I Was Mauled Repeatedly by a Grizzly. I Should’ve Died

This story, “Day of Terror,” appeared in the June 1957 issue of Outdoor Life.

Marty Cordes and I spent the last half of September, 1955, hunting moose in the Chilkat River valley north of Haines, Alaska, where we live and work as con­struction men. We had no luck the first 10 days.

I wounded a bull the second day, in a heavy rain, and fol­ lowed the blood trail until it washed out. For a week after that we didn’t lay eyes on a moose with horns, so finally we loaded our gear in the canoe and outboarded to a vacant cabin 10 miles farther up the Chilkat in moose country that had never failed me. We’d have gone there sooner, but fig­ured it might be too crowded with hunters to suit us.

But there was no cause for complaint on that score. We had things to ourselves, and saw enough moose sign the first day to convince us we’d come to the right place. An hour after we started out next morning, in a patch of willow­ grown muskeg about two miles from camp, we ran onto two bulls and several cows feeding. The breeding season for this group either had ended or not yet begun, for mature bull moose aren’t often found together during the rut. Anyway, the bulls were good ones and we dropped both of them.

We spent the rest of the day dressing them and packing part of the meat to camp. The remainder of the meat and the two hides we cached in trees, making sure everything was out of reach of bears. Browns and grizzlies are plentiful in the area, and we knew that any meat left where they could get at it would be almost sure to disappear overnight.

The following morning, September 30, we loaded the canoe with meat. Then Marty cranked the outboard and took off for Haines and my freezer. I made more trips for meat that afternoon and the next forenoon, and by the time Marty got back on Saturday, October 1, I had everything in camp except his moose hide. That was still stretched in a good-size birch, 10 or 12 feet off the ground, at the spot where he’d made the kill.

Sunday morning Marty wanted to pick up a mess of grouse for a stew, so I agreed to bring in the hide. We both planned to be back at the cabin about an hour before noon, ready to break camp and head home.

When I arrived at the kill I found that bears had finally taken over. The ground looked as if someone had gone over it with a garden rake, and two neat mounds of grass and moss showed where they’d covered the uneaten entrails of both moose. That should have warned me, but it didn’t.

Marty’s hide was still in the birch, unmolested. I walked over to the tree and threw my packboard down, and as I glanced up I saw movement in the brush about 300 feet away. I took another look and made out the backs and heads of two bears some 30 feet apart.

They didn’t scare me, though I was sure from their color and shape that they were grizzlies. All the bears I’d ever met lit out as soon as they discovered me, and I saw no rea­son to expect trouble with this pair. But almost instantly they went out of sight, and next thing I knew one was com­ing headlong at me through the thicket. I couldn’t see him, but the brush moved as he smashed through, so I could trace his course by the commotion he made.

I still wasn’t scared. I jumped up and down and waved my arms, yelling to frighten him off. Then it dawned on me that this bear wasn’t going to bluff out. He was still coming hell-bent.

I wasn’t carrying a rifle, or even a hunting knife. I’d gone light, my only purpose being to pack the 80-pound green moose hide into camp. There was only one thing to do. I jumped for a low branch of the birch and started up hand over hand. But before I’d climbed my own height the grizzly broke out of the brush and came swarming at me.

He didn’t fool around. He sank his teeth into the back of my right leg just above the knee and pulled me down with one savage yank. I landed on my back, and we tussled for a few seconds. I wound up in a sitting position, with the bear’s left front leg across both of mine, pinning me to the ground. With his teeth, he grabbed me·by the inside of the thigh just below the crotch, and in one deep, deliberate bite tore away a strip of flesh. Blood spurted, and I braced my­ self with my left arm and pummeled him in the face with my fist, but he paid no more attention than to a fly buzzing around his head.

That first minute was about as bad as any part of the whole ordeal. The bear’s face and mine weren’t a foot apart. He had a big, burly head, with long, stiff, gray guard hairs standing out all over his face. His eyes were red and flashing with hate, his muzzle was screwed up in a sullen mask, and he was slobbering as he chewed at my legs. He went on rip­ ping flesh, skin, and clothes to shreds, and every second I expected him to grab me by the throat and finish the job with one shake.

