by Helen Thayer
Just as Charlie was about to turn his full attention to his food bowl, he suddenly whipped around to face the rear and leaped, snarling, to the end of his leash. To our horror, a bear emerged from head-high hummocks of ice three hundred feet away. He was striding straight toward us.
Charlie’s snarls reached a fierce crescendo. We grabbed our loaded flare guns and rapidly fired several flares to land on the ice in front of the advancing bear. But he marched right through the first line. We reloaded and fired. He didn’t stop. We each grabbed a shotgun and released the safety catches, still firing more flares. The bear stopped, raised his nose to test the thin curtain of flare smoke, and shook his head. Disturbed by the unfamiliar smell, he slowly backed away.
Charlie strained at the end of his leash in a frenzied rage. Apparently, Charlie and the smoke were too much for the bear. He turned and walked around us, defiantly tossing a look back over his shoulder as if he might return. But Charlie, who still leaped and snarled, discouraged him.
While I collected the empty casings and tossed them into our plastic garbage bag, Bill stood guard with his shotgun to make sure that our unwanted visitor had indeed left and would not double back. Eventually Charlie calmed down, but he remained vigilant for another hour, staring in the direction the bear had gone. We cautiously resumed our interrupted meal. Tonight the bear would have to look for his own dinner elsewhere.
The next day, after a blissfully bear-free night, we traveled over a minor ridge and skied across smooth ice. We reached an area of ice mounds molded and sculptured by nature into shapes delicately curved and tinted green with age. They reached upward to stand like sentinels, guarding the way ahead. Later the surface smoothed to a uniform whiteness, snow and clouds merging into one at the horizon.
At midday we arrived at an area of open water several hundred yards wide. Six seal-hunting polar bears were pacing the edges, followed by five wolves and numerous foxes who dodged in and out, careful to keep out of range of their larger companions. Two male bears growled nose to nose, testing each other over hunting space. We camped close by, reasoning that the animals were too busy searching for seals to notice us. We ate cold food so our noisy stove wouldn’t mask the sound of an approaching bear.
A few years earlier, during a training expedition close to Resolute Bay, we had encountered thirteen bears striding along the edges of sea ice hunting for seals, accompanied by four wolves. We nervously skirted the area. We weren’t prepared to meet that many bears in one place. Now, more experienced, we felt cautiously comfortable, although we continued to keep a sharp eye out and our shotguns and flare guns at hand.
Back at the water, one large male hovered over a patch of ice, several feet from the edge. Suddenly he rose on his hind legs and crashed down with enormous front paws to land his full weight over a seal lair. The ice broke. He thrust his head through the opening, yanked out a struggling seal, and dumped it on the ice. In seconds he had crushed the seal’s head and torn off thick strips of blubber.
A sixth wolf, with a gray-tinted blond coat and a large dark patch on one rump, stood a few feet away. Occasionally the bear growled a warning to the wolf not to approach his meal. After he had consumed the blubber, the fatty part of the seal, the bear left the meaty carcass and returned to the water’s edge. The wolf immediately claimed the body while foxes scampered just out of reach, waiting for leftovers. Thirty minutes later, after the wolf had gorged himself, he left the skeleton and meat scraps for the half-dozen foxes.
Wolves’ normal habitat is land, where their natural prey of caribou and moose are available. Wolves and foxes are not the natural swimmers that polar bears are, so they cannot hunt seals in the water. They also lack the weight and power to break the ice to reach seal lairs.
We were now beginning to understand how wolves survived on the ice. Polar bears appeared to be the key. We had observed wolves and foxes following as the bears hunted seals, waiting for a kill. The smaller animals cleverly allowed the bears to do the hunting, while they scavenged the leftovers. We theorized that after the sea ice was strong enough to provide a hunting platform for the bears, those wolves who travel with bears left the land for the sea ice and followed the bears as they hunted.
