Institutional photograph of brown bear skull “Old Groaner” from the Unuk River, shot by Bruce Johnstone in early November 1935. (Image courtesy Ketchikan Museums: Tongass Historical Society Collection, THS 66.11.11.1 A&B)

Part of a continuing weekly series on Alaska history by local historian David Reamer. Have a question about Anchorage or Alaska history or an idea for a future article? Go to the form at the bottom of this story.

“Mankind was not absolutely alone among the conscious things of earth, for shapes came out of the dark to visit the faithful few.” H. P. Lovecraft included these words in his 1928 short story, “The Call of Cthulu.” Even as he wrote, an elder monster possessed with a righteous rage haunted the distant, remote woods of the Unuk Valley, as it would for more than a decade. The beast crashed through the brush, nearby hunters aware of his immense size from the sheer cacophony of his passage.

But he made another sound, one more unique and disturbing. The grown men, with guns and experience of their use, froze when they heard it. Mid-step or drink or bite of food, it did not matter. Some deep, subconscious animal instinct reminded them that they might no longer be the hunters, that movement is the death of prey. It was an anguished, inhuman moan, ragged and ridden with notes of inescapable pain and anger. It was the great nightmare bear of Alaska, Old Groaner.

Every monster has an origin story, even if steeped as much in myth as in history, perhaps the better for it. For Old Groaner, a possible beginning came in 1923. Disappearances were common in Alaska then. People sometimes decided Alaska wasn’t right for them and just left, without warning or other discussion. Other people ran into problems along the distances between settlements, hunters and prospectors and the like. Accidents happen, and minor issues become dire problems off the trails and away from assistance. In other words, sometimes people expected back into town never arrived, with no one ever knowing the why of it.

The Unuk River region is and was an off-the-main-trail place. The Unuk River, Joonáx̱ in Tlingit, runs from glaciers in British Columbia through Alaska. It empties into Burroughs Bay, off the Behm Canal and northeast of Ketchikan. The forests there are dense and heavy with massive brown bears, their footprints lining the river and creek shores.

Jess Sethington was one of those people who seemed to disappear. He was a trapper out of Stewart, British Columbia, and, in 1923, was known to be traveling by himself up the Unuk. Then he was never heard from again. Folk found signs of his camps but not the person. And, for the sake of this story, he was known to carry a .33 caliber rifle and a .38 revolver.

Even among the great bears of the Unuk Valley, there is a difference between “big” and “biggest.” Old Groaner towered, an aged giant hampered and enraged by his past wounds. His teeth were worn and ragged from time and use. Some were missing, others simply broken, aching points whenever he ate or tore. From some ancient dire injury, four of his vertebrae and two ribs had fused, every movement a new agony.

And there were the bullets, as if fired by some missing trapper. There were two .33 bullets lodged in his skull and three more revolver rounds caught in the flesh beneath his jaw, besides the evidence of other shots intended to kill. His tattered head was a relic of that encounter or encounters. The arch above where his right eye should have been was blown away, and an empty socket was left below. The right-side hinge of his jaw was shattered, left broken and exposed. The bones were stark white surrounded by red flesh, infected still, perhaps over a decade later. For years, Old Groaner experienced the world through a lens of pain, the totality of which can only be imagined.

Like this, Old Groaner lived. If not thriving, he survived. His spirit was yet the pilot of a massive machine of destruction, his bulk no less imposing for the passage of years, his claws still capable of rendering the lesser beasts. He raged in his wanderings, that altered, ravaged body perhaps predisposed toward violence. And so, consider how he might have felt when encountering more humans, holding those instruments that gave him many of those wounds.

The Unuk River in Southeast Alaska. (Public Domain photo via USGS / Alaska Science Center)

Bruce Johnstone was, like many Alaskans of the era, active in multiple fields, the necessary hustling of a different time. He was a fisherman, guide, hunter, prospector, and trapper. In 1933, he left Ketchikan with his brother, Jack, intent on gold around the headwaters of the Unuk River. Deep into the wild country, they were camping when they heard a long moan, agonized and deep. As experienced outdoorsmen, the Johnstones knew the regular range of animal sounds, and this was something different. Their movements stilled, and a groan sounded again, this time closer. The silence that followed was in its own way equally chilling. Noise was at least an indication of distance and location. A lack of sound meant an uneasy range of possibilities. Unsurprisingly, the memory lingered.

