Necessity Bears

Polar bears are everywhere in the Arctic, a psychic ever-present. They are in the water, they are on land, they are in the very air, in valleys, on glaciers, round corners, behind rocks. More than anywhere, though, they are in the minds of every other creature in the region, from Arctic fox to beluga, from reindeer to seal. The animal that thinks about seeing them the most, however, is the homo sapien.

This is true of the passengers on Arctic expedition cruise ships, many of whom have come specifically to see Ursus maritimus in its natural habitat. It’s undoubtedly true of the expedition teams, too, those responsible for spotting these enormous killers in the first place. 

In the nightless summers, sightings can happen at any time, and for all passengers on holiday, very few protest the idea of being woken up to see bears – even if they appear at 3 am. Other times, of course, it is much less arduous. I was once on an expedition cruise when we spotted a mother waiting over a seal’s breathing hole. It lay there for hours while we stood watching. In the distance, her two cubs patiently waited for their sole carer to do her lethal work. In the meantime, the expedition management had to decide what to do: stay here in case a seal appeared or move off to another spot with the clock ticking past three hours of inactivity.

At over 80 degrees north off the coast of Svalbard, it was a pitilessly cold day, though the bears didn’t feel it. Indeed, the mother bear – the world’s largest land predator, eater of all Arctic creatures – got so comfy she fell asleep like a grandmother on a fat Christmas Day. Of all the what-if scenarios offered on the ship, this had not been considered. Finally, after nine soporific hours, the mighty bear stood up, shook her considerable derriere, and marched off to her cubs, dignified, unstoppable, and presumably still hungry.