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Told by Scott Brosvik and shared by his son,

 

For 400 miles, my hunting partner Woody and I saw snow, mountains, rivers and frozen lakes. What we didn’t see was a road or a building or any other sign of civilization until we were about to land in Aniak. Our outfitter, Bob Adams, picked us up in Aniak in his Cessna 185 and took us to base camp.     

    

Looking above camp towards the area we would be hunting, all we could see was snow and mountains - not a tree in sight. The only thing that wasn’t white was an occasional rock sticking out of the blanket of snow. I thought it should be pretty easy to spot a brown bear in all that white.

   

After landing in camp, we spent the rest of the day getting settled in to our tent and getting to know our hosts. My guide Tyrell was about 30 years old and from the Salt Lake area.   

    

By 8 a.m. the next day we were loading our snowmobiles and getting ready to head for the high country. Tyrell and I would go up the Aniak River towards Aniak Lake. It was about 20 degrees, overcast and breezy, but according to the forecast, the weather was going to improve. 

    

The flat light of the day made it hard to see the terrain so we rode slowly, stopping for a while to glass a ridge before moving on. Since this was the way we would be coming back, we both entered a way point into our GPS. 

    

As visibility got worse we slowed our pace even more. Tyrell disappeared over a drop in the terrain and when he didn’t reappear after a couple minutes, I shut down my snowmobile. Immediately I heard what I thought was my name being yelled frantically. What I thought was “Scott” was actually “STOP!” I ran in the direction of the yelling and found Tyrell at the bottom of a ravine about twenty feet deep with his snowmobile upside down on top of him. He was yelling “stop, stop,” thinking I might come in right on top of him. Tyrell was obviously in a lot of pain, so I slid down the nearly vertical bank to get to him and check his injuries. 

    

His foot was pinned under the sled and he thought his leg was broken. I tried to get the sled off him, but it wouldn’t budge.  My best option was digging under his leg to free it. It was almost impossible to do this without touching his leg. The times I did bump it he cried out in pain, but he never swore once. 

 

After exposing his foot it was obvious something was broken. His toe was pointed down and his knee was up. As gently as possible, I moved his leg out from under the machine and did what I could to make him comfortable. 

    

Riding Tyrell out on my machine wasn’t a very good option – we were afraid of doing more damage to the broken leg. It was only about 12 miles back to camp, so we decided I would ride back and get help. Tyrell was worried about me finding my way, but I was sure I’d be fine with help of my GPS.   I got the water jug out of Tyrell’s pack and gave him the two Snickers bars I had in my pocket.  He kept saying he was fine and to get going – the guy is one tough cookie. 

 

The snowfall was getting heavier and coming straight down in the ravine, worsening the conditions at ground level. The wind was really blowing when I got back to my machine.  On top of the ridge, all I could see ahead were the skis of my snowmobile. At a snail’s pace, I worked my way toward the last way point a half-mile away. I judged my speed by putting my foot on the snow every few minutes. At times I was going too fast, and other times I was surprised to find I wasn’t even moving.  I was acutely aware that not only my life, but also Tyrell’s depended on me getting back to camp for help. 

 

I was within 200 yards of the waypoint and found myself heading downhill to the right. I cussed myself for going that direction – it would put me back in the Aniak River drainage where I just came from. I turned around and got back up to the flat ridge top and back on course to my waypoint, only to find myself heading the wrong direction once again. 

 

Twice more I did the same thing. It was really starting to spook me since the wrong route off the ridge could be disastrous. Camp was the next waypoint in line and still another eight or ten miles. Pointing the skis toward camp I headed off the ridge as slowly as possible. It was steep and the snow was soft and deep. I was past the point of no return. All I could do was pray this was the right pass into the next drainage and not some hole I couldn’t climb out of. The farther I got off the ridge the more the visibility improved, so I hauled ass back to camp. 

 

It had already been over an hour since leaving Tyrell. The poor guy had to be scared to death. We just met yesterday, so he had no idea if this dude from the Lower 48 could find his way back for help. For all he knew, I could be hopelessly lost in the Alaskan wilderness. 

    

I finally got back to camp and told Bob what happened. The next hour was a Chinese fire drill.  Bob had to tie down three airplanes before the wind blew them away. Meanwhile, I got together with an off-duty guide named Bryan. He and I rushed around to put together a rescue toboggan.

 

By the time Bryan and I reached the scene, four hours had passed since I left. Tyrell said the sound of the snow machines coming was the sweetest he had ever heard. He had spent the time getting supplies out of his pack and in between prayers he thought about how he was going to get himself out of there. 