We watched the hunting activities until dark. Although the blond wolf, whom we called Patch because of his rump mark, seemed to prefer working alone, he joined the other five occasionally. Once, as he approached his companions, they all ran in tight circles. It seemed to be a game in which everyone chased everyone else. In minutes they stopped, joined in an enthusiastic display of muzzle licking, then rejoined the bears to see what was being offered for dinner. We wondered if these were members of a single family.
After dark, as a precaution against bears, we slept in two-hour shifts, with Bill taking the first watch. During my turn I stepped into the sharp air, a chilly -31 degrees. I pulled my bulky down parka around me and tucked my hands deeper into my polar gloves. The moonlight reflecting on the ice enabled me to see animals moving about at night. Now and then the ice spoke its own special language: cracking sounds, long humanlike sighs, and a peculiar whine that built to a frenzied pitch before sliding back down the scale to silence. The immense frozen ocean was protesting its imprisonment, I imagined, as the ice moved with the ocean currents.
I felt very alone as I stood on guard. In the gray darkness, my world had shrunk. Pinnacles of ice, impossibly tall in the deceptive light, loomed against the starry sky. I looked to my left, straining to penetrate the dim surroundings. Was it my imagination, or did I really detect a slight movement in the distance?
I was reminded of my solo trek to the magnetic North Pole and of the many times I stood outside my tent trying to see through the darkness, hoping a polar bear wasn’t watching and licking his lips in anticipation of a tasty meal. I don’t mind traveling alone, even when faced with polar bears, dangerous ice, and storms. Along with vulnerability comes a mind-opening effect, an elation caused by a sharpened awareness as my senses become more acute. It’s a time when I feel completely in step with nature.
But I’m always thankful to travel with Bill. We know each other so well that we can often tell what the other is thinking even before words are spoken. It’s a comfort to express fears to someone. Daily tasks, such as navigating and bear watching, are simplified. And camp chores such as erecting the tent are quick and easy when the two of us work together and draw upon each other’s strengths.
I tried to keep my nerves at bay, but nevertheless my anxiety built. No, I thought, it’s your imagination. Nothing’s moving out there. At one point Charlie joined me with hackles raised, his body tense and on guard. He stared into the distance, sensing a bear, and I braced myself and reached for the shotgun. But I saw nothing, and nothing happened.
After thirty minutes Charlie gave a low, sharp woof and disappeared into the tent. I both marveled at and envied his instinctive ability to sense bears, and was thankful for his ceaseless desire to keep Bill and me safe.
Later, on his watch, Bill caught sight of a far-off bear and a wolf traveling together to the water’s edge. Charlie stepped out of the tent, but this time, after a short, intense stare at the ghostly forms, he relaxed and, without a sound, returned to bed. The bear’s intentions were peaceful, and Charlie understood.
Morning crept slowly across the ice, and with it came the blessed relief of good visibility. The bears had hunted throughout the night. We weren’t surprised that day and night were the same to these sea ice hunters. During the summer Denali had led his family on many successful nighttime hunts, especially as temperatures rose, making daytime hunting less attractive.
We stayed another day to watch the activities. With a great splash a bear dived into the water and surfaced with a young seal. After the bear climbed onto the ice, he consumed most of the blubber before turning back to the water’s edge to await further opportunities. Two wolves rushed to devour the rest of the seal. They left to follow the bears only after licking the bloodstains from the ice. Throu
ghout the day the bears hunted, and the waiting wolves and foxes shared the leftovers.
Dead ahead is a mother with two cubs.
Later a large, blond male wolf approached the water. He was followed by a smaller, limping female of slightly darker coloring. She appeared to have injured a front paw. Meanwhile, a massive bear with three wolves waiting at a respectful distance stood over a seal breathing hole. Two wolves were almost identical in their gray coats. One had a dried blood smudge on his shoulder but no other sign of injury, so we surmised it was from a seal carcass. The third wolf, slightly smaller, had a peculiar crablike gait as he ran across the ice, so we named him Crab.