In the summer of 1934, they returned, taking another turn at finding color from their Cripple Creek claims. Around them, they heard intermittent groans, distant and then close, left and then right, moving about in the forest gloom. Was it hunting them? And again, they saw nothing. Back in Ketchikan, they told the tale of the mysterious Old Groaner of a bear, which is what they decided it must be. In the warmth of rooms and with a drink in hand, they felt no fears. There was only the bravado of the moment after the danger had passed.

With the arrival of summer in 1935, they returned to Cripple Creek, with their partner, George Lemmons. Bruce was exploring a bit, pressing through a salmonberry thicket when he heard the now familiar, if no less terrifying, coughing groan. Armed with only a single-shot .410 pistol meant for grouse — his rifle lay back in the boat — he fired into the air and ran. Old Groaner pursued, the thick brush obscuring him. Johnstone reloaded and fired backward while still moving. He finally emerged onto the shore, grabbed his rifle, and turned for what he assumed was a final stand. Nothing was there. The groans sounded for a while longer before fading. After numerous near misses, he had yet to actually lay eyes on the bear.

That October, the Johnstones were back at Cripple Creek, intent on working the claim in the fading days left until full winter. During their first night at the creek, Old Groaner appeared again, moving in the shadows, right at the edge of the light from their fire. They saw shapes in the darkness, forms without details. Like a bad dream, he faded away.

The brothers quickly built a cabin, though their nights were consistently accompanied by the rough cries of Old Groaner. In November, they could no longer ignore the passage of the seasons and prepared to head back home. There had been a relative influx of prospectors into the area, so, as a last act before departing, they prepared some claim signs. Bruce chopped down a small tree and trimmed it into stake form. Then he kneeled on the ground and scrawled the needed message on the post. His rifle, a .38.72, and dog, Slasher, rested nearby.

Having approached silently for once, Old Groaner burst onto the scene. That horrible face, with missing eye and fixed snarl, loomed before him. Noble Slasher was the difference-maker. He leapt at the bear and was summarily swatted into some distant brush. However, that moment allowed Johnstone to grab his rifle and fire from the hip. Old Groaner passed by him and crashed to the earth before rising, snorting and moaning.

With a bit more time to prepare, Bruce fired again, hitting the bear in the neck. Groaner went down but scrambled back to his feet, now bellowing, an engine of rage and suffering. Down to a last cartridge, Bruce aimed behind the bear’s ear and fired. At the same time, Slasher returned to the fray, sinking teeth into the beast’s back. Bear and dog went down. Johnstone struggled to remain standing himself, the adrenaline and realizations racing through him. Though Slasher pressed on with his attack, the great bear was dead.

Bruce went back to the cabin, found his brother and some more bullets. Together, they went to investigate the corpse. There, they were the first people to see the entirety of Old Groaner, to see the extent of his older wounds. At least, they were the first to see the map of old battles carved into the bear’s flesh and live to talk about it. Bruce chopped off the head and a paw, though he decided to leave the hide. While cleaning out the skull, he found the slugs and other evidence from the earlier shooting.

Back in Ketchikan, they were the center of all discussions, with the trophy of all trophies. As it turned out, the skull was the proof of a record, a shocking 11 inches wide by 17 inches long. On the Boone and Crockett Scale, the official scale of animal world records, it measured at 27 4/16 inches. For many years, it was displayed in the offices of the Alaska Sportsman. The paw, itself 10 inches wide, was given to Josephine Matney, who had a home at the mouth of the Unuk. It later burned with that house. The next year, the Johnstones found the remains and retrieved the spine. The fused section was shown for years at Harry Cowan’s sporting goods store in Ketchikan.

Institutional photograph of brown bear skull “Old Groaner” from the Unuk River, shot by Bruce Johnstone in early November 1935. (Image courtesy Ketchikan Museums: Tongass Historical Society Collection, THS 66.11.11.1 A&B)

Besides the record size, Old Groaner had the advantages of a proper nickname and legend. The story spread like wildfire, carried by newspapers across America and into other countries. The Sportsman had a feature on it available on the newsstands the following January. To this day, it remains a mainstay of Alaska wildlife tales. The skull itself, with its visible bullet holes, is still on display at the Tongass Historical Museum in Ketchikan. Per Senior Curator of Collections Hayley Chambers, “Old Groaner is one of our most cherished artifacts.”

Anyone who hunts or fishes, or knows a hunter or fisherman, will understand the following caveat. No grand Alaska tale is complete without a few discrepancies. Modern accounts of Old Groaner are primarily based on two Alaska Sportsman articles. The first was published in February 1936, written by F. W. “Bill” Gabler, a respected and founding Sportsman contributor. Gabler interviewed Johnstone — they both lived in the Ketchikan area — and that article ran only a few months after Old Groaner’s demise. Proximity to events is often a historical virtue, suggestive of greater accuracy.