 

Down in the hole with Tyrell it was barely obvious there was a blizzard raging just 20 feet above our heads. It seemed 30 degrees warmer without the chill of the howling wind. Tyrell suggested using his tripod to splint his leg, but we couldn’t get it to work. My snowshoes ended up making a better splint, and since I wasn’t stalking any bears at the time, I surely didn’t need them. 

 

Working our way downstream on the Aniak River, we got to a low enough elevation where there were a few trees to help with the visibility. The wind was blowing so hard we had to yell to hear each other from only two feet apart.  Progress was painfully slow.  I was in the lead breaking trail since Brian was on a heavier machine and he had the toboggan behind him.  One of us would get stuck and the other would have to help, then it would happen again to the other guy. It was a chore getting the bigger sled unstuck with the trailer behind it. A few times we had to unhook before we could get going again. To make matters worse, my sled was beginning to run poorly.

 

It took a long time to get on top of the ridge, but we finally made it. The snow there was hard-packed by the wind so we were able to move without getting stuck, but there was no visibility. I put my GPS in the see-through map pocket of the saddlebag and just followed the needle, creeping along with Bryan right behind me. Every couple minutes I looked back to make sure everything was okay. Finally, we were making slow but steady progress. The GPS said 6.5 miles to camp.  

 

The next time I looked back to check on Bryan, all I could see was white.  I stopped and shut off my sled so he could catch up. The wind was directly at my back and I had a couple inches of snow built up on my coveralls. While trying to listen for the sound of his machine, all I could hear was the wind. It was hard to stand up, but I leaned into the wind and walked back a little ways hoping to find Bryan and Tyrell. After about 50 feet I was horrified to find that the track I had made five minutes ago was already obliterated by the snow. I could barely see my machine through the blizzard.  No way in hell was I leaving that snowmobile. 

 

Back at the sled I decided to head back the way I came. Doing what I hoped was a 180-degree turn, I rode back a couple hundred yards. With no track to follow and no sense of direction in the whiteout, I soon realized it was hopeless. The snow felt like needles on my cheeks - the only part of me exposed. Using my finger like a windshield wiper I swiped the snow from my goggles every few minutes. Praying for a miracle, I waited a few minutes hoping other guys would show up, my ears straining for the sound of their machine. I wasn’t that lucky. I was on my own. 

 

Guilt weighed heavily on my mind as I swung in the direction my trusty GPS told me to go. The very thought of leaving those guys out in the blizzard was all wrong, but I had no idea how to find them. Before continuing I put a waypoint into the GPS so we’d have some guidelines for a search party out if they didn’t show up at camp. 

 

My sled wouldn’t run well because I had to go so slow. It would bog down and I had to turn it on its side and wind it out to get it to run again. I could only make it a hundred yards or so and it was such an effort, after a while I barely had the strength to turn it over. 

 

I was headed downhill, which was a good sign. The snow was getting soft, so it must have been barely below freezing.   In a moment I was stuck. The engine would rev, but I couldn’t get moving. Soon I realized the track wasn’t even turning. Something was definitely broken and I knew if I opened the hood the wind would rip it right off. I’m no snow mobile mechanic, but I tried everything I could think of before shutting it down. 

 

My GPS said camp was 5.6 miles. It was 6 p.m.  I had about five hours of light. Making what was one of the most crucial decisions of my life; I grabbed my pack and GPS and headed out on foot. I couldn’t have stayed there to wait for help. My Carhartts, wool pants and wool socks were soaked from sweat and snow, but I was warm as long as I kept moving. I had a quart of water and three Snickers bars in my pack - not much considering I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but it would do.  

 

The snow was mostly wind-packed, but I would hit a soft spot every few steps and sink to my knees.  My legs were so heavy with fatigue I must have looked like an 80-year-old man trudging down the hall at the nursing home - at least that’s how it felt.  I kept losing my balance and the wind would knock me down. Sometimes I would lie there and rest for a minute or two before getting up and moving again. My progress was incredibly slow. Snowshoes would’ve been a blessing.

 

I crossed slow rolling hills that in spots were blown bare by the wind, exposing the tundra and rocks. It was mushy and hard to walk on, but it beat breaking through knee-deep snow. The first tenth of a mile seemed like a lifetime. The next was even worse. I still had 5.4 miles to go and was having serious second thoughts. The more I thought about it, the more I realized there were no other options. When I finally made the first mile, I purposely didn’t look at my watch. I didn’t want to know the time. 

