up to a second-story window, re moved it, and went in. I could easily have driven the team over the roof where the winter’s snow had drifted up to the eaves.
I rummaged around the road house hunting for ammunition, finally coming up with an assortment of about every kind of .30/06 cartridge ever made. I think some of the stuff was at least 10 years old.
The downstairs, I discovered, was filled with snow — someone evidently had left the door open the previous fall. I found where the kitchen stovepipe ran through an upstairs room, disconnected it, and hooked up my little Yukon stove. I was perfectly comfortable there for the two weeks I hunted. When I left I stood on the drifted snow and replaced the window I had removed without even having to stretch.
Yost’s is gone today, likewise the fence and the bell. The bell, mounted on a 20-foot post directly in front of the roadhouse, was huge. It was balanced so that when the wind blew it tipped back and forth and rang so loudly that it could be heard for miles. The Signal Corps had thrown a six or seven-foot woven wire fence across the Delta River bar to a 50-foot blu:f opposite the roadhouse.
During blizzards which are still quite common in the pass-people coming from either direction hit the fence and followed it, on their hands and knees at times, right to the bell and, of course, to Yost’s. A year or two before the fence was put in, 12 people lost their lives by passing the roadhouse in a blizzard.
The fence is gone now, but was still standing that May of 1922 when I hunted bears there, and I well remember hearing the insistent clanging of the bell every time the wind picked up over 10 miles an hour which was most of the time.
The mile-wide river bar where I planned to hunt was blown almost clear of snow. That made it easy for the bears to dig the plentiful pea-vine roots that attracted them to the place. Spruce timber and thickets of sapling birch grew right to the bar on each side of the river, and snow had formed big drifts here and there in the dense growth.
A long ridge poked up between the bar and the road, which used to be the Valdez trail and is now the Richard son Highway. After fixing up a comfortable “camp” in an empty upper story room at Yost’s, first thing I did was to climb this ridge and look at the flat.
I had no sooner reached the top and glanced at the bar than I saw three grizzlies — cream-colored, with brown legs. They were what Dr. Nelson wanted. I glassed them for a few minutes and decided it was a female and twin yearlings.
I wasn’t keen to shoot yearlings or cubs, but Dr. Nelson had specifically requested a representative series — young bears as well as old ones. I made up my mind it was for the good of science, so started out to collect the three if I could.
The wind was in my favor, and I waited until the bears went into a dry wash, then wallked to within 40 or 50 yards of them. I gathered them in with three shots as they came into sight. It was as simple as that.
I measured them carefully, recording the figures in my notebook, then skinned them out and packed the hides back to the roadhouse. I left the skulls, which are fully as important as the skins for scientific specimens, thinking I would pick them up the next day.
Next morning I fleshed the three hides clean and nailed them to the buildings at the signal station. Then I went after the skulls. First, I walked up on the ridge for a look-see at the flat. I hadn’t gone 100 yards along the crest when I saw three more grizzlies in about the same place the first ones had been. Two of these were also cream-colored and apparently they were another sow with yearlings. One of the yearlings was almost white, with blackish legs — kind of a freak.
I worked in close and collected the three with three shots again. I was pretty cocky that night — six grizzlies with six shots was fair shooting, even if four of them were yearlings.
It was near midnight and barely dark when I finished skinning those three and packing the six skulls and three skins back to the roadhouse. I cleaned skulls and fleshed and nailed up hides all the next day. A snowstorm set in then and I didn’t get out for two days.
On the third day it was clear and I sat on top of the ridge glassing the flats for a couple of hours before I spotted a single big cream-colored bear digging roots. I had a lot of confidence after my luck with the first six bears, so decided to see how close I could get to him. He was the largest I’d seen until then, and I was sure he was a male.
I moved down into a dry wash and worked upwind toward him, bending over to keep out of sight. Now and then I went to the edge to look at him. He was more cautious than the others had been and occasionally he stood up to look around, then calmly went on feeding.
After half an hour of alternately sneaking and watching, I was surprised to find that I was within 40 or 50 feet of him. He apparently had moved toward me as I sneaked the last few yards. He was much closer than I liked. He looked as big as a horse.
