By Zachariah Hughes
Anchorage Daily News
ANCHORAGE, Alaska — Victoria Lytle was on her way down from a hike in July when she heard barking. She was in a popular part of the trail system on the Anchorage Hillside, and assumed it was just someone’s dog.
“Turns out that bears bark, too,” Lytle said, going on to describe the mauling that nearly killed her.
| READ NEXT: Firefighter gives fellow first responder the ultimate gift
“I saw her, I still can see her coming right at me. Brown bear. Knocked me down ... I do remember laying there and being chewed on, trying to play dead. She ran off. And I was furious,” Lytle said. “I just thought, ‘She’s ruined my day.’ ”
Lytle spoke at a small event Tuesday in the Anchorage Fire Department station that dispatched personnel to find and save her this summer. She had not previously reconnected with any of the emergency responders involved in her rescue, nor shared her story publicly.
“ ‘Thank you’ just does not seem to be enough to say for saving my life. I really, really, really appreciate every single one of you,” Lytle said to a room full of firefighters, dispatchers and medics standing around the edge of a chilly vehicle bay.
The event was small and informal, and included many of the people who responded to the July call in ways big and small. It followed a ceremony at a different fire station to recognize the actions taken by AFD members involved in hiking 2 miles from the Basher trailhead into the Chugach mountains to try to find Lytle as she lay bleeding in the woods, talking to a 911 dispatcher through her Apple watch. By the time medics found her, dragged some distance off the hiking trail, it had been nearly an hour and a half. Lytle had lost blood from wounds to her jugular, arms, thigh and head.
“These guys found me,” Lytle said, gesturing to AFD medics Sean McMillan and Stefan Isaly-Johns , standing beside her in front of a fire engine. Tuesday’s event was the first time she’d seen either of them since the attack.
“I wasn’t even sure how to find them. I sent a letter and this is, I think, the result of that,” Lytle said, referring to the gathering.
Several of those in attendance said the rescue was remarkable, not just because of its complexity in the backcountry but because Lytle, a 67-year-old retiree, was now standing beside them in person, shaking hands and giving hugs.
It is “not very often” that emergency personnel get to meet the people they save, said Julie Condell, the 911 dispatcher who stayed on the phone with Lytle for close to 90 minutes. As rescuers tried to locate Lytle, Condell kept her talking, reminded her to apply pressure to wounds and fretted with her at each rustling sound that they worried was the bear coming back.
“I kept on talking to her, asking her questions about her life, so I got to learn a lot about her life,” Condell said. “It was really fascinating to actually have an intimate conversation with someone you’ve never met before.”
Condell brought a small gift: a stuffed bear, which Lytle accepted with a laugh.
Alaska sees plenty of burly rescues in remote locations. But just because they are routine does not make them straightforward, even for professional responders. It is rare for medics with Anchorage’s fire department — typically summoned to car accidents, structure fires and medical emergencies they can drive to in an ambulance — to trek miles up a mountain to find a patient and start administering trauma care. All while an aggressive bear could still be stalking around.
“This was certainly the most austere environment that I’ve had to deal with. Everything just sort of came together perfectly ... it was insane,” said McMillan, one of the two rescuers to first find Lytle.
When the call came in about a hiker mauled by a bear somewhere along the Dome Trail, McMillan happened to already be in shorts and trail-running shoes because he’d been doing physical training up and down the stairs at the Hilltop Ski Area ski jump. He “self-dispatched” to the scene, he said, in part because he knew the area from hiking and biking it over the years. His counterpart on the slog up the mountain, Isaly-Johns, was less appropriately outfitted, and marched up in his structured firefighting boots. Though the pair had medical kits, they were nowhere near the resources the responders would normally have on hand to keep a severely wounded patient alive.
“We were stuck with what we had,” McMillan said. Affixed to his right lapel was a new blue and white pin, the Firefighter Medal of Honor, awarded minutes earlier by the department in recognition of heroism amid dangerous circumstances, i.e., the bear.
He and Isaly-Johns got to Lytle at about the same time as a state helicopter flying overhead arrived to the area, he explained. Despite the rough terrain, the helicopter crew managed to land.
“It’s a passenger helicopter,” McMillan said. “They were my only option.”
Lacking any kind of emergency medical configuration, McMillan and the others removed seats to make room for Lytle.
“We slid her in on the floor. I slid in next to her,” he said.
They flew to a local hospital. Lytle was under sedation for two nights, she told Condell. Her injuries were extensive: approximately a hundred staples put into her head, a deep gouge to her thigh, “miscellaneous stitches all over the place,” she said, and profound damage to her arm that has yet to recover. Astoundingly, she was well enough to be discharged a week after the attack.
“For some odd reason there is not a lot of mental trauma involved,” Lytle said.
Lytle grew up in Anchorage. She went to Rogers Park Elementary School and graduated from East High. Her career took her out of Alaska and overseas, researching glaciers, ice sheets and climate change. Upon retiring around 2009, she moved back to Anchorage.
After the attack, neither Lytle’s name nor identity came out in public, even as the incident began to spread in national news.
“The comments afterwards were just mean. And I still remember that. And I was like, ‘I don’t want my name out there at all,’ ” she said.
Months later, exchanging words and smiles with people who’d kept her alive, Lytle said she was indifferent to online nastiness.
“Now I don’t care. I’m kind of over it now,” she said.
At the end of her informal remarks to the attendees Tuesday, Lytle added that the scale of rescue efforts involved in finding her, taking her to safety and healing her had deepened her appreciation of the community.
“I’m actually very proud to live in this town,” she said.
© 2025 the Alaska Dispatch News (Anchorage, Alaska).
Visit www.adn.com.
Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.
