Categories
A Victory! All About Guns Ammo Fieldcraft

Old Groaner the Man-Killing Bear By Will Dabbs, MD

I took this photo myself. Those Alaskan brown bears can become absolutely enormous.

I spent my last three years in the Army stationed at Fort Wainwright, Alaska. For a substantial portion of that time, I was the operations officer for a CH-47 Chinook helicopter unit.

I picked flight crews and assigned mission responsibilities. That also meant I got to do some really cool flying all across the last frontier. If you were paying taxes back in the 1990s, sincerely and from my heart, thank you for that.

Megafauna

When you encounter moose while flying out over the vast Alaskan muskeg, they typically either ignore you or run. These things are as big as Clydesdales and quite deadly up close, but they’re herbivorous ungulates. They don’t hunt people for food. Alaskan brown bears, by contrast, will gladly make a meal of you.

One fine day, I was piloting a Chinook helicopter north to south just east of the Salcha River on the far side of Eielson Air Force Base. We were flying nap-of-the-earth right above the trees at maybe 160 knots (about 185 mph). In this configuration, I serendipitously happened upon an absolutely enormous cinnamon grizzly bear.

I wasn’t trying to molest the wildlife. He just happened to be right in my flight path. I popped the cyclic back and cleared him by scant feet.

A CH-47 tops out at 50,000 pounds, and it makes the devil’s own racket. Most animals are rightly terrified of it. In this case, my flight engineer reported that, as we passed over this big gentleman’s head, he stood up on his hind legs and swatted at us. Human beings are not the apex predators in this space.

The Monster

In 1923, along the Unuk River near Cripple Creek north of Ketchikan, Alaska, a young fur trapper named Jess Sethington struck out to make his fortune. He packed a .38-caliber revolver and a .33-caliber rifle for personal protection and subsistence. He was never heard from again.

For years afterwards, trappers reported a particularly large bear in the area that regularly stalked them and molested their camps. The bear was unique for the strange groaning sound it seemed to make. Locals named the beast “Old Groaner.”

Old Groaner operated mostly at night and showed little fear of man. Several prospectors and trappers had fired at him, but none had connected in the dark. With all this in mind, in November 1935, two grizzled prospectors struck out into Old Groaner’s territory to stake a claim, accompanied by their dog.

The Attack

One of the miners ventured out alone with the dog and his rifle to post signage establishing his claim. Setting his rifle aside to erect the sign, he was surprised when his dog rushed past him barking furiously.

Grabbing his weapon, he saw a massive grizzly swat the dog away effortlessly and charge. With no time to shoulder the weapon, he fired from the hip instinctively. The muzzle was mere inches from the animal at the time.

The impact threw the man backwards, but his shot had connected. As the bear struggled to rise, the prospector gauged his angles and shot the enormous beast two more times. Old Groaner was done.

The Aftermath

The massive bear’s paws were more than ten inches across. However, that wasn’t what made the animal memorable. Once they got the big bruin dressed out, they found its jaw and skull to be grossly deformed. This accounted for the weird groaning sounds.

The two miners dug three .38-caliber pistol bullets out of the animal’s jaw along with a pair of .33-caliber rifle rounds. It seems that Jess Sethington had connected five times before the monster bear killed him. That was the sole physical evidence of Sethington’s gory demise that was ever discovered.

This was my bear gun while I was stationed in Alaska. It took a BATF Form 1 to build it legally, but when stoked with sabot slugs it was easy to carry while offering some proper downrange thump.

Ruminations

Alaska plays home to some 140,000 bears of all sorts. That’s an estimated 100,000 black bears, 30,000 brown/grizzly bears, and a further 4,700 polar bears. However, Alaska is a really big place. If you split Alaska in half, Texas would be the third-largest state.

Despite the space over which these animals are distributed, they are hardly rare. Attacks on humans are quite unusual, but I met two men during my time there who had been mauled while out hunting.

I never left the confines of the Army post without a serious gun. More often than not, that was a registered short-barreled 12-bore stoked with sabot slugs. I still felt underequipped at times.

An adult male brown bear can reach 10 feet long and weigh 900 pounds in the summer. What purportedly determines whether you survive a violent encounter with one of these creatures is the relative size of your head to his jaws. If he can get his teeth around your skull, he will pop it like a grape. If not, you only get scalped.