I was wearing wool trousers and heavy wool underwear, but they gave me no protection. I could feel him grind the cloth into the flesh with each bite, and I realized he could tear my legs off and I’d have to sit there and let him do it. I punched him in the face until I broke my hand, but it did no good.

Somewhere I’ve read that a merciful numbness comes over a man being mauled by a big animal. Maybe that happens in some cases, but it certainly didn’t in mine. I was anything but numb. I could feel every bite he took, and it hurt like hell.

I don’t know how long it went on. Maybe a minute, maybe only a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. Suddenly it flashed through my mind that my only hope for survival was to play dead. I flopped over on my back and side, and made myself go limp.

Instantly, the bear stopped chewing. He stood over me, keeping me pinned down with one leg. I even tried not to breathe. But in spite of my will power and the knowledge that my life hung in the balance, I couldn’t hold back a low groan.

He grabbed me as a cat grabs an escaping mouse, and again I felt his teeth sink deep. He slashed through my side and ripped loose a flap of skin and muscle that exposed my bladder. The pain was agonizing, but I lay still and let him tear. He took another bite or two, then dropped me.

I don’t know whether I moved that time or whether he just wanted to make sure of finishing me. Anyway, he nailed me once more, this time by the back below my right shoulder. He bit through, ripped three ribs loose from the spine, and tore a hole all the way into my chest cavity. If he’d chomped a little lower, in the kidney area, that bite would have killed me.

I didn’t fight back, move, or groan. I knew now it was a case of play dead or be dead. He dropped me and walked away. I couldn’t see him without turn­ing my head and I didn’t dare risk that, so I lay motionless and hoped he wouldn’t come back.

But suddenly I felt the muskeg shake under me and heard his heavy feet pounding in. He came with a queer sort of panting noise, not bawling or growl­ ing. I braced myself for another maul­ ing, but he didn’t touch me. I could see his feet and lower legs, a yard from my face. He stood and looked me over for maybe a minute. Then he turned and slowly walked away.

Perhaps five minutes later he re­peated the performance, coming for me at a panting run, standing over me without molesting me, then walking off. My possum act must have been pretty good.

For a long time I neither saw nor heard him. It was becoming hard for me to breathe because of the hole in. my back, and I realized that unless I turned over on my face and let my nose and mouth drain I would strangle. I waited as long as I could, finally de­cided the bear had left for keeps, and slowly and painfully managed to roll over. Nothing happened, and I began to think the worst was over.

Long after that I thought I heard faint sounds at the moose leavings, 100 feet away, but when I held my breath to listen the noise stopped. That hap­pened three or four times. Then I felt the muskeg quake under me once more and heard that queer panting. No noise out of the pit of hell itself could have sounded worse to me.

The bear must have sensed from my position that I’d moved. He let out a murderous roar and tore into me again, grabbing me by the buttocks. He spanned my whole rear with his jaws, bit through to the bone, then took a deeper bite as if he meant to cut me in two.

Next he picked me off the ground and shook me until I thought my back would break or my head snap off. I’ve seen bears kill salmon that way, shat­tering the spine with one flick of their jaws, and I was sure the same thing was going to happen to me. But he dropped me as abruptly as he’d seized me, then lumbered off. I heard his heavy footfalls fade away.

He’d dropped me face down, so I was in no danger of choking. But cold water from the muskeg was seeping through my clothing, chilling me to the bone, and I was in pain beyond description. The bear had torn the flesh away from the bones on the inside of my legs, ripped both buttocks, mangled my right hand, torn one rib entirely out and left two others protruding through the skin, punched a big hole through to my lung cavity, and chewed me from head to knees.

What I did next sounds crazy and impossible, and maybe you won’t even be­lieve it. But I’ll take an oath that it happened, and before you pass judg­ment try to imagine my torture.

