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I had survived for five long, cold days.

At dawn I exited the little cabin by the lake and walked out onto the ice. This frozen expanse had provided me with valuable resources, so I made my camp in the lodge across the way.

As I began to make my way back to camp, we spotted each other. A very large, very angry bear stood to my right. We locked eyes and everything stopped. I raised my rifle as he charged and fired. Direct hit, but still he came. As the remaining three bullets did little to slow him, I realized this was it.

He hit with the force of a runaway truck. Teeth and claws thrashed and ripped by clothes and flesh. The attack lasted mere seconds, but the damage was done. I pulled myself, bleeding and bruised from the ice and administered what little first aid I had. With the last small ounce of adrenaline left in me, I began to run. Straight across for the lodge where all of my extra supplies, firewood and food were.

The black crept into the edges of my vision. My staggering grew worse. I couldn't walk straight, but still I pushed on. After what seemed like a lifetime, I pulled myself to the door of the cabin and went inside. Slowly up the stairs, vision all but gone, I crept. Finally, I lit a fire with my last accelerant and a few books. Water, food, rest and pain killers pulled me back from the brink over the next day.

When back at 100 percent, I ventured out for more ice fishing, only to be surrounded by wolves and killed; overtaken by hypothermia and blood loss.

I survived six days, eight hours.