Into the Eyes of a Grizzly

Snow had been falling for about two hours. Not a hard snow but a steady, persistent one. The tundra ground cover was already buried by just two inches of wet flakes. I was hunkered behind a three-foot tall willow, the tallest tree around. The snow was not unwelcome. I don’t mind watching animals in poor weather…see how they cope.

Caribou had been passing my camp for hours, at least since mid-morning of the previous day, one of drizzle and low fog, with little light for photography. Now I could photograph the migration in summer snow. The spring movement to the North Slope calving grounds was over, and the Porcupine Caribou Herd, perhaps 175,000 strong, was headed through the Brooks Range on the long slow movement toward the winter range in central Yukon. Bulls, cows and calves trooped by in small bunches and impressive herds.

From behind my tree I had limited visibility, not because of the willows’ luxuriant growth weighted with snow, but because of the low ridge that jutted up before me. I could see the caribou moving on the ridge and on the slopes beyond, but I had no view to the north or of the swale behind the ridge. I had no wish to get closer. I wanted only to remain immobile and photograph the caribou streaming by. The illusion of invisibility, able to observe animals without disturbing them in the slightest way, is joy. The mouse on the tundra. In the last week, playing the part of the mouse, I’d seen a peregrine make a stoop on some unseen prey; a grizzly chase caribou for two hours before finally killing a calf; and a golden plover tending its eggs laid in a lichen depression.

As the moisture slowly seeped in through my thin rain pants, then through my wool pants, I stiffened with cold. Except for slight adjustments of position, I didn’t dare move. The photographs were coming to me!

Just as the slope beyond the nearby ridge filled with caribou, and a herd of them began to string out in the foreground, the very scene I’d been waiting to photograph, the entire group inexplicably stampeded. I cursed under my breath. Did they see me? Scent me? My spirits sank. I scanned the higher slopes beyond the ridge. Nothing. The valley swiftly emptied of caribou.

I struggled to my feet but my knees refused to cooperate. There was tightness in my back and shoulders, the cold deep in my body. I stretched and flailed my arms to warm up. Why had the herd bolted? There were no mosquitoes, bot flies, or other pests to torment them. There had to be a reason.

My first thought was of wolves. I thought it would be both lovely and exciting to see them make a hunt in the snow. But wolves would’ve been already in full chase. I turned around to study the slope behind me. Nothing.

I saw the grizzly bear as soon as I turned back. It was walking the ridge the caribou had vacated and was close. Very close.

The bear saw me and stopped stone-still. I was downhill from it in a shallow depression, a very bad position. The closest trees were hundreds of miles away. Climbable cliffs were too far to offer haven. There was literally nowhere to go. This was the moment I had long expected: unarmed, face to face with a grizzly on the open tundra.

I’ve encountered all sorts of bears in my nearly 40 years in Alaska, in all sorts of circumstances, but never so close on open tundra. I have never felt more vulnerable. My mind raced through my options. I knew that to bears size is an important factor in establishing hierarchy. I wanted to trade places with the bear, to be on the ridge looking down on it. I didn’t want to look small and perhaps helpless. I dared not move or make a provocative gesture.

The direction of the wind complicated the matter – it blew south from the bear to me. The bear could not yet get my scent and identify me with a certainty. Bears have good vision but they don’t trust their eyesight. I wasn’t making any sound that the bear could fix on and ponder. Bears need the assurance of their sense of smell. I knew that my scent would determine the outcome.

After a long, wrenching pause, the grizzly walked to its right, and to my left. It came down from the ridge and into the depression, its gaze locked on me. With its second step, I began to walk toward the ridge. I circled like a wary prizefighter, acutely aware of the mismatch – the flyweight versus the heavyweight champion. I have never wanted so much to be more than a mouse on the tundra.

I was glad to gain the high ground. It was as open and devoid of safety as the depression but I felt immeasurably better off. Now that the bear was somewhat below me it looked smaller. I hoped I looked larger and more intimidating. We had traded positions almost exactly. The bear stood smelling my tracks and the wind blew from me to him. He lifted his head and sniffed the breeze with quivering nostrils. I could hear a low grumble, a mutter almost.

As the bear evaluated the scent and situation I dared not move. Seconds, which seemed minutes, ticked away. Finally, the grizzly turned to walk away. Every few steps he looked back, to see, perhaps, if I was following or pulling a sneak attack. Fat chance. He piddled as he walked and he yawned often, body language signaling stress. Although it was this stress that posed a threat to me, it was small comfort to know that I wasn’t the only one glad to see the contact end.

All at once I was aware of sound. The wind. The water dashing over the rocks. My own breathing. My field of view widened and the world came into focus. The snowy tundra. The depression. The mountains beyond. The falling snow. I was also again aware of the smell of the rich wet earth.

I waited until the bear was long gone before I walked back to the willow bush for my pack. I took 50 steps to my pack, then another ten steps beyond to look down at the imprint of paws seared through the snow. The size of the front track was twice the width of my boot size eleven. I slowly let out my breath, shouldered my pack and backtracked toward camp. I’d had enough “photography” for one day.