By Carolyn T. Johnson
Last year I came face to face with a polar bear and while I was scared, I also felt a deep respect for the fact that I was in this bear's territory...
~Lonnie Dupre
The Polar Rover bounced along the frozen Arctic tundra as the driver slowly made his way to the icy banks of the Hudson Bay just outside Churchill, Canada. We'd flown for six hours, changed planes twice and ridden a shuttle bus, all to experience a firsthand encounter with the largest land carnivore in existence... the polar bear.
My mind drifted back to the beginning of my love affair with bears. At a very tender age, a fuzzy, brown "Teddy" bear, with golden-orange eyes, was my constant companion. Teddy absorbed my tiny tears without hesitation, protected me from the bogeyman at night, listened to all my make-believe stories with a placid grin pasted on his face, and held me close when I was scared. I loved my Teddy and could never quite part with him, even though most of his fur was worn off. Crude, white thread held his seams together and his nose was permanently crooked.
I came out of my reverie, though, when the Polar Rover rolled to a stop and the engine hushed. Everyone scurried to the right side of the vehicle and lowered the windows for our first glimpse of a real, live polar bear.
Our guide pointed at the furry, potato-chip-coloured bear ambling out of the willows in a swaggering, pigeon-toed gait. She said bears were very curious by nature and might come right up to the Rover if we kept quiet. My pulse quickened. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears.
The polar bear's long, black snout twitched back and forth, nosing the air. He came closer, checking out the smells on the door. His jaw dropped open slightly.
sauntered alongside the bus, then, without warning, jumped up on his hind legs and put his front paws against the Rover, his sharp, black claws clicking on the white metal siding.
His massive head was now only four feet from the open windows. He gazed up at the faces staring back at him. His thick fur and gentle demeanour made him look almost cuddly for a thousand-pound carnivore.
I jockeyed for position to take a photo, then remembered there was an outside balcony on the Rover.
I carefully closed the balcony door behind me and leaned over the wall. The bear had moved towards my end of the Rover, but his head was under the balcony, leaving only his rump exposed.
My heart was banging now. If he would only back up, I could get the perfect photograph. I waited, not making a sound. Snowflakes drifted by in the air.
Then I heard a loud, snorting noise, but it wasn't coming from my side of the balcony. It was coming from underneath my feet. I looked down. In my haste, I had failed to notice the floor was a see-through metal grid. The polar bear was sniffing me.
I froze, not in fear, but in amazement. His wet nose almost touched my feet. He wanted my scent. He gazed up at me with chocolate-brown eyes, ears pointed forward, as if he wanted to say something. But he didn't have to. Instinctively, I knew.
I waited in the chill Arctic breeze, watching him lumber away. Just before he disappeared behind the snowdrift, he paused and looked back at me for one final farewell.
Last year I came face to face with a polar bear and while I was scared, I also felt a deep respect for the fact that I was in this bear's territory...
~Lonnie Dupre
The Polar Rover bounced along the frozen Arctic tundra as the driver slowly made his way to the icy banks of the Hudson Bay just outside Churchill, Canada. We'd flown for six hours, changed planes twice and ridden a shuttle bus, all to experience a firsthand encounter with the largest land carnivore in existence... the polar bear.
My mind drifted back to the beginning of my love affair with bears. At a very tender age, a fuzzy, brown "Teddy" bear, with golden-orange eyes, was my constant companion. Teddy absorbed my tiny tears without hesitation, protected me from the bogeyman at night, listened to all my make-believe stories with a placid grin pasted on his face, and held me close when I was scared. I loved my Teddy and could never quite part with him, even though most of his fur was worn off. Crude, white thread held his seams together and his nose was permanently crooked.
I came out of my reverie, though, when the Polar Rover rolled to a stop and the engine hushed. Everyone scurried to the right side of the vehicle and lowered the windows for our first glimpse of a real, live polar bear.
Our guide pointed at the furry, potato-chip-coloured bear ambling out of the willows in a swaggering, pigeon-toed gait. She said bears were very curious by nature and might come right up to the Rover if we kept quiet. My pulse quickened. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears.
The polar bear's long, black snout twitched back and forth, nosing the air. He came closer, checking out the smells on the door. His jaw dropped open slightly.
sauntered alongside the bus, then, without warning, jumped up on his hind legs and put his front paws against the Rover, his sharp, black claws clicking on the white metal siding.
His massive head was now only four feet from the open windows. He gazed up at the faces staring back at him. His thick fur and gentle demeanour made him look almost cuddly for a thousand-pound carnivore.
I jockeyed for position to take a photo, then remembered there was an outside balcony on the Rover.
I carefully closed the balcony door behind me and leaned over the wall. The bear had moved towards my end of the Rover, but his head was under the balcony, leaving only his rump exposed.
My heart was banging now. If he would only back up, I could get the perfect photograph. I waited, not making a sound. Snowflakes drifted by in the air.
Then I heard a loud, snorting noise, but it wasn't coming from my side of the balcony. It was coming from underneath my feet. I looked down. In my haste, I had failed to notice the floor was a see-through metal grid. The polar bear was sniffing me.
I froze, not in fear, but in amazement. His wet nose almost touched my feet. He wanted my scent. He gazed up at me with chocolate-brown eyes, ears pointed forward, as if he wanted to say something. But he didn't have to. Instinctively, I knew.
I waited in the chill Arctic breeze, watching him lumber away. Just before he disappeared behind the snowdrift, he paused and looked back at me for one final farewell.
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