Credit where credit is due. A huge thank you upfront to my friend and colleague Dave for a) suggesting this great story, which he first told me years back, and b) writing it all down coherently and engagingly so that I -with the minimum of work- could turn it into a blog post. Despite my natural tendency to add in some humour, this is a true story, even the swearing. At the time it was terrifying and gave him nightmares for years after. He tells me that this post is in lieu of therapy, which really means he’s too cheap to pay the hourly therapist rate but will never admit it. PS. Did I mention the swearing? Yes, there are bad words below.
We’re Lucky.
Field geologists – lucky souls hand chosen to do God’s work- contend with a lot of wildlife. We hike, bang rocks, hike some more, eat lunch, watch cute critters: all very National Geographic. But the reality is somewhat more sinister. There’s payback for being so perfect. God put bloody great targets on us; huge red letters etched into our skin that spell “Eat Me” to anything that flies, slithers or walks.
Most of the wildlife we come across may be small, but it’s blessed with an unnatural hunger for blood. Midges, blackflies, mosquitoes and horse flies are just a few of the myriad blood-crazed flying bastards that can and will torment you -stinging or ripping off chunks of flesh until foaming insanity takes hold. You don’t see them coming but you’ll hear them, whining away like a mini Luftwaffe, hunting that small piece of skin; the one that’ll swell up into a red, volcano-sized pustule, oozing fire and pain. Nothing protects you. You can shower in DEET, wear a stupid net over your head -geologists’ lingerie- and envelop yourself in burning gasoline but it won’t help.
Working in the Middle East, I got off lightly. Sure, there were bugs, but all the large animals that could do any serious harm were shot for fun or eaten years back. We did come across snakes, scary tortoises, nasty looking spiders and the odd tick that latched onto the dark, dangly places only medical specialists have any interest in. But honestly, the biggest threat came from the enormous Kangal dogs bred to protect sheep from wolves, which -luckily- were usually in the company of a nice, sensible shepherd.
Then Again Maybe Not.
Canada is different. Field work here is more serious. It’s home to many animals that can do unspeakable damage to a geologist, leaving very little of you to send home to mum. Yes, I mean bears.
Everyone who works in exploration in this glorious country has a bear story, but they’re usually predictable fare (“It was THIS big” “Gosh I got up that tree fast.“) At the risk of sounding like an ursine snob, black bear tales are a dime a dozen. Stories about grizzlies or brown bears – big bastards with lots of snarly teeth and a bad fucking attitude when they’re hangry- are more interesting. But the holy grail of close shaves is the polar bear story. Very few people who’ve met one in person, outside the confines of an armoured tourist vehicle, have lived to tell the tale. As the saying goes: “If it’s brown, lay down. If it’s black, fight back. If it’s white, goodnight.”
They’re Really Big With Teeth
They are the largest land predator, measuring up to 10 feet from tip to tail when standing up; 10 feet of bleached death with claws and bad breath. At the low end, a female weighs in at 150kg. At the top end, a big male can weigh 450kg; a thousand pounds of unsentimental, hungry bad-ass carnivore that runs at 40km/h. And their sheer “I don’t give a fuck I’m going to eat you” attitude should light up your brain’s fear circuit like nothing else, other than perhaps small house spiders which I hate.
Polar bears generally stick to the high Arctic, in a 10-20km strip near the coast. But as climate change has worked its melty magic, the ice floes have been breaking up earlier and earlier, too early for some bears to return to their summer feeding areas, stranding them on the Arctic coastline, close to starvation.
Statistically, polar bear attacks on humans are rare. Most involve injured or starving bears and people who should know better. Mind you, statistical rarity is little help to people unlucky enough to find themselves in the “Stalked by Polar. Check.” column of the stats.
“Don’t worry, the chances of this happening are slim to none.” is probably not very calming for someone about to become the stomach contents in a bear autopsy.
Dave The Hero
My friend Dave is the only geologist I know personally who’s survived a protracted encounter with one of our snowy antagonists.
In 2006, he was part of a small field team -working a huge nickel exploration property- that came across a very persistent bear, while armed only with small, unbelievably deadly geological hammers. The bear on the other hand, must’ve been feeling pretty good when it came across 4 slow, pink meaty things armed only with said hammers.
It was northern Quebec, the Raglan belt, south of the Raglan mine. Nickel was flavour of the day (Nickel eh? Where is it now… oh right, $7.40/lb…oops). Flow through money gushed faster than a race horse taking a leak, and anyone could land work straight out of college at $10,000 a day. Camps were huge -money no object- and helicopters buzzed here and there like flies around bear scat.