Just as the female and blond male arrived, the bear thrust his head into the seal hole he had been standing over for at least a half hour. He hauled out a thrashing seal, crushed its head and, without stopping to eat, walked to the edge of the ice and stared into the water. The three wolves accompanying him wasted no time rushing to the body. Several foxes dashed in and out in short spurts, barely keeping out of reach of the snapping jaws as they grabbed small pieces.
While two of the wolves gorged themselves, the third one, the one with the smudge on his shoulder, tore off a large chunk of meat and delivered it to the blond male, who had stopped fifty feet away. After dropping the meat to the ice, he turned back to the seal. Meanwhile, the female had limped closer. Without taking a single bite, her blond companion took the meat to her. She hungrily grabbed it and gulped it down. Her companion turned back to the three wolves, and as he approached them, the same wolf who had provided him with the gift of meat, whom we named Smudge, once more took a large portion and dropped it at the blond wolf’s feet. Blondy, as we now called him, chomped down the lot of it, while the other wolves finished off the rest of the carcass.
It appeared that food had been deliberately provided by the polar bear. The wolves had shared it among themselves and had divided it so that even the injured female could eat. We surmised that the female and Blondy might have been a bonded pair, while Smudge, who had delivered the meat, was probably an alpha taking care of all the members of his family.
Fascinated, we continued to watch. After the carcass disappeared, the first three wolves again shadowed the bear as he stalked the water’s edge a quarter mile to the north. Blondy stayed with the female, as if to help her, and both remained within easy distance of their companions, as if to await further gifts of food. The episode reminded us of the attention given to Beta after he injured himself during the summer, and of the many times food was placed at his side by his caring family.
The process captivated us. Polar bears, the primary hunters, killed the prey and then ate mostly the fat. Wolves and foxes then shared the meat. During several years of Arctic travels, this was the first time we had actually seen this sequence of events, although for some time we had suspected it existed. The large number of bears and wolves we encountered was unusual, due no doubt to the open water and plentiful seal population, creating a perfect hunting ground.
Soon it was too dark to see more. The next morning we looked out at first light, but the bear and all the wolves had moved on.
Ice
STILL WITH NO ANIMALS IN SIGHT and many miles to go, we packed up in the last gray light of dawn and trekked in the direction of Richards and Pullen Islands, both named for early Arctic explorers who helped map the northern Canadian coastline. For several hours we skied with the distant outline of Richards Island to the west. Tiny Pullen Island was still invisible farther north in the Beaufort Sea, well into the western Northwest Passage.
As we approached a twenty-foot-high pyramid of sparkling blue ice, Charlie stopped and yipped several times. Puzzled because the sound was different from his usual bear-warning bark, we allowed him to pull us around to the other side.
We froze, astonished. Two hundred feet away was a group of eleven wolves, all of whom we had seen on and off since leaving land. Smudge, whose behavior now confirmed that he was a family alpha, had already detected our approach. Stiff-legged, hostile, lips pulled back in a snarl, he stood in front of his family, ready to defend them.
Close behind him, the limping female hurried to join Blondy, who shielded her protectively. The others, including Crab and Patch, watched and paced nervously, never taking their eyes off us. Charlie squatted on his haunches, while Bill and I hastily sat on our sleds and looked away to show that we weren’t a threat. Then Smudge and Blondy joined in a series of barks in varying tones, interspersed with growls through bared teeth, designed to keep us away.
Charlie dropped to his belly with his muzzle averted, touching the ice. Led by Smudge, the entire family abruptly galloped another hundred feet away to cluster behind two foot-high chunks of ice, then turned to watch us suspiciously. We slowly rose, turned our sleds and, with Charlie at our side, retreated the way we had come, swinging wide onto open, flat ice. Although we were now farther away, we still had an easy view of the family. Once again we sat on our sleds while Charlie lay on his belly on the ice, his head half-turned away in submission.