I was convinced I was going to die. I couldn’t see a chance of getting out alive, lying there in the muskeg by my­self, not knowing when or if Cordes would find me. Suddenly I decided I couldn’t stand the pain any longer. I might as well get it over with. Other men badly mauled by bears had killed themselves, and now I knew why.

I worked a hand down into my pocket and managed to get out a small jacknife I carried. It must have taken me half an hour. Then I moved my arms up in front of my head, opened the knife, and slashed my left wrist deeply, trying for the big artery. No blood came, and I hardly felt the pain over the flashes of agony that were stabbing through my body. I slashed again. At the third slash I exposed my wrist ten­dons, but still no blood came.

It didn’t occur to me that I’d simply missed the artery. I thought I’d lost so much blood there was none left to flow. That meant I couldn’t bleed myself to death through the wrist, and if I cut the tendons and then by some miracle sur­vived I’d have a crippled hand for life. I was willing to kill myself, but I wasn’t willing to chance that. So I gave up.

The next idea that came to me, born of pain and desperation, was even more horrible. If I could find my jugular vein with my knife, I’d be sure of a quick and merciful death. Something warned me I mustn’t fumble or I’d sever my windpipe instead and strangle in my own blood. I laid the fingers of my good hand against my throat, feeling for the pulse that would mark the loca­tion of a big vein, but couldn’t find it. The effort was almost too much for me. I slumped and rested, and started ex­ploring again. Then, off in the brush, I heard Marty hail!

He was beside himself with horror when he saw me. His first thought was to try packing me the two miles back to camp. But when he started to lift me I screamed, and we gave that up. The pain was more than I could bear. That meant Marty would have to go for help, all the way to Haines, and I’d have to take my chances while he was gone. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but we agreed there was no choice.

First he made a fast trip to camp and brought back a sleeping bag and air mattress, shotgun and shells, cigarettes, water bottle, food, matches, and a gas lantern. He somehow got me into the bag, hung most of his outer clothing on bushes over my head to keep off the cold drizzle that was now falling, laid the loaded shotgun beside me, lighted the gas lantern, and set it within reach.

“I’ll make the fastest trip any man ever made to Haines,” he promised.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” I told him, but I was far from sure.

It was now midafternoon. The bear had jumped me about 10:15 a.m. I was sure of the time, since I’d looked at my watch just before I came in sight of the moose hide in the tree. I couldn’t expect Marty before midnight. He had two miles to get to camp, a round trip of 30 miles by outboard and 60 by truck, and it would take him a while to round up a rescue party. Then too, the Chilkat is a glacial river running through steep country, quick to flood and also quick to drop. It was at low stage now, and I knew Marty would have trouble finding enough water for a fast run, especially coming back upstream in the dark with passengers. At best I had eight or nine hours to wait for help, maybe more. I doubted I’d be able to hang on that long. There was also the grizzly to worry about. I had a feeling he was still around.

An hour or so after Marty left I started to feel better. The pain les­sened and I began to warm up, and I decided that maybe I was going to make it after all. The afternoon light faded; dusk was coming. Everything had been quiet and peaceful for hours. I almost stopped worrying about the bear, but I fought off the impulse to doze. Then suddenly the muskeg shook under me and I heard that queer, snuffling, pant­ing noise once more.

My arms were inside the sleeping bag and my face was covered with the top of it. I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe. He stopped a few feet away, let out a blood-chilling roar, and then I heard him turn and run off. I suppose the gas lantern, the bag and Marty’s clothes draped over the brush were too much for him.

Lord in heaven, what a relief it was when he went away! But I still lay tense with dread for maybe half an hour, and then I heard a new noise over on my right. Something was rustling in the brush.

I had my arms out now, my face uncovered, and my hand on the gun. I twisted my head to look that way, and in the gathering twilight, not more than 15 feet away, stood a small bear cub. Whether the bear that had attacked me was a sow rather than a male, and whether the cub belonged to her, I’ll never know. I don’t think it was a sow, for I was mauled by a grizzly, while the cub looked like a young black.

