You ever have that nightmare where you’re
naked and everyone’s laughing at you? Well, for mountain man John Colter, the bad
dream was real. The hot summer sun beat down on his unmentionable
places as a crowd of Blackfoot Indians made crude gestures and taunted him. They had already killed his partner and now
a group of leaders were deciding his fate. Suddenly an elder grabbed Colter’s arm and
led him away. ‘Go!’ said the elder pointing at the prairie,
“Run!’ Confused, Colter staggered forward and then
glanced back. The Blackfoot warriors were stretching, limbering
up. That’s when Colter realized--he was running
for his life. Late in the summer of 1809, John Colter and
John Potts left Fort Raymond, also known as Fort Manuel and ventured into Blackfoot Territory
near where the Gallatin, Jefferson and Madison Rivers meet. Today this area is known as Three Forks, Montana. The two men were skilled hunters and planned
to trap beavers. They had met a few years before when they
had been members of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Colter and Potts knew that poaching in Blackfoot
territory was extremely dangerous, but a good price was being paid for beaver pelts. So they tried to keep their presence on the
down low. They set out beaver traps at night, checked
them early in the morning, hid and slept during midday. The two men were each paddling a small dugout
canoe up the Jefferson river when they heard a stamping noise. Colter worried that it was Blackfoot Indians
and wanted to turn back, but Potts insisted the noise was buffalo and accused Colter of
cowardice. For the rest of Potts’ very short miserable
life, he wished he had listened to Colter. They paddled around a bend to see that the
banks of the river were lined with around 800 Blackfoot, some on horses. The tribe gestured for them to come ashore. Colter thought it was best to comply; trying
to escape was futile. He furtively cut the lines for his beaver
trapping gear, letting it drift to the shallow bottom of the river. He told Potts that he could retrieve it later. Colter went ashore. He spoke rudimentary Blackfoot and also a
little Crow, the language of a neighboring Indian tribe. He thought that he and Potts were just going
to robbed. The Blackfoot took Coulter’s gear-his rifle,
flint, powderhorn and his knife. Then they made him strip. Off came Colter’s shirt, belt, pants and
boots. Soon he was as naked as the day he was born. Meanwhile, Potts stood in his canoe, longrifle
in hand, watching the proceedings and refusing to come ashore. The Blackfoot communicated to Colter that
he should tell Potts to come ashore. Colter told Potts, but Potts refused saying
that he might as well lose his life rather than be stripped and robbed like Colter. Prophetic words. An archer on the shore shot Potts in the hip
with an arrow. Potts fell to the bottom of his boat. Colter asked if he was hurt. Potts said yes, he was hurt, too injured to
escape. As he rose up from the bottom of his canoe,
poised for action, Potts told Colter to get away if he could, he was going to shoot at
least one Indian. Potts fired, killing one of the Blackfoot. All hell broke loose. A volley of arrows were unleashed at Potts
and in seconds, he was dead, riddled with arrows and bullets. Blackfoot jumped in the river and dragged
Potts’ boat to shore. Raging, they tossed his corpse on the ground. They mutilated his body, hacking it apart
with tomahawks and knives. Colter stood by, head turned away so he didn’t
see. Some accounts claim that the Blackfoot threw
Potts’ entails into Colter’s face to goad him. Either way, soon all that was left of Potts
was a bloody, pulpy mess on the ground. An angry warrior came at Colter with a tomahawk,
but his tribesmen grabbed him and held him back. A group of leaders and elders quickly convened
to decide what to do with Colter. Meanwhile, Coulter stood there in his birthday
suit, being harassed by the mob. He was sweating, trying to keep a cool head
while dreading what was going to happen next. Would the Blackfoot torture him before they
killed him? An elder left the council, came over to Colter,
grabbed his arm and began to walk him away from the crowd. The elder pointed at the prairie. ‘Go! Go away!’ he told Colter in Crow. Colter walked a few steps forward on shaky
legs; he thought the tribe was going to shoot him in the back. The Elder impatiently gestured and demanded
Colter go faster. Colter walked a little faster, when he got
maybe 100 yards away (300 feet, 91.44 meters), he glanced back to see that the young men
of the tribe were stripping off their leggings and stretching. That’s when Colter understood--they were
the hunters and he was the prey, he was running for his life. His heart pounding, Colter took off, running
as fast as he could. Seconds later, blood curdling war cries went
up as the Blackfoot came chasing after Colter. Colter was fleet of foot; he was in good shape
and adrenaline coursed through his body. But every step was painful; the prairie was
treacherous. Large swathes of prickly pear bush covered
the ground. The tiny spikes from their stickers pierced
the tender skin between Colter’s toes. Pebbles tripped him and also bit into his
feet. Shrubs scratched and left welts on his calves
as he charged through them. Thankfully, Colter knew the area, he was about
5 miles from the Madison river. If he could just make it there... Colter ran and ran, not daring to look back. Startled birds flew up from the grass as he
bolted past. He could hear war whoops and laughter carrying
on the breeze. Also footsteps. He wasn’t sure if the Blackfoot were close
on his tail or if it was just the imagination of his terrified mind. Finally Colter couldn’t bear it any longer,
he was out of breath. He had a stitch in his side. His nose had started to bleed from the extreme