When I stuck my head up to look at him he saw me and stood still, staring.
When I stuck my head up to look at him he saw me and stood still, staring. A spindly willow bush about four feet high was nearby — the only cover of any kind for a long way. And that huge bear walked over and tried to hide behind it!
He was too close for comfort, but I had one of the 145-grain, bronze-capped shells in the barrel and I had had good luck with them. I thought they were pretty skookum grizzly medicine. One good chest shot should finish him off nicely.
I talked to that bear, trying to get him to stand on his hind legs. Instead he crouched behind that skeleton of a willow, peeking around it at me. This is ridiculous, I thought. I talked, whistled, moved my head back and forth, waved a hand — did everything to get him to stand up. I wanted his chest exposed. After what seemed like a long time of playing peekaboo, he did stand to get a better look at what he must have taken for an idiot.
I usually line up a rifle with my right eye, then open my left and fire with both eyes open. I did this, and squeezed the trigger. A wall of flame hit my face. At the same time, my gun burst out of my hand and spun backward over my head. I thought both my eyes had been knocked out. They were full of tears and I couldn’t nerve myself to open them.
At that moment I didn’t know or care where the bear was — he might have been breathing down my neck, for all I knew. My eyes burned something fierce, and a continuous stream of tears poured out of them. All I could do was lie there and cover my face.
After a while I forced my eyes open, but all I could see was blackness and stars rolling around. I was sure I was blind, and I wondered if I could get back to the highway for help. I listened for the bear. I felt he was still standing behind the lone willow looking at me. I began to panic then, thinking I was blind, with an angry and wounded grizzly ready to pounce on me any second. But I made myself lie still and fight off the temptation to rub my eyes. Finally, after I don’t know how long, I could see light and the pain began to go away
It must have been at least an hour from the time I fired until I could see again. Everything was blurred. I picked up my rifle, expecting to find a hole blown in the side of it or some thing equally serious, but it didn’t seem to be damaged.
Trying to open the bolt, I managed to lift it all right, but I couldn’t draw it back. I finally had to put the rifle butt on the ground and use my foot to force the bolt. The shell, split in three places, fell out — and the primer fell out of the shell. No doubt the aged brass of the shell had caused the trouble. Fortunately, the gas port had functioned properly. I had never be fore been quite certain why that port was there. I worked several shells through the action, looked it over, and decided it was undamaged. Then I started looking for the bear.
He had been hit — I found blood where he had stood behind the lone willow.
I went toward the nearest patch of brush about 250 yards away, looking for his trail. My eyes still watered badly and everything was blurred, but I could see.
He had crossed a snow-packed dry wash, leaving a good blood trail as he made a beeline toward the nearest cover. I have often wondered why he didn’t charge when I crippled him. I’ve had many grizzlies come at me for less.
The trail went into thick brush and I followed it slowly and carefully, keeping my rifle ready. Ahead I saw a big snowdrift, and it looked to me as if the bear had walked right alongside the edge of it.
I walked toward one end, planning to climb the half-rotten snow and look around.
Just as I reached the end of the drift I heard a rumbling noise behind me. I whirled, expecting to see the bear charging. But he was standing on top of the drift, about 25 feet away, with his big head swinging back and forth, growling at me. I shot, and he disappeared. When I got to him he was dead. He had originally turned just short of the snowdrift, gone around to the other side, climbed it, and dug a hole almost on top. I’d walked not more than five feet directly under where he was curled up on the drift. I quit using 145-grain loads after that.
That flat by Yost’s seemed to be a bear hunter’s paradise. I killed one or more bears almost every time I went out. In all I picked up three sows, each with two yearlings, and eight males. All were of the same color. None was extremely large.
But I ran into a couple that looked awfully big for a while.
I had climbed the ridge as usual and watched the flat for a couple of hours before I saw them. They turned out to be big males, and when I first saw them they were fairly close together, working south, busily digging pea-vine roots. I decided to try to collect both of them.
