And it kept getting worse

This is the ridiculously true story of Hugh Glass, possibly the unluckiest lucky bastard who ever lived.


That's a big claim, but I'll let you be the judge.  Allow me to explain.

It was August 1823, and the sorry bastard in question was part of a 100 man party exploring the wilds of what is now South Dakota for the government.  Though there were hostile natives in the territory as well as large predators, it could have been worse.  He could have been alone.

So he found himself alone, scouting for game, when he got surprised by a mother Grizzly and her cubs (not Sarah Palin but an actual momma grizzly).  It could have been worse.  He could have had too little time to grab his rifle.

I never said it was a fair fight.

So he had too little time to grab his rifle before the charging bear (let's just call her Sarah) was on him in a furious rage.  It could have been worse; he could've had just a knife instead of a pistol.

So all he had was a knife instead of a pistol.  He fought like hell and scored some hits, but getting in a knife fight with a grizzly is every bit as unlucky as it sounds.  It could have been worse; Sarah could've ripped the hell out of him before help arrived.

So Sarah ripped the hell out of him before this comrades arrived to finish her off.  Hugh Glass lie unconscious at their feet.  It could have been worse; his back could have been ripped open right down to exposed ribs.

So Hugh's back had been ripped open right down to exposed ribs.  It could have been worse; his expedition leader Andrew Henry could've assumed he'd die shortly and decide to move on, leaving only a pair of men behind to dig a grave for him.

So Andrew Henry assumed Hugh would die shortly, decided to move on, and left only a pair of men to dig a grave for him and wait for him to die.  They dug the grave and simply waited, but at least he had company.  It could have been worse; hostile indians could've scared the two into abandoning him while he was still alive.

So approaching hostile indians scared the two into abandoning him while he was still alive.  Eventually he regained consciousness, back ribs still exposed, with nothing for company save the open grave intended for him.  It could have been worse; they could have taken his knife, rifle and other equipment when they fled -leaving him with nothing.

So they had taken his knife, rifle and other equipment when they fled -leaving him with nothing.  He know the closest white settlement was over 200 miles away, at Fort Kiowa on the Missouri River.  It could have been worse; Hugh could've found out that on top of his other devastating injuries, his leg was broken and he couldn't walk.

So Hugh found out that on top of his other devastating injuries, his leg was broken and he couldn't walk.  It could've been worse; he could've found himself without food either and having to subsist on berries and roots.

So he found himself without food either and had to subsist on berries and roots.  On one occasion he came across a freshly killed bison calf loaded with fresh meat.  He had no way to cook it.  But it could have been worse; there could have been a pair of wolves eating it at the time.

So there were a pair of wolves eating the bison at the time.  Hugh had to drive them off before he could get a bite.  He ate heartily and it gave him strength to go on.  Soon he reached the friendly Cheyenne who gave him what aid they could.  It could have been worse; their idea of medicine could've been so primitive that they'd sew a bearskin onto his back to cover his still-exposed ribs.

So their idea of medicine was so primitive that they sewed a bearskin onto his back to cover his still-exposed ribs.  Taking his chances on a makeshift raft he got down river and eventually to the safety of Fort Kiowa.

He recovered and lived another ten years, working as a trapper and still daring the frontier.  Had he lived in this day and age he'd be an instant celebrity with a book deal, a movie deal, probably a reality show,  possibly a sex tape, and all the millions that go with it.  But he lived in the early 1800's, so he had to go back to work and take his chances on the frontier.  It could have been worse; he could've been out trapping game with a few others and got attacked and killed by hostile natives.

So in 1833 Hugh Glass was out trapping game with a few others when they got attacked and killed by hostile natives.  I did mention that he was the unluckiest lucky bastard ever, did I not?

The whole of this tale was recounted in Lord Grizzly, a 1954 finalist for the National Book Award.

This marks the end of the 30 days of writing, a creative challenge so grueling the participating writers may feel like they've been mauled by Sarah Palin, abandoned by friends, starved in the wild and eventually killed by hostile nativ- but really, what a bunch of whiners!  Our 30 days in the wilderness are over and after posting ever single day and not shirking a single challenge I do feel like I've accomplished something.  What exactly I'm not sure...

Such is life.  Thanks for dropping by.