There is an amazing series of books that were required reading for those of us planning to spend any time in the bush, titled simply, “Alaskan Bear Tales.”

There are three volumes, and you can find them on Amazon. Be forewarned, these stories can be pretty gruesome. However, they serve as a reminder that there are some places where man is not always at the top of the food chain.

Categories
All About Guns

A deadly team

Categories
All About Guns

This would make for a good back up gun IF I could not make it to my Sig P220

Categories
All About Guns

Why the H&K G36K is Underrated

Categories
All About Guns

What are the 5 Most Valuable Guns in the Beretta Museum?

Categories
All About Guns War

America Copied Germany’s MG42 Machine Gun — But Missed The One Detail That Made It UNSTOPPABLE

Categories
All About Guns Ammo

A Browning Bar in .338 Win. Mag. (Whew !!!)

From my limited experience with this caliber.

(Note – I BRIEFLY had a Ruger # 1 in 338 Win Mag)

Is that this monster round falls squarely into the “I ain’t fucking around Asshole!!” category.  So don’t say that I did not warn you about this hard hitting on both ends round! Grumpy

Categories
All About Guns Allies Well I thought it was funny!

Skeet & Jug Go Huntin’ By Jeff “Tank” Hoover

Jug and Skeeter stylishly portraited by Mike “Doc” Barranti.

The phone rang and I answered with trepidation. You know the feeling. Something just doesn’t sound right with the ring, and you know it’s either bad news or someone you don’t particularly want to hear from. In this case, it was the latter. As soon as I heard the bumbling, “Hey, Skeet, ol’ buddy,” I knew exactly who it was.

You guys may recall Jug Johnson. Jug aspired to be a gun writer but struck it rich with mineral rights on a sliver of land he bought, complete with a run down, tar paper shack cabin.

Seems this sliver of land accessed a huge natural gas field, a super-giant of a reserve, which resulted in monthly royalty checks exceeding $200,000. Talk about dumb luck. And more proof that dimwits can get lucky while the rest of us continue working daily just to get by.

With the money, Jug bought a huge, articulated RV that was bigger than a Greyhound bus and leased 50,000 acres of prime hunting ground.

“Wanna’ go huntin’, Skeet?” he said. “Season opens in a coupla’ days?”

I had to admit, the offer, along with the opportunity of busting a deer with my 7.5” Ruger flattop was tempting.

“We can take the RV and set up camp with it. I’ll pick you up at your place in Horsethief, if you want?” he said.

Door-to-door service to one of the top mule deer spots in the state was enticing. I guess I could put up with Jug’s stupid questions and remarks for a few days.

Jug’s RV was a little on the large size to say the least.

The Trip

At quarter to five, I was dreaming of Pancho Villa and his crew of henchmen charging me in Columbus, New Mexico. I dreamt I was stationed there and heard bugles, signaling the charge.

I was manning the Hotchkiss M1909 Benet-Mercie machine gun and had just pulled the bolt back. The dream seemed so real, I could still hear the bugles after I woke up; only they were playing “La Cucaracha” now.

Then, I heard the sound of air brakes hissing as they lost pressure. Peering through my bedroom shades, I saw the biggest RV ever made and Jug Johnson behind the wheel. He ordered the RV with an air horn that blasted “La Cucaracha” when hitting the horn.

Walking down the three steps of the RV, the dimwitted Jug grinned through his prominent overbite, adjusting his too small cowboy hat and hitching his britches as he headed for the house. I greeted him at the front door after turning on my preloaded coffee percolator.

“Grab yourself a cup of coffee while I clean up, Jug.”

After I brushed my teeth, washed my face and ran a comb through my thinning hair, I met Jug in the kitchen. He was holding an ice cube on his tongue, sputtering more unintelligibly than usual, “Thang, that cothees HOT!”

Shaking my head, I grabbed a cup, laughing to myself, thinking maybe he wouldn’t ask me so many questions during the three-hour drive with a scalded tongue. I could only hope.

As Jug drove, I napped. Before you knew it, we were pulling up to the lease. While Jug leveled the RV and set up camp, I gathered firewood for the pit, along with water from the stream. We cooked beef steak, cut into cubes and strung on whittled sticks, while sipping some good sour mash whiskey. We turned in early, knowing we’d be up well before the sun.

