On a muddy beach on Barter Island, near the still waters of the Beaufort Sea, small polar bear prints mixed with the track of a dirt bike that had been spinning brodies. It took me a second before I realized the significance of what I was seeing. Here was proof polar bears had evolved and were now dependent on fossil fuels.
I imagined the paper I’d author, the scientific speaking circuit I’d go on and how I’d likely be hired on as a climate expert when Trump and Palin were elected. I’d be like Jane Goodall, but not female, sexy or with any basis in science.
There was a lot I needed to consider before I embarked on my new career. First, since polar bears are classified as “vulnerable,” should state or federal laws require them to wear helmets and get a sort of ursine driver license?
Second, since oil wells are drying up and polar bears are only going to have to ride their dirt bikes farther in search of seals, should we intervene with food drops? Considering government subsidies, fast food is one viable option. Also, maybe we should consider air dropping pretentious liberals, anyone who ever spoke poorly of Trump and Palin and all the other “losers” on the diminishing pack ice so polar bears don’t starve.
Third, should we have non-motorized areas where polar bears that prefer walking are allowed a decent chance of getting a seal? Maybe we could build some sort of wall to keep them separate.
On second thought, those polar bears are losers. They should get no special treatment.
Eleven or twelve days prior my friend Ben and I set out from the Gwich’in Athabascan community of Arctic Village and begun walking north. The day before we encountered polar bear tracks we walked along the banks of the Hulahula River and over the tundra, skirting flocks of snow geese and greater-fronted geese. Female and young long-tailed ducks, accompanied by pairs and sometime groups of three or four regal tundra swans, sat on the flat waters of ponds. A handful of caribou ran our way and then pranced circles around us. The big surprise were the short-eared owls. They were all over the place. I had a moment of deja vu as Ben climbed a small hill and was circled by a pair of owls.
Seven years prior, during a nearly month-long trip in ANWR, the two of us had been skiing across the coastal plain in a blizzard when I watched a snowy owl appear out of the white chaos and circle my friend.
Now, from the hill, the Inupiaq village of Kaktovik shone distorted like a mirage in the distance. We sat looking out on the land and trying to eat a summer sausage that didn’t want to be eaten—anyone who’s carried and subsisted on a three pound Costco sausage on a long trip knows exactly what I’m talking about. We walked on, until we could no longer see in the darkness, as sandhill cranes croaked and other birds filled the night with their calls and quacks.
The following morning, after we paddled across the narrow and seemingly stagnant channel separating Barter Island from the mainland, was when we came across the polar bear and dirt bike tracks. It was a stark reminder that the Arctic, and nature for that matter, won’t be confined in the romanticism I sometimes want it to be.
We walked into town, past North Slope heavy machinery busy at work building a new airport for the village of 250 people. At the community center, we were invited in for coffee and friendly conversation. It’s kind of funny how drinking a cup of weak coffee is almost a religious experience after going a while without.
There was only one seat to Fairbanks and storms had limited flying for days. Ben, in act of irrational nobility, hopped on a plane to Deadhorse. I was left with three or four hours in Kaktovik before flying to Fairbanks and, then, home to Juneau.
I was walking near the runway, which is a spit that juts out into the ocean, when a state trooper in a SUV pulled over next to me. My instant reaction was to run, but I swallowed my panic and did everything I could to play it cool.
“Hey, you all right?” the officer asked.
“Yep, just out for a walk. My plane is supposed to get here in a few hours.”
“I never see anyone walking here,” he said, looking me over with what appeared a mild case of shock. “Watch out for anything white and furry.
In recent times, from late August to October, Kaktovik has become a bit of hot spot for polar bear viewing. I think it may someday rival Churchill, Manitoba for tourists coming to view the bears. The bears come into town during the whaling season. The whale boneyard is near the runway and after a successful hunt, especially at night, the place can be crawling with enough polar bears to make even your most primordial dream seem tame.
I walked to the ocean and sat on a bleached log as waves lapped gently up on the shore. About 400 yards away, on a small barrier island, was a polar bear. It looked giant and when it raised its head, perhaps to test the wind, my belly contracted and did a few gymnastics worthy of Cirque du Soleil. On the other side of the narrow island was what appeared to be a sow and, maybe, a two year old cub.
This was the first time I’d seen a polar bear and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Part of me felt like this was cheating. A bigger part of me wanted to paddle the pack-raft I was borrowing from my good friend Forest across the channel so I might attain a real sort of proximity—but the bears didn’t want that. They didn’t want my company. They didn’t even want to eat me—despite how many beers I drink and pizzas I eat, I could never compete with the caloric value of whale meat.
Seven years prior, I lugged a 10-pound shotgun across the eastern Brooks Range because of the eight miles Ben and I had to travel along the frozen Beaufort Sea. I was worried about polar bears and suffered a dream or two of one tearing through the tent and dragging Ben or me out into the white. All we found were a few faint tracks on the pack-ice.
Now, here they were. Still, it didn’t feel real. Or maybe I didn’t want it to be real. Perhaps I needed polar bears to stay at my imagination’s periphery. I got up and walked back to Waldo Arms, a Kaktovik hotel and restaurant, dreaming of beer, pizza and polar bears that acted the way I wanted them to.
• Bjorn Dihle is a writer based out of Juneau. He’s working on his first book, “Haunted Inside Passage,” and can be reached at bjorndihle@yahoo.com.
