Don said he saw the whole thing from less than 100 yards away and when the bear hit Greg, his rifle flew up fifteen feet into the air and the bear was on him. Grabbing Greg’s leg, the bear gave its head a quick shake, fracturing both the tibia and the fibula, then the beast bit Greg in the thigh, creating a hamburger sized flap.
I’ve seen bears, wolves and dogs grab an opponent or prey that way. They clamp down on a lower leg, then shake their head which breaks the bones and leaves the other animal severely disabled.
Afraid of hitting Greg, Don aimed his rifle over the bear’s back and fired two times before the bear ran off downhill. The attack had taken mere seconds.
(After word got back to camp, Jake and the others went to Greg)
Saying another prayer, I moved further uphill. I was about fifty yards into the tangle of willows, alder and dwarf birch, when after firing another volley of three rounds, I heard a low moan. I yelled for Greg and heard another muffled moan.
Greg had dragged himself about forty yards into the brush, afraid that the bear would return to find him in the more open area, and he figured he might hear the bear coming through the denser vegetation, but soon thereafter, he lost consciousness.
Then I was at his side. He looked up at me and said, “I’m bad tore to pieces, just shoot me, Jake, or give me the pistol.”
I tried to act light and unattached as I replied, “What are you talking about, man? I’ve seen guys really torn up, you’re gonna be fine, no big deal, buddy, just help me help you.” I was appalled at his condition and appearance but could not let him see my true feelings. I felt nausea when I saw his grossly rearranged lower leg. I had to fight the urge to vomit, but I was successful at that.
Read the rest of “Greg Fischer’s Mauling” in the pages of Alaska Bears, Stirred and Shaken.