It’s cold and grey. So grey in fact, it’s hard to discern sky from sea at the horizon. I’m dressed in a plastic bag, rubber sealed at wrist and neck. They call it a “dry-suit”. Crammed into a bright yellow kayak, I weave my way through drifting pieces of melting sea ice.
Looking to my right, I can see others from my party of ten. One turns to me with a big, cheeky grin across his face. He’s as happy as I am. We’re in the high Arctic, attempting a circumnavigation of the Svalbard archipelago.
Our mothership, the Akademik Ioffe, is anchored a way off. The best part of being in a small kayaking group is we get to remove ourselves from the noise of the ship and the inflatable rubber boats that ferry the rest of our expedition group. In the quiet, we get to search for something special. Something the others may not get to see.
Polar bears. The 15 year polar veteran and marine biologist, Kirsten Le Mar, refers to them as “sexy, charismatic megafauna.” (SCM, for short.) She is one of our expedition leaders. Svalbard is an isolated group of islands east of Greenland and is well known for its large population of polar bears. There are even warning signs posted around the capital of Longyearbyen reminding you not to leave town unarmed.
Paddle. Paddle. Paddle.
“Over there!” It is an excited woman that spots one. We follow her pointing finger. To our left, at the top of a tall ridge, there is movement. Through the grey, I can just make out a slightly yellow figure. Yep! It’s a polar bear alright. From the deck of the Ioffe, both Russian crew and expedition leaders had taught us how to search for polar bears amongst the white expanse of stark pack ice. Yellow blobs. Look for yellow blobs. Their skin may be black beneath a mass of translucent fur, but the dirt and oil that clings to them, gives these bears a yellow tinge.
Instantly, our posse turns and starts to paddle toward the shore. Stroke rates increase. Adrenalin surges. The SCM lopes along, ignoring us. I can’t believe how fast they move. We’re paddling quickly, and are struggling to catch this giant marine mammal as it plods effortlessly.
It slows and tries to decide which way to come down through the deep snow. Our group huddles together so we can whisper our awe. We’re close enough now to guess that it’s a female from the tell-tale stain near its tail. Sitting 100 metres from shore, we are afraid to get any closer. We watch as she picks her descent.
About half-way, she decides that she’s come the wrong way and tries to retreat. She takes her time up the treacherous slope. Slowly and carefully, she finds an easier path. Two thirds of the way down, the bank gives way underneath her weight, and she ungraciously slides the remaining distance. With a quick shake, she stands and continues her journey.
Noise carries across the water to us. The others. We had forgotten the others. Along the water’s edge, a kilometre or more away, the rest of our expedition – the non-kayakers – are beach-combing close a trapper’s hut. Our bear is heading in their direction. Zak Shaw, our adventure kayak specialist and guide, warns the shore party via two-way radio that the bear is heading in their direction, and fast.
We speculate that with the speed that she’s moving, the nanook would reach them before they all returned to the zodiacs. And then the bear stops. She sits. Turning her large head, she looks long and hard at us. Then she turns her head toward the commotion that drifts across the curve in the bay. It’s not the rest of our party she’s after, but the spoils of the trappers drying their skins on the shore. She could smell the drying hides miles away. But there are 40 of our comrades in her way.
The sound of diesel engines fills the air as the IRBs leave the shore. They throttle back as they approach our team, now in line with the bear. With a big yawn, she lies down, and turns her head away from us all. “Don’t be fooled,” Zak warns. He has seen this behaviour before. “This is what they do. Trick you into believing that they’re tired and not interested. She wants us to get closer.” Again, we kayakers look at each other with nervous smiles at the thought of impending ambush.
With the whole expedition now together, we take turns slipping closer to her and drifting past. We get as close as 50 metres. Click! Snap! The whirr of camera shutters. She lifts her head and gives another yawn in our direction before closing her eyes and resting her head on an outstretched paw. Except for the sound of photographers, there is silence.
Ten minutes pass in a flash. First the zodiacs move off. Us kayakers, bold and brazen, loiter to extend our time with the creature we had so ably spotted from the water. This was our bear. She gets to her feet and looks at us. Approaching the waterline, she dips her foot into the chilly sea. She rinses her head. We decide the hint is strong enough, and paddle away from her and back to the waiting mother ship. Excitement still has my chest pounding.
No comments:
Post a Comment