The wind was in my favor, so I walked directly toward them. Every time one of them looked up I froze in my tracks until he went on feeding. I only had about 400 yards to go to put me in fair range. A deep dry wash ran between the bears, and I ducked into that, crouched over, and ran. I checked frequently to see where they were — I had learned my lesson about getting too close. Each of them was about 50 yards from the dry wash. While they were busy feeding I worked along the dry wash until I stood directly between them. There was no cover on the gravel bar and I could see them clearly. I was certain that I could drop one, whirl around toward the other one, and drop him too.
I bellied up the bank of the wash till I could see over, and drew a fine bead on the bear to my left. He was standing still, broadside, clawing up pea-vines. I held for his shoulder, hoping for a heart shot. He dropped as I fired and I was positive that he was dead.
Without a second glance at him I whirled and saw the second bear standiing on his hind legs, looking at me. His chest was exposed and I quickly fired into it before he could drop to all fours again. I must have fired too quickly because he was knocked side ways by the slug — I was using the last of my 180-grain ammunition — and then he bounced to his feet, biting savagely at his shoulder and running toward me. I was certain he hadn’t seen me and I think he came in my direction only because he was headed toward his partner; or possibly he just happened to be facing my way when he bounced up after being hit.
A grizzly can travel mighty fast even on three legs. I rammed another shell home and carefully put another slug into his chest. He was within 50 feet when he dropped, kicking and biting convulsively. It was then that I heard the noise behind me.
Something had gone wrong.
I whirled with another shell in the rifle, ready to shoot, and saw the first bear about 20 feet away, staggering toward me. He was looking at me, his head swinging from side to side, lips curled back in a snarl. Those big yellow teeth looked like walrus tusks to me. I took a quick bead on his chest I was low enough in the gully to shoot up at him — and pulled the trigger.
Snick went the hammer. One of the old shells had misfired.
I whirled with another shell in the rifle, ready to shoot, and saw the first bear about 20 feet away, staggering toward me. He was looking at me, his head swinging from side to side, lips curled back in a snarl.
The next shell had to be good — it was the last one in the gun. I yanked the bolt open, slammed that last shell home, and fired. He dropped, his nose plowing gravel and sand. Then he kicked a few times and lay still. After I got a wad of snoose in my mouth and calmed down, I measured the distance from his nose to the dry wash. It was just eight feet.
I think each of those bears, after being wounded, had headed for the other, and I was right between them. The first shot, instead of killing the one on the left, had glanced off his shoulder blade, gone forward through muscle, and come out of the lower part of the neck without hitting a vital spot. It was just a freak shot that probably wouldn’t happen again in a lifetime.
When I had about 12 hides nailed to the buildings at the signal station, one of the soldiers returned. I was there when he arrived. He looked at the hides and his jaw dropped and he swiveled his head back and forth, staring. Then he walked around each of the buildings, counting hides.
“Where did you get all those hides?” he asked.
I had a hard time convincing him that I’d killed all of them right there in the seven or eight days since he left. Next day he headed for Fairbanks on Army business.
Before I left Yost’s I spent a day weighing those bears. The carcass of the heaviest one, without skull or skin, weighed just 350 pounds. It was a full grown bear. I figured the hide weighed about 75 pounds and the skull around 20. The carcass of one fat, nearly toothless old female weighed 250 pounds. The yearlings’ carcasses came to around 125 pounds each. Hides of the adults were as long as about 7½ feet.
Read Next: The Wolf-Dog That Called in a Pack of Wolves for Frank Glaser
I look back on that hunt with mixed feelings. It would be a terrible thing for a man to go out today and kill 17 grizzlies just for a scientific collection. It was different then. Market hunters occasionally shot bears and sold the hides, but not as a regular thing. There were practically no sportsmen hunting them. Consequently, grizzlies were extremely abundant and they were generally regarded as pests. At the time, I received thanks from the Alaska Road Commission, the teamsters and car drivers using the road, and of course Dr. Nelson.
The soldier who’d been so amazed to see all my hides, told the story to a reporter in Fairbanks. Not long after, someone sent me a clipping from the Fairbanks Daily News Miner recounting the hunt, and I’ll never forget one line: “Glaser says there is nothing to killing grizzlies and has not had a bit of trouble during his hunt.”
Did I say that?
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