In any case, I was sure his old lady wasn’t far off and I didn’t want him to bring her down on me. He took a few steps toward me, looking with lively curiosity, and I didn’t quite know what to do. If I scared him and he squalled, I’d be in for more trouble. Finally I tried a loud, sharp hiss. That did it. He swapped ends and ran without a sound. Five minutes later I heard more rustling at the edge of the brush. There was the cub again, back with a twin! I hissed at the two of them and they scrammed, but they were too curious to stay away. They came back, like two black imps, and for half an hour kept me on pins and needles, taking turns circling me and pussyfooting in for a look, but never coming closer than about 15 feet. I lay there, not knowing how to drive them off for keeps and dreading the minute when ma would come ambling along to investigate what they’d found. At last they scurried off, and everything grew quiet again.

It was close to full dark when the gas lantern burned down and went out. By itself that was a small happening, but in my situation it was big and terrify­ ing. I felt I had no protection against the oncoming night, and fear that the grizzly might return began to mount in me, bordering on panic. Then he came, just as I knew he would.

I heard the strange panting off in the brush, but he didn’t rush me this time. He came slowly, at my head where I couldn’t see him, stalking me, probably made cautious by his earlier encounter with the lantern. I figured he’d jump me, once he satisfied himself the light was gone.

raised the shotgun, aimed it in the direction of the noise, elevated the barrel so no pellets would strike him, and pulled the trigger. A red stab of flame shot from the muzzle, a kick jolted me from head to foot, and a blast ripped the night apart. It must have scared the bear half out of his wits. He let go a strangled roar, and I heard brush crack as he pounded off. Then all was silent.

Soon after that I heard bears at the moose remains, growling and gnawing. It was a horrid noise that went on three or four hours, but nothing came near me. My fear gradually subsided. Given any kind of break now, Marty and the rescue party would find me alive.

But I wasn’t quite through with the killer. About an hour before midnight I heard that horrible panting once more. He was coming from my left, walking in cautiously. I brought the shotgun into position with the barrels laid across my body, and got set to nail him.

I knew the risk involved if the shot only wounded him, but anything was better than lying there and letting him get at me. I couldn’t take another going over. I’d let him come within 10 feet. If he approached that close he meant business. I’d be able to make him out then and I’d give him both barrels to­ gether, square in the face. It might drive him off even if it didn’t kill him. When he was about 25 feet away he stopped.

I heard him panting and snuffling, like a giant trying to clear his throat, and then he circled me, prowl­ ing in from the other side. I trained the gun that way and waited, but he came no nearer. Apparently the set-up was too strange for him to tackle. He nosed around for five or 10 minutes, then moved off. My bear troubles were over at last.

Around midnight I heard the far-off thrum of Marty’s outboard. I doubt I’ll ever hear another sound as welcome. It grew louder and nearer, then stopped abruptly. I figured the rescue party was at the cabin, heading for me on foot.

Afraid they’d have trouble finding me in the darkness, I’d taken half a dozen matches out of my pocket, ready for striking as soon as I heard anyone approaching. I hung onto them for what seemed like hours but actually was only about 30 minutes. While I waited I heard the sound of an outboard once more, miles and hours away down­ river, and my hopes sank. I was too far gone to figure out that it was a second boat, feeling its way up the Chilkat behind Marty, but still a long way off.

I listened, trying not to worry, and at last I heard voices. I struck the matches all at once, and somebody said “There he is! There’s a light!” I have no words to tell you how I felt right then.

Flashlights winked through the dark­ness, and half a minute later Marty and two other friends from Haines were standing over me. The tension left me, and I took the first easy breath I’d drawn since the bear grabbed me. I asked what time it was and somebody said 12:45. It had been 141/2 hours since my ordeal began. That’s a long, long time to wait for death or salvation.

The two friends Marty had brought were Carl Reinmiller and Walt Dueman. Carl is a retired army major, minus three fingers and an eye as a result of a ruckus on a South Sea island in World War II, and the top first-aid authority around Haines. _He did what he could for me, giving me an injection of penicillin and another of morphine, and then they eased me onto a stretcher they’d brought.