We had disturbed the group as they rested in a place they frequented regularly, judging by the many patches of urine-discolored snow and the numerous wolf scats nearby. After a fifteen-minute standoff the wolves, although still cautious, relaxed their stiff-legged posture. Smudge barked a short warning with no sign of his earlier bared teeth and growling. Charlie, still belly down on the ice, raised his head and replied with yips so soft even we understood they were benevolent.
At first there was a long silence. Perhaps Smudge was trying to judge this black, doglike wolf offering friendship. Then he replied with a few gentle yips, the last one ending on a penetratingly high note. The group gathered about their leader in a tight bunch, and he calmly led them away. They disappeared into an area of rough ice to the north. The limping female easily kept up, her limp barely perceptible.
As they turned away, Charlie stood and tried to follow until his leash stopped him. With a tug, he urged us forward. “No, Charlie, not this time,” I said quietly, as we headed west toward Pullen Island.
Meeting the sea ice wolves as a family answered a question that had increasingly bothered us. Why were we encountering so many wolves in a place where we would have considered ourselves lucky to see one or two? Even in our most optimistic mood, we had never imagined discovering an entire family.
We judged this spot to be a temporary resting site used by these wolves when open leads of water provided hunting bears with access to the area. Once the leads froze or shut, the bears would move to another area of open water, and the wolves would follow. Just as Alpha would be leading his pack across the southern tundra throughout the winter to hunt over a wide range, Smudge was leading his family on a journey across the frozen ocean. They had cleverly discovered that hunting was easier if they followed bears and shared whenever they could.
During the spring ice melt, the wolf family would be forced to abandon the ice and return to land. If a female was pregnant, they would dig a den or return to an old one, just as the summer wolves had done. The wolves in this pack, generally much lighter in color than Alpha’s family, were about the same individual size. Smudge exhibited total control of his group as he led them to safety, his proud and imposing bearing reminding us of Alpha.
A shadowless fog swirled about us as we neared Richards Island, slowing our progress to a blind crawl. We could scarcely see our outstretched hands. Depth perception had disappeared. We drifted in a silent void where east and west, north and south, up and down were all the same. Slowly we moved in what we hoped was the right direction, gambling that our ski tips wouldn’t drop into a watery abyss. The islands lay somewhere ahead, we thought. Engulfed in white, I stopped and shook my head to rid myself of a wave of vertigo.
“I hardly know whether I’m standing up straight,” Bill said, straining to see ahead. “I feel as if I’m floating.”
In our diminutive ice world, where we could see no more than a foot in any direction, each step was an adv
enture, like walking on a cloud. Even the ice underfoot was obscured by fog. We stumbled in the hollows and tripped on raised chunks of ice.
When I belatedly checked our direction on my compass, I discovered that instead of traveling northwest, we were skiing due south. We had traveled in a circle and were headed back toward land. I was leading and had made the foolish mistake of assuming that I knew the right direction. Bill kindly remained silent as I slipped the compass into a holder at my waist to make it easier to stay on course.
Charlie rests while we set up camp on the sea ice.
“I hope polar bears don’t like fog and stay home,” I said nervously. More than ever, we would have to rely on Charlie to warn us.
An elated Charlie picked up the scent of polar bear tracks. He pulled out all the stops, with all manner of yips and tugging on his leash, to persuade us to follow the scent, but we insisted on a northerly course, away from trouble. He reluctantly agreed, but dropped back to follow on our heels with head and tail down to show his displeasure. After a half mile he was in front again, though, his gait buoyant and confident, his gaze ahead intense. No doubt he was hoping for more bear scents and sightings, while we were hoping all the area’s bears were many miles distant.
We half-expected a bear to emerge suddenly from the ghostly fog as we skied slowly ahead. Twice Charlie halted us on the edges of cracks several feet wide. In the whiteout we couldn’t see them, but he sensed the open water in time to stop. We groped our way around detours onto solid footing, thankful Charlie was along to save us from falling into unseen water.