Skeeter’s 7.5” flattop with shed antler.

The “infamous” blood trail.

The Hunt

We were up by 0400. drinking coffee and planning the hunt. Jug towed his new ATV on a trailer so we wouldn’t have to walk much getting to our vantage points. I was going to be nestled in a pinyon thicket where the bucks liked to bed down after eating soybean all night. On my way to my stand, I found a nice Muley shed antler. Maybe I’ll be lucky today, I thought to myself.

Jug was going to high ground, up in the cliffs, where he usually hunted, taking advantage of some new wildcat he designed with lots of reach. I forget the particulars, only that he had to replace his barrel after every 150 rounds, or so, on account of it burning the throat out.

We were in our spots 45 minutes before daybreak. Around 0815, I heard a far-off shot sounding like a NASA rocket launching into space followed by a huge sonic boom.

It had to be Jug. In all honesty, it woke me from a light doze. I was looking around, gathering my senses, when I noticed a nice, chunky 4×4 muley sneaking through the pinyon. I patiently waited for him to close the distance, as he headed right for me.

He was totally unaware of my presence. Before sitting down, I had drawn my flattop and placed it next to me on my backpack for faster access and less movement.

I picked up the flattop and cocked the hammer, placing my left thumb in front of the hammer to prevent any negligent discharge. When the buck was 35 yards from me, I removed my thumb and lined up my sights.

When all seemed perfect, I started my trigger press. The exploding cartridge startled me, and the buck did a perfect “mule kick” indicating a heart shot and ran back downhill.

After a relaxing smoke, I holstered my gun and headed toward the buck. Before getting to him, I heard Jug coming in on his ATV. I guess he was good for something after all.

“Did ya get him, Skeet? I heard your shot,” he said.

“I think so. My sight picture felt good as the hammer broke and that 429421 HP should have taken care of him,” I replied.

We found my buck 45 yards from where I shot him.

“What about you, Jug? I heard you shoot. Did you get one too?” I said.

Jug looked dejected.

“I think I crippled one. That’s why I was coming over here. To see if you could help me find him?”

We loaded up my deer and headed over to where Jug shot his deer.

“I was sitting up there, by that big boulder and he was standing right around here,” he said.

We saw some hair, but no blood trail.

“Where’d you see him run off to? We’ll see if we can pick up any sign as we go,” I asked.

It reminded me of my border patrol days, tracking down illegals.

Jug’s Muley. Some guys are just lucky.

Jug said he saw the buck disappear into a dry creek bed. We followed the creek bed, but didn’t see anything for a half mile. Every hundred yards or so, we’d stop, stand up and glass, looking for any sign.

We turned around and headed in the other direction and went for about another half mile past where we started. We still didn’t see anything, so we turned around and headed back to camp.

We only went a few feet when Jug said, “I see blood, Skeet!” He was getting excited now. So, we followed the sign.

“Look here, Skeet. He must have stopped; there’s a lot of blood here.” Looking down, I saw several drops of blood and wondered how we ever missed it? We follow the trail for about ½ of a mile and it stops. We looked around to see if the buck jumped out of the creek bed, but didn’t see anything.

I told him, “Let’s turn around and see if we can’t figure something out, Jug.”

“Look Skeet, another blood trail, he must have doubled back on us!” he said.

We followed the two blood trails, one going east and the other going west, when it occurred to me what was happening. I started chuckling and Jug asked me what was so funny.

With tears in my eyes, I asked,” What’s in back of your ATV?”

“Huh? Why it’s your deer, Skeet.”

“Exactly, and what do you notice about the deer, Jug?”

Jug studied the deer like he was trying to order for an all-you-can-eat buffet.

“Why, he’s bled out a lot, Skeet.”

“Exactly! Now get out and look at the back of your ATV.”

Jug started laughing too, now.

“Skeet, we’ve been tracking your deer leaking blood out of the ATV.”

Ironically, as we headed back to camp, we recovered Jug’s deer. He was a real whopper too, but with no visible sign of a hit.

As far as I could tell that huge bullet of Jug’s was going so fast that it created a vacuum of sorts and sucked all the air out of its lungs, killing it instantly. I’d have never believed it, if I hadn’t seen it myself. I guess some guys really are just lucky.

Categories
All About Guns

FN FAL One BAD Hombre

Categories
All About Guns

Japanese weapon