 

The wind was steadily coming over my left shoulder. I realized I was gradually veering to the left, throwing myself off course. I had to look at my GPS every few steps to stay in s straight line. Sometimes the clouds would thin enough that I could see the sun trying to burn through the gloom. The GPS was giving me a low battery warning and I was thankful I didn’t take the extra batteries out to lighten my pack. There was a small pine tree about 75 yards ahead that I decided it would be a good place to take a break and change the batteries. I guessed it would only be a few minutes to reach the tree.

  

Twenty minutes later I finally arrived at the tree. It didn’t offer much protection and I didn’t want to get water inside the GPS. I took off my soaking wet gloves to change the batteries and somehow, with slow, cold fingers I managed to get them changed. In that moment, it felt so good to sit there and relax.  I laid back and closed my eyes just for a few seconds. Even though I was shivering, I could easily have fallen asleep. The realization hit like a hammer – if I fell asleep, I probably wouldn’t wake up. I thought about my wife Jeannette and the kids, and that pushed me to keep moving. 

 

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the GPS read 2.8 miles to camp; I was halfway home. It had taken me three hours. My body was tired and sore, but not much worse than when I left the snowmobile. Until that point, I figured my chances to make it back to camp were 50/50 at best, but something inside told me said I could make it all the way.

    

The wind had died down considerably, and it seemed to be warming up.  The snow was wet and my coveralls felt like they weighed 20 lbs. They were completely soaked through and causing me to sink deeper as I walked. The snow continued to soften and about every third step I sank past my knees. 

 

The next mile took almost 2 hours.  Each step was exhausting as I sank to my knee and sometimes as high as my hip. I hoped as evening set in the temperature would drop and the snow would harden. I took a short rest and ate my last Snickers. All I had left was a half quart of water, so I only sipped a bit before starting again. 

 

When I could finally see into the Kipchuck River drainage, it was nearly 1 a.m. Camp still wasn’t visible because of the roll in the terrain.  I thought I heard the sound of a snow machine in the valley below me. A light appeared, then another one. I saw two snowmobiles head up the drainage from camp. They would never see me in the dark. All I had was my small flashlight that ran on AA batteries, but I had to try to get their attention. The two machines stopped far below me and I yelled for help at the top of my lungs. I yelled over and over until I was hoarse. They were too far away and their engines never stopped running. I saw them turn around and head back. 

    

My heart sank. Even with less than a mile to go I would have given anything for a ride on the back of one of those sleds. Plopping down in the snow I felt like just lying there and giving up. I wish the two sleds would have never shown up.  The hope of a rescue really had me going. 

 

I got moving again and soon could see the lights of the lodge about half mile out. It was a sight to see. The wind died down on occasion and I thought they may be able to hear me yell, but I soon gave up. It was now 2:15 a.m. and I guessed I had less than an hour left to camp. All I could think about was how I could face everyone after leaving Brian and Tyrell out in the blizzard. I prayed to God they got back okay. I could just imagine Bob’s face as he questioned me about riding off and leaving them out there. The shame was overwhelming even though I couldn’t imagine what I could have done differently. 

 

It was a strange to feel ecstatic about getting back alive and at the same time dreading to tell the rest of the camp that I left the other guys out there. I hung on to the hope that they already got back and knew all I could do at that point was keep moving. 

 

Plowing through the sloppy snow wasn’t getting any easier. Twice I came to a patch of bare tundra where all the snow had melted off. My legs would barely support me on the solid ground. As soon as I stepped off the bare patch I was up to my crotch again on every step. What I thought would take another hour turned into three. It was close to daylight when I slogged my way to the cabin door. Inside it was still dark and I nearly tripped over someone sleeping on the floor. A voice asked who was there. All I could say was “It’s me, Scott.” 

Bryan was the one I nearly tripped over coming in. He jumped up and gave me a big hug and said, “Man, am I glad to see you! We were afraid you were dead.” The feeling was mutual to the tenth power. What a relief to find them back in one piece. I asked about Tyrell and heard him reply from over by the stove. 

 

Bryan woke everybody else up for a little celebration. Woody’s guide, Sherie, made me tomato soup and a peanut butter sandwich. I tried to relax, but just couldn’t get warm, even sitting right by the stove. Finally, I got in a hot shower for about 20 minutes and felt a lot better. My fingers and toes were numb but Bryan, who is a paramedic, said they would get back to normal in a couple days. Woody made a fire in our tent and I went to bed for a few hours. My first day of Alaska bear hunting turned out to be quite an experience.

 

 

*** On that day of April 21, 2005 winds were clocked at 105 miles per hour, and sustained at 80. Scott Brosvik walked for 11½ hours to go 5.6 miles. On April 26^th, he shot a bear. On November 11, 2006, he died of an unexpected heart attack. He left behind his wife of 30 years, and his 4 kids. He was 52. ***