exertion. Slowing down, he looked back. Colter had run perhaps three miles. Most of the hunters had lost steam and were
distant specks on the prairie. However one graceful runner draped in a blanket
and carrying a spear was far ahead of the rest of the pack, maybe around 100 yards (300
feet, 91.44 meters) behind Colter. The distance between them was just shy of
an American football field. Colter took off again. The Blackfoot hunter chased him for another
mile, slowly gaining ground, getting closer and closer. Heart racing, lungs burning, ears ringing,
Colter could run no more. He stopped and whirled around. Arms spread wide, panting, his feet shredded
and his nose gushing blood, Colter pleaded for his life in Crow. The exhausted warrior didn’t hear Colter
or didn’t care. He ran closer and then lunged at Colter with
his spear, but stumbled and fell, breaking his spear in two. The tables were turned. Suddenly it was the Blackfoot warrior on the
ground begging for mercy. Colter snatched up the half of the spear that
had the sharp head and impaled the warrior, pinning him to the ground. Colter worked the broken spear free from the
dying man and stole his blanket. Buoyed by a fresh wave of energy, Colter turned
and ran for the river which was about a mile away. Colter gained a little extra time as the Blackfoot
stopped to check on their fallen tribesman. The discovery of their comrade’s death sent
the Indians into new paroxysms of rage and grief. At the bank of the Madison River, Colter paused
to catch his breath and scanned the area. Slightly downstream he noticed a huge beaver
lodge with a mound of brush, sticks and river debris rising from the water. Colter plunged into the river; by golly it
was cold! The water came from snowpack melting further
up stream. At least it numbed his swollen, bloody feet. Colter swam over to the beaver lodge and dived
down to come up under the wall and enter it. Beaver are clever animals, good at construction. Their lodges are often multi roomed and two-story,
the interior made watertight by an intricate weave of twigs, grass and mud. Colter secreted himself on the dry second
level of the lodge. Just in time. The Blackfoot splashed into the river, searching
for Colter. They stood atop the beaver mound, poked spears
into it and argued about which way was Colter went. Colter lay inches under then, scarcely breathing,
worried that the hunters would fall through or set his hiding place on fire. Thankfully, they didn’t. Instead the Blackfoot spread out to comb the
area. Several men crossed to the opposite bank to
look for him on the other side of the river. Colter stayed in his hiding place, terrified
that they had left someone on watch. The main pack of hunters came back two hours
later, angry, having seen not hide nor hair of Colter on the far side of the river. Finally the Blackfoot left, returning to their
tribe. A shivering Colter decided to play it safe
and stayed put until dark. Then he finally left the beaver lodge, and
swam many miles downstream. Finally Colter emerged from the water, chilled
to the bone. All he had was the sharp end of a broken spear
and a sodden blanket. No food, no clothing and no gear. He was hundreds of miles from the nearest
fort. Worse yet, an angry Blackfoot tribe was probably
monitoring the nearby mountain pass. Sure going through Bozeman Pass and following
the Yellowstone River was the quickest route back to Fort Raymond. However, that route would take Colter through
the heart of Blackfoot country. He didn’t want to chance it. Colter took a long detour which added probably
100 miles (160 km) to his journey, but it was far safer. Colter walked about 30 miles (48 km) east
towards the Bridger Mountains. To get over the mountains, he climbed a near
vertical peak. Hiking through the snow capped peaks at the
top of the mountains was especially hard as he had only his lone blanket to stay warm. Once over the mountains, Colter walked across
the Great Plains and then through Montana wilderness. He ate berries, bark and roots known as ‘prairie
turnips’, dug up with his hands and the spear point. Eleven days and some 300 miles later, Colter
finally arrived back to Fort Raymond. He was naked, sunburned, covered in insect
bites and emaciated. His feet were swollen and blistered. His eyes were glassy and his beard long and
scraggly. Close companions didn’t even recognize him. Colter spent several weeks recuperating from
his narrow escape and arduous journey home. Later that winter, Colter, who was brave,
foolish or insane or perhaps a bit of all three headed back into Blackfoot Territory. He wanted to retrieve his expensive beaver
trapping gear which he had dropped in the river on that terrible summer’s day he ended
up being hunted. Since it was the dead of winter, Colter figured
he’d be okay, he thought that the Blackfoot would be hunkered down in their camps until
spring. Colter traveled through the Bozeman Pass and
reached the Gallatin River. One evening, he was settling down to a nice
meal of boiled buffalo meat by his small campfire when his sharp hunter’s ears detected the
tell-tale sound of twigs snapping. Operating on instinct honed from years of
living in the wilderness, Colter dove down atop his fire, extinguishing it. Muskets cracked and musket balls whined over
Colter’s head as he lay in the darkness. Finally, Colter had enough. He hastily packed up and went back to Fort
Raymond, eventually heading east to buy a farm, settle down and get married. Do you think you could run 5 miles and escape
if someone was chasing you? Let us know in the comments! Also, be sure to check out our other video
Man Who Hunted Humans As a Game In Real Life! Thanks for watching, and, as always, don’t
forget to like, share, and subscribe. See you next time!