The February 1936 edition of the Alaska Sportsman, which included a story about Old Groaner. (Image provided by David Reamer)

W. H. “Handlogger” Jackson offered a new narrative in 1953, what is perhaps the most commonly cited source on Old Groaner. Now, the math says that is quite a few years later, after memories had a chance to erode. On the other hand, Jackson was married to Johnstone’s sister, Ruth. The history is the history; what happened is what happened. How it is told, however, changes. There are spins and embellishments, dramatic effects and sudden reveals. For both his survival and duty to repeat the story forever, Johnstone earned some creative freedom. And in the main, the two versions tell the same tale. But those differences are notable.

Most notably, Gabler includes a whole other bear, who attacked Johnstone at the same time and was driven off by Slasher. This second bear has a backstory connected to Old Groaner, a lengthy jaunt about Gabler’s imagination that undercuts trust in the entire account. The reasons for abandoning the pelt are different. In 1936, “Old Groaner’s carcass was frozen stiff, rendering it impossible to skin.” In 1953, “his hairless hide was absolutely worthless.” Jackson rewrote his version as a chapter in the 1956 book, “Blood on the Arctic Snow.” That text includes a contradictory, hairy picture of Old Groaner before decapitation.

Gabler only mentions “two lead slugs” from a .33 recovered from the bear’s skull. Jackson added the .38 pistol attributed to Sethington and additional three .38 bullets embedded “in the gristle under the jaw.” The 1953 article is significantly longer and, as a result, rife with further details.

The March 1953 edition of the Alaska Sportsman, which included a story about Old Groaner. (Image provided by David Reamer)

Johnstone lived a long time, passing away in 2006 at 97. It is nigh impossible to imagine how many times he told the story, how often people begged him to liven up a quiet moment with the horrors of Old Groaner. And over those many years, those details ever so slightly blurred at the edges, as retold by Johnstone and his audience members. Was it June or November of 1935? Was it three, five, or even 17 bullets pulled from the skull? Did Slasher grab Old Groaner, giving Johnstone the time to shoot? What guns were involved? It depended on when and who you asked.

None of these historiographical musings detract from the core of the story, of a nightmarish beast screaming in agony for over a decade, yet surviving in his madness until taken down by Johnstone. Nor do these caveats divert from the other reality that there have been and might still be monsters in the dark distance, lurking in the woods out of sight. Johnstone himself later survived an attack by three bears near the mouth of the Unuk, which he sometimes thought should have been his greater claim to fame, the Alaska tale he preferred to share.

The year after Old Groaner’s demise, Joe Rout took down a giant female brown bear near Telaquana Lake. While cleaning the skull, he found a 30-30 slug, healed over. Its path through the head suggested the shot came from directly above, as from a tree, or with the animal right on top of the earlier shooter. From a 1936 Anchorage Daily Times story, game warden Jack O’Connor “pointed out the man never lived to tell of it because the shot did not kill the bear and probably never even halted her.” In other words, the bear had won at least one battle against man.

Winter comes, and nights grow long. Under lights and beside fires, we become, to abuse Lovecraft once more, “on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity.” Horrors sometimes walk our woods in the dark, willing if not eager to pounce on the unwary. Our relics — our past — occasionally intend our destruction.

• • •

Key sources:

“Are Bears Tough?” Anchorage Daily Times. July 25, 1936, 7.

Gabler, F. W. “Old Groaner.” Alaska Sportsman. February 1935, 16-19, 28.

Gilliam, Al. “Three Bears!” Sporting Classics Daily. March 9, 2022.

Jackson, W. H. “The Moaning Marauder of Cripple Creek.” Alaska Sportsman. March 1953, 6-11, 3-35.

Jackson, W. H. “Moaning Marauder.” In Blood on the Arctic Snow, edited by B. G. Olson and Mike Miller, 1-19. Seattle: Superior Publishing Company, 1956.

“Museum Midday: Old Groaner and Bruce Johnstone.” Ketchikan Museums. December 18, 2021, video, 42:38.

“’Old Groaner’ Is Killed; Apparent Reason for Groans.” [Juneau] Daily Alaska Empire. November 30, 1935, 1.

Weingarten, Dean. “Alaskan Myth Old Groaner, Bears and Pistols Part II, the 1953 Re-Write.” Ammoland. August 1, 2022.

Weingarten, Dean. “’Old Groaner’: AK Bear Legend Part III, Changes to the Story Over Time.” Ammoland. August 4, 2022.