Back then, nobody in the Raglan carried guns. Polar bears hadn’t been seen inland for decades. There wasn’t much for them to eat unless they could catch caribou or forage for berries. They were thought to be seasonal, coming across from Baffin Island on the winter ice to hunt along Quebec’s northern shores, buggering off back in the spring before the ice breakup. Plus, there were no black bears above the tree line. So no bears = no guns. Simple.
Holding Hands Round The Camp Fire
It was a 40 minute chopper ride from the eastern limit of the concession to the camp. Rather than the daily grind of a long, expensive commute, Dave’s team of two English-speaking geos and two French Canadian prospectors decided to camp for a couple of nights. It would save helicopter time and they’d have themselves a fun adventure, singing kumbayah round the campfire, and holding hands under the midnight sun. They kitted up, packing the bare minimum camping gear, radios and a Globalstar sat phone, planning to camp about 20 km from the coast. This was uncomfortably close to bear country, but there weren’t any so it didn’t matter.
On the flight out, the team were nervously cracking polar bear jokes. “What do you get if you cross a polar bear with a geologist? A polar bear.” “Ha ha. Shut the fuck up.“
As they circled the target area looking for a spot to camp, Dave -leaning Rambo like out of the chopper, shirtless, rippling torso clad only in a traverse vest and midges- spotted a lone wolf; a really big, white, lone wolf loping across the tundra.
Smile Please.
Excited to see a er.. wolf, Dave snapped a picture just before they landed to unload on the banks of a small lake. The helicopter flew off and the guys started to put up the tents, looking forward to a nice break from the dull confines of the main camp; the safe, boringly secure, bear-free main camp.
Ever the geologist, in Dave’s notes he mentioned that the far side of the lake was a raised reddish hill, probably a large pyroxenite sill. It’s the little details that make a story.
(Spoiler alert: How could anyone mistake a bear for a big dog, you ask? Well, from a distance it’s easy to do. I did it myself the first time I came across a black bear in the Yukon. I was 30 yards away from it, barreling along on on a quad bike, thinking “Gosh, that’s a big dog” before I realised that a) I might have misidentified it, and b) it was a good time to hit the brakes.)
Back To The Story
A few minutes later, they spotted Mr Wolf again, a couple of hundred meters away across the lake, checking out the pyroxenite sill while it strolled towards the water.
Good lord is that pyroxenite?
“Hey there’s that wolf again, on the other side of the lake!” said one of the team hopefully. And as they watched, the wolf.. ok, polar bear -may as well drop the flimsy pretence- jumped in and started swimming, a vigorous breast stroke, straight toward them. One of the prospectors, turning a nice shade of white, started muttering;
“Non, non, ça c’est pas un loup… non, ça c’est pas un loup, c’est un ours polaire!” which loosely translated means “Shit, it’s a polar bear, I hope I can run faster than you.“
Aaaaaaaghhhh! Shit.
In moments of terror, where death lurks just around the corner, the thin patina of civility we possess can be stripped away PDQ. And so it was, everyone panicked, wisely deciding that running away was the correct choice. They abandoned their packs, lunch, bladder contents, everything and ran as fast as they could, dodging boulders and frost heave, trying not to break an ankle on the rough ground.
Mid-panic, one of the guys remembered OF COURSE! they had a sat phone. They could just call the chopper back. Except, he didn’t have it. It was in his pack, back there with all the other shit they’d dumped at the camp, dangerously close to the bear which was still making a bee line across the lake.
Showing surprising force of will, he dashed back to grab it. Despite -or maybe because of- their tenuous situation, he made pretty good time, screaming “You fucking wait for me you fucking cocksuckers don’t you fucking leave me behind!!” as he ran. (Not sure what this is in French. Google translate tutted at me and switched itself off when I typed it in.)
Arriving back at the camp, he fumbled around in the discard pile and found his pack. Then, the four of them turned and pissed off again high speed like their lives depended on it, which funny enough, they did. Dave, in what he thought might be one of his last lucid moments as a real live geologist, remembered thinking that he’d soon know if the bear flossed regularly.
Good God, You Pervert!
As he ran, Mr Sat Phone (not his real name) was digging in his pack for the handset but the effort was slowing him down. The contents of his pack were unceremoniously chucked over his shoulder; bad weather gear, hammers, sample bags, but lunch bag first- because yes, 2 small white bread tuna sandwiches were bound to satiate the bear.