They lost the trail in the darkness, and it took them 3½ hours to carry me to the cabin. The pain and jolting weren’t as bad as I’d expected, for the morphine was biting in by that time, and I’m sure the trip was just as tough for Walt, Carl, and Marty as for me.

Apparently the bear didn’t like giving me up, for twice on the way to camp my friends heard him bawling in the distance. They believe he trailed us about halfway in, sullen and quarrel­ some but unwilling to jump a party that size.

A second rescue party of three men was waiting at the cabin. Their boat was the one I’d heard away off down the Chilkat. They got into camp just before we arrived.

Shortly after 8 o’clock next morning, Dr. Robert Schuler of Juneau reached the cabin. He’d been in Haines the night before when Marty brought in the word about me, and had left at daylight with John Fox in Fox’s airboat. They hadn’t dared to tackle the river with the fast airboat in the dark, but made it in 45 minutes once they started. It had taken Marty four hours, and the other boat party almost eight. The Chilkat is a toughie to run at night.

By that time the full-scale rescue ma­ chinery of both Alaska and Canada was in motion in my behalf. At 10 a.m. a big helicopter from the R.C.A.F. base at Whitehorse, 100 miles away, landed on the little clearing in front of the cabin. The machine had been torn down for overhaul the day before, but when word of my plight reached the base, late in the evening, the repair crew worked all night to put it back together and in shape to undertake the rescue.

The huge whirly-bird carried a five­ man crew, including a doctor and nurse, plasma, and drugs, but they didn’t waste much time treating me in camp. I was a critical case by that time. They bundled me aboard and got me to Haines in short order, dripping plasma into me on the way. A Coast Guard plane was waiting there, and a little after noon an ambulance unloaded me at St. Anne’s Hospital in Juneau.

Just 27 hours after the bear nabbed me I was on the operating table, and a Juneau surgeon, Dr. Cass Carter, an enthusiastic big-game hunter, started in on me.

I didn’t get there any too soon. In all, there were more than 100 tooth marks on me, from my shoulders to my knees, plus countless cuts and gashes in my back and side. Several ribs were broken, one was torn out, and part of two had to be removed. The end of one had pressed in against a lung, but luckily hadn’t punctured it.

The doctor cut, sewed, and patched for three hours, bolstering me with blood transfusions, and he told me later he wouldn’t have given two bits for the chances of any man with my injuries unless medical help had got to him within six hours. I had waited a lot longer than that.

My life hung by a thread for days after Dr. Carter was through. After that, though I wouldn’t have won any beauty prizes, I was in better shape than I’d any right to expect.

I came out of it pretty well. I was in the hospital from October 3 to De­cember 10 and went home 30 pounds underweight, but I’ve gained it back. I’m permanently short three ribs, and have some pretty tough-looking scars. My right hand is banged up, the third finger half an inch shorter than it used to be, but I can make out with it. My right side still pains at times, but I’m back at work and getting along all right.

Marty, Dr. Cass, and I built a cabin in that same area last summer, and hunted there last fall. Doc and I both took moose. I nailed mine only about 400 yards from where the bear attacked me. All the time I was out I was look­ ing for a grizzly with stiff gray whisk­ers. I didn’t run into him, but we had proof he or others like him were still around. Cass killed his moose just be­ fore dark, and we had time only to dress it out and cover it with a tarp that night. We’d been told that if we built a fence of sticks a couple of feet high around the kill it would keep bears off, so we tried it.

Next morning we found the fence knocked down, the moose head dragged off to one side, and the tarp pulled aside. We even came across a round depression in a patch of sand, made by that fat rump of a bear as he sat to size things up. But the noise of our airboat or our approach must have spooked him, for he left without feed­ ing. We saw no more of him, and packed the meat to the cabin without delay.

Read Next: Giant Grizzly Taken in Alaska Is a New Record, Confirms Boone & Crockett

You can be sure of one thing, too. We kept a rifle handy while we were doing it. No bear or any other danger­ous animal will ever again catch me with my guard down.

One detail is left. We never got that moose hide of Marty’s back to camp. It’s still in the birch tree, so far as I know, and it can stay there forever for all of me.