Around trail's bend lay horror for Montana hikers: a furious grizzly

First of two parts

GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, Mont. — Johan and Jenna Otter had been on the trail a little more than an hour. They had just followed a series of switchbacks above Grinnell Lake and were on a narrow ledge. It was an easy ascent, rocky and slightly muddy from rain the day before.

Johan took pictures. Jenna pushed ahead. It was one of the most spectacular hikes of this trip, a father-daughter getaway to celebrate her graduation from high school. There were some steps, a small outcropping, a blind turn, and then the worst possibility: a surprised bear with two yearling cubs.

Johan looked up. Jenna was running toward him. He then saw the open mouth, the tongue, the teeth, the flattened ears. The 400-pound bear grabbed him by his left thigh, jerking him back and forth like a rag doll. He remembers no pain, only disbelief.

To his right was the wall of the mountain, to his left a sheer drop. Slightly behind him and 20 feet below, a thimbleberry and alder patch.

He dived for that thimbleberry patch. The landing rattled him, but he was OK. His right eye was bleeding, but he didn't have time to think about that. Jenna was alone with the bear.

She had reached for the bear spray, which had fallen out of his day pack. But she couldn't remove the safety clip, and the bear was coming at her again. She screamed.

"Jenna, come down here," he yelled. She never heard him. She was falling, then landing hard.

The bear did hear him. It looked over the cliff and pounced. Johan had never seen anything move so fast. He tucked into a fetal position. The bear fell upon him, clawing and biting at his back. Johan's day pack protected him.

His daughter didn't have a pack. If the bear got to her, she would be torn apart.

He turned, swung to his right and let himself go. Only this time there wasn't a thimbleberry patch to break his fall. It was a straight drop to where Jenna had landed. Instead of taking the bear away from her, as he had hoped, he was taking the bear to her.

Living the good life

Johan Otter lived with his wife, Marilyn, and their two teenage daughters in Escondido, Calif. He worked as an administrator at Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla, Calif. He ran in marathons, and he bred exotic birds. At 43, he had dreams of a long, happy life.

It was Aug. 25, 2005. In September, Jenna would begin her freshman year at the University of California, Irvine. He was a runner; she was a dancer. Hiking was their special bond.

Their path that day wound through thimbleberry, bear grass and lilies beneath a mix of Engelmann spruce and Scotch pine. Johan and Jenna skirted Lake Josephine and were above tree line in less than an hour. They talked loudly, as you should in bear country.

As they made their way along the southern flank of Mount Grinnell, a glacier-carved cliff that rises nearly 3,500 vertical feet, they fell silent, lost in the sounds of the wind and the water, the beauty of the moment. Ahead were glaciers. Water cascaded below. A river flowed into Grinnell Lake.

Ten minutes past Thunderbird Falls, they encountered the bear. In a matter of minutes, they had all tumbled 30 feet down a rocky, V-shaped chute, landing on a ledge. Jenna had scrambled away, and the grizzly was on top of Johan.

He grabbed the bear by the fur on its throat. The feeling of the coarse hair, as on a dirty dog, was unforgettable, and for a moment the animal just stared at him. It showed no emotion, no fear, no anger. There were just those amber-brown eyes looking at him.

Johan reached to his left for a rock. It crumbled in his fist. He tucked his knees to his chest and tried to cover his head.

The bear bit his right arm again and again. Johan tussled about, trying to avoid greater injury. He screamed.

The bear now was tugging on his back. He felt sharp pressure on the top of his neck and his head. The bear was biting into his skull, chewing into bone.

He'd die if he didn't make another move, so he rolled and fell again, sliding 20 feet down to a small ledge and then onto a small, narrow shelf. He was lucky he stopped. He wouldn't have survived the next drop.

He was silent. The bear was unable to reach him. Cold water flowed down his back. He'd fallen into a small stream.

Jenna heard the bear panting as it came closer to where she lay still beneath a low-lying alder. She felt woozy. She had a knot on her head. Her back ached. Her ankle was bleeding.

The bear nipped at the right corner of her mouth, at her hair, her right shoulder. Her screams split the morning silence.

Johan heard Jenna, but he couldn't do anything. He would remember the sound as the worst he had ever heard, and then there was nothing. All was still.

He was wet and dirty, soaked with blood and starting to shiver. He looked at his right arm and saw exposed tendons. His medical training as a physical therapist told him no major nerves or arteries had been cut.

He then touched the top of his head and felt only bone. His scalp had been torn off. His neck hurt. He wondered if something was broken.

"Jenna," he called out.

"Dad."

She had played dead, and the bear had moved on. She assessed her injuries: a knuckle-deep bite on her shoulder; lower lip torn down to her chin; hair caked with blood.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"I'm OK. How are you?"

"I'm bleeding a lot." He thought of his injuries and his daughter's appearance. "How's your face? Did it get you?"

"Just my mouth."

"And your eyes?"

"They're fine."

Then he called back to Jenna. "It got me kind of bad."

It was the only time he told her how he felt. After that, he turned stoic.

Together, unprompted, they began to call out.

"Hel-l-l-lp."

"Hel-l-lp."