Finally he got to the phone. With a superhuman effort, he got the antenna up and they tried calling the camp to get the chopper to return. When they connected, the project manager picked up the receiver but all he could hear from the team was grunting, panting, and heavy breathing noises. It was obviously a pervert fiddling with himself while looking at pictures of mineralized pyroxenites.
“Will you look at that, I think we’re getting our first pervert crank call!” he said to the camp manager, and hung up.
No. No. No.
Back near the lake, as the call abruptly ended, more panic ensued. The team had run up the next slope to a small plateau, where several large glacial erratic boulders offered some cover. They couldn’t see the lake or the polar bear, but this was as good a place as any to hide while they tried to call the camp.
The phone connected again. “FUCKING POLAR BEAR – COME AND GET US!”
For some reason, this message resonated more with the camp manager, because he assured them that he’d do everything possible to get the chopper back. The helicopter pilot took off at maximum speed towards their location. For 40 interminable minutes, the team took it in turns to peer nervously around the boulders -while the others scraped out their underwear- fully expecting to see a slobbering white head clear the crest of the small hill at any moment.
It’s OK, I Have A Leatherman
Dave- like a true outdoorsman- had his trusty Leatherman multi-tool strapped to his belt. It occurred to him -briefly- that he could use it to hamstring a colleague, serving him up as bear bait while he ran away. Creative, I’ll grant him that, a tad selfish perhaps, but also likely illegal, so last resort stuff. There was nothing to be done but hide, pray, and wait.
Finally they heard the high pitched drone of the Astar coming in. Knowing they’d have to break cover, Dave’s head was full of mental images of himself running for the helicopter and being grabbed by the lurking bear at the last moment: reaching up to the sky, Platoon-style, pleading for rescue, leg clamped in bear jaw, as the pilot circled unable to see them.
Which is exactly when the bird flew directly overhead, missing them completely.
Blame Fashion
With a jolt, the group suddenly realised that the pilot had no way to find them. They’d left their handheld VHF radios and anything remotely colourful or reflective in the pile of discarded gear at the camp. And their field clothes could well have been the final nail in the coffin.
Geologists have a very specific fashion sense, usually described by their spouses as “Hmmm. Interesting.” or “You’re not wearing that to my mum’s are you?” Up north, freed from the vital marital constraints on their clothing choices, they were all wearing tundra-coloured pants, tundra-coloured checked shirts, tundra-coloured jackets, and tundra-coloured hats and thus blended in to the tundra splendidly. They were effectively invisible. So the four of them began to jump up and down (on the tundra, if you must know), shouting and screaming, waving their tundra-coloured arms as hard as they could. Fortunately, there was still no sign of the bear.
After several awful minutes flying a search pattern, the pilot spotted them and landed. There was a brief Q&A to find out which one of them was the heavy breathing pervert, and then they clambered in, suffering from shock. Once they’d taken off, the pilot went looking for the bear. They found its tracks in the snow. It wasn’t far away, but they saw no sign, belying the old truism that “if there’s a bear around in the tundra, you’ll see him for sure”.
Screw Camping
That night a large amount of illicit hooch was consumed back at the camp. Some of the crew had built a still out of an old fire extinguisher and a diesel stove using copper tubing as a condensation coil. It bubbled away 24/7, delivering a steady trickle (2 litres a day) of 120-proof happy juice. For mash, they had a couple of plastic garbage pails full of fermenting fruit, sugar, and whatever they could scrounge from the camp cook.
That was the end of their fly-camping misadventures. Inuit hunters were promptly hired to accompany the field crews for the rest of the year, although they didn’t encounter any other bears. One of Inuit told them that the mistake had been to make jokes about the polar bear. “When you joke about Nanook like that, he will appear, out of nowhere.” And so it was.
Dave hasn’t joked about bears since and treats them all -black, brown or white- with the greatest of respect. His partner used to wake him up from the nightmares and could always tell when it was the one about the bear. He also bought at 12 gauge shotgun as a mark of his intense respect for them. The following year, he bought a small .45-70 lever action rifle, which he still uses for bear protection, although he’s never had to use it.
That’s my mate Dave. He’s dead hard, as they say in polar bear free London.
And Remember…
Next time you’re running away from a polar bear, keep in mind what the statistics say and make sure you subscribe to urbancrows on your smart phone while you’re running. It should be a priority because once the bear gets you, you won’t be able to use a keyboard let alone appreciate my witty blog pieces. You can use the Arctic white subscription box at the top of this page.