Would anyone hear?

Johan knew he couldn't stand here much longer. He removed his day pack and camcorder. His digital camera was gone. He pulled a jacket out and put the hood over his head.

He crawled up to the ledge. He felt dizzy, so he sat down. Jenna stayed where she was, 25 yards away, dizzy and uncertain of her injuries. Their cries disappeared in the open space. It was windy and cold, and the quiet seemed unreal after the intensity of the attack.

"He-e-e-lp."

Jenna then called out. "Dad, the boat just got to the dock. I see people getting off." It was a water taxi that ran a regular service across Lake Josephine. Hikers soon would soon be streaming along the trail.

Johan grew sore and stiff and numb. Lying down, sitting up, nothing helped. Forty-five minutes later, he heard Jenna talking. "Dad, there are people here now. They're getting help."

Still, it seemed like forever. Johan then saw a man sliding down toward him. The man's eyes were wide open. The expression said everything.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"Do you see a camera?" Johan replied.

The injured man before Jim Knapp was the most gruesome sight he had ever seen.

Blood covered Johan's face. His arms and legs oozed blood. His voice and sentences were jerky and repetitive.

"Jenna's OK," Knapp said, as he began to get a sense of Johan's injuries. He noticed the day pack — but no camera — on the shelf beneath them, and he retrieved it. Inside were a sweat shirt and four water bottles. He covered Johan and tried to make him drink. He wrapped his T-shirt around a deep gash on Johan's leg. He laid out nuts and a granola bar and took water to Jenna.

Johan then saw a girl sliding down to him. Her name was Kari Schweigert. She and Heidi Reindl had just started an 11-mile hike when they ran into Knapp's wife, running down the trail, screaming for help.

Then there were two teenage boys. Johan couldn't keep track of everyone, but one of the boys did get his camera.

The rock at the back of his head felt like it was digging into his skull. He wanted them to help him sit up, but they didn't want to. They were worried about his neck.

Then he'd have to do it himself. But he was fading.

"What's your name?"

"Johan Otter."

"Where are you?"

"Glacier National Park."

"What time of day is it?"

"Late morning."

"What happened?"

"Bear attack."

The name badge said Katie. She wore the green-and-gray uniform of the park service. Once she determined he was alert and oriented, she started dressing his wounds.

Another ranger was with Katie. Additional rangers were 70 miles away. A helicopter would ferry them to the site of the attack.

Challenging rescue

The chopper circled, looking for a place to land.

Three hours had passed since the attack, and Johan's metabolism was ebbing into a miasma of pain, discomfort and boredom. Why was the rescue taking so long?

He knew he needed to stay warm and awake. Wind gusted along the cliff; temperatures shot from warm to freezing as clouds drifted beneath the sun. Hikers were tossing down energy bars, water and more outerwear.

A second ranger, Gary Moses, crouched beside Johan. He had nearly 50 pounds of gear, and he began cutting away Johan's jackets and clothing. Johan appreciated his calm and confident manner.

Moses explained that the plan was to place Johan and Jenna on litters, have them lifted to the trail and then carried to a landing zone, where the chopper would take them to Kalispell Regional Medical Center in Kalispell, Mont.

Rangers knew they had to move fast. Moses prepared an IV line. Johan tried to lie still, but he was shivering uncontrollably. Then he heard something. Katie Fullerton was crying. This was her first season as a patrol ranger, her first major trauma.

"Do you want to stand down?" Moses asked her.

She shook her head.

Johan was glad. She had worked hard to make him comfortable and safe.

The helicopter was making a second landing, and all Johan could think was: Hurry up. Moses reassessed the rescue plan. Carrying Johan out, lifting him to the trail and then down to the helicopter landing zone would be too traumatic.

He thought a helicopter could lift Johan directly off this ledge, in a rescue known as a short haul. The incident commander agreed, but it would require a different chopper.

Pilot Ken Justus brought the new helicopter close to the cliff. Medic Jerry Anderson dangled 150 feet beneath them on a rope with a red Bauman Bag and a body board at his waist. Lying on his back, Johan watched.

The IV had kicked in. He was awake and in no pain, but he felt afraid.

"You'll have the best view of your life," Moses said, hiding his worry. Justus set Anderson down about 20 feet to the right of Johan. Anderson unhooked himself. Justus moved the helicopter away. With the rangers' help, Anderson slid the body board beneath Johan and strapped the Bauman Bag around him. He waved Justus back in.

Dangling with Anderson beside him, all Johan would see was Anderson's face, the blue sky and the belly of the chopper. The wind whistled. The hikers and rangers on the mountain started cheering.

Justus accelerated to the helipad at Many Glacier. Johan was transferred into an ambulance while Justus returned to fetch Jenna. Johan was out of the wind and in a warm place.

Then he heard the news. "Jenna is here," someone said.

"Hi, sweetie," he called out. With his head wrapped in bandages, mummy-slits for his eyes and the C-collar on his neck, Johan couldn't see her. "Make sure when they call Mom that you talk to her." He knew he wouldn't be the one making that call.

"Otherwise she'll totally freak out," he said.

Part two, "Will Johan live?" will appear on Friday