Polar Bears and Polar Birds

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Polar Bears and Polar Birds

by Sam Fried

An article from the November/December 2008 issue of Bird Watcher’s Digest

A flock of pure white willow ptarmigan was barely visible as the birds crammed into a dry, nearly leafless Arctic willow thicket. Denied a cover of snow and ice, the birds stood out while hiding, waiting for their camouflage to arrive. Adrift without any drifts, Arctic and snowshoe hares hunkered into dark hollows, hoping their dense pure white winter fur would not make them targets for predation. Even predators like short-tailed weasel—now an alabaster wraith with a black-tipped tail—and Arctic fox had surrendered their summer gray-and-tan pelage for the protective whites of winter. But where was winter?

I had traveled to Churchill, Manitoba, Canada, on the southwestern corner of Hudson Bay, to witness the annual fall migration of the polar bears from their summer grounds in Wapusk National Park. Because these animals have a universal presence as the image and spirit of the Arctic, I had always wanted to see them in the wild. I had been to Churchill twice before, leading birding tours, but I had never seen a bear. In fact, when enjoying the magnificence of an Arctic spring, the overwhelming flow of birds and the renewed life heading north across the tundra, the last thing in the world I would want to see is a polar bear. These creatures are huge, powerful, fast, and exceptionally dangerous. They are one of the few animals on the planet that will actively stalk a human with the sole intent of fine dining.

This visit, I not only wanted to experience the bears, but also see the birds that lived in the same habitat at this time of year. My research showed that historically the bears become active and head toward the Churchill area along Hudson Bay around mid-October, with an expected freeze-up starting during the last two weeks of the month. According to the bar graphs in the “occurrence and abundance" section of Bonnie Chartier’s A Birder’s Guide to Churchill (American Birding Association, 1994), there were few species that were likely to be present during my visit from October 20 – 24, but they were all wonderful examples of Arctic birds: snowy owls, gyrfalcons, rock ptarmigan should all be at seasonal peaks. Resident winter birds include willow ptarmigan, boreal chickadees, both common and hoary redpolls, gray jays, and common ravens. With the sole exception of common eiders, every species of waterfowl and shorebird should have migrated through and been gone a full month earlier.

Churchill, Manitoba, is quite an interesting frontier town. Birders began flocking to Churchill in droves in the 1980s with the discovery that Ross’s gulls were breeding here, and the realization that this was perhaps the most accessible place in North America to see many species of Arctic birds in full breeding activity throughout the nearby tundra and boreal forest. In summer, whale watchers come to see the 5,000 or so friendly beluga whales that come into the river to calve. Churchill had always been on the polar bears’ path, frequently coming right into town and periodically munching on some unwary citizen. Finally, someone with vision realized that bear watching could have even more economic potential than bird and whale watching, and the rush was on.

From mid-October through the beginning of December, the entire town is sold out to bear watchers from every corner of the globe. All the hotel rooms have been booked more than a year in advance. Just getting into a restaurant for dinner can be a challenge without plenty of planning. At this time of year, almost every Churchill resident is somehow involved in servicing the tourist business.

When our group first arrived in town via a two-hour chartered flight from Winnipeg, a knowledgeable local resident guide met us and, driving a school bus, gave us a general tour of the area. We drove through town under heavy gray skies and a light mist, past the gigantic granaries that dominate the landscape for 30 miles around. The grain-filled railroad cars parked at the “end of the line" were waiting to unload their cargo into the hold of a waiting Russian ship for what might have been the last shipment of the year. There was grain spilled everywhere, and it seemed that for every kernel there was at least one snow bunting. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the telephone wires, covered the tops of the railroad cars, and darkened the sky when a flock took off. A bald eagle flew by, scattering the birds until the threat was past.

We bounced our way down a lumpy dirt road—almost all the roads in Churchill are dirt—to an unnamed Hudson Bay beach just east of town to look for birds, bears, and whatever else might be around. Our guide was armed with a high-powered rifle if by chance we stumbled across a bear at close range and a problem ensued. Hundreds of snow buntings, nattily feathered in white, black, and warm sand tones, were working the wrack line, picking at the fresh seaweed for morsels and insects to eat. Herring gulls were quite common, with a few ring-billed and a lone glaucous gull. What was going on here? All the birds I had seen, with the exception of common ravens and house sparrows, were supposed to have already migrated, according to Chartier’s records.

The next day we had to be up early because we were going out for bears! Our group gathered at the school bus, laden with 47 layers of clothing, daypacks, photo gear, tripods, and boots that were so thick, heavy, and massive that Frankenstein would have requested a smaller size.

Along with a multitude of other school buses appearing to carry every other tourist in town, we arrived at the semi-surreal “tundra buggy" port. About 15 of these strange behemoths are docked at the tourist loading station, ready to rumble across the tundra. Although the vehicles vary somewhat in size, most are about 40 feet long and 15 feet wide, with an 8x12 rear outside deck. They look like giant cereal boxes lying on their sides, and weigh about 25,000 pounds. The box is perched on immense balloon tires standing 5 feet tall and 2 feet wide, and the whole thing is jacked up so that the ample windows lining the buggy’s cabin are 12 feet off the ground. Each vehicle could comfortably carry about 30 to 40 people.

Most bird watching is done from the buses or tundra buggies. Outside of the central part of town, it is simply too dangerous to be wandering around on foot without heavy weaponry. The bears can be anyplace, anytime—it’s that simple. Routinely, the bears come over to the buggies and stand up—every inch of their 10-foot length trying to come in for a visit. Viewing is excellent from this high vantage point, and drop-down windows line the cabin.

Our first day on the buggy was somewhat bizarre. The vehicles rolled out of the port in a line heading east across the open tundra. The parade of these graceless but adept boxcars crawling over deeply rutted, boulder-strewn old military “roads" reminded me of a scene from a Star Wars movie with alien mechanized monsters moving across an open plain. Running at a pace of three to four miles per hour, the buggy lurched across the terrain, sometimes going through ponds and creeks or over three-foot-high rocks. When a bear was sighted, the buggies converged in slow motion to give everyone a good look.

As we jounced along, passing many unfrozen dwarf willow-lined glacial pools, the vegetation looked almost the same as it did in spring, with withered and sere leaves framing each body of water. However, in stark contrast to June, the tundra was now eerily barren of wildlife, lacking the swarms of spring birds raucously setting up housekeeping or pausing on their way farther north to high Arctic nesting grounds. Before long, however, I was surprised to see small flocks of greater yellowlegs, about a dozen black-bellied plovers, spotted sandpiper, brant, snow goose, greater scaup, northern pintail, green-winged teal, common goldeneye, common merganser, white-winged scoter, and long-tailed duck. These birds, except perhaps the snow geese, historically would have migrated long before. Single and small flocks of willow ptarmigan were scattered about, mostly hiding in the dense thickets. When some came out in the open, however, watching them feed was fascinating. Their primary food is the buds and seeds of the abundant dwarf willows. Before the winter snows arrive, they feed at ground level. Gradually, the snow deepens, providing an “elevator" for the ground-dwelling birds, permitting them to reach the next higher level of buds. Without any snow, the birds were now forced to jump up and flutter, trying to snatch the higher buds.

We encountered about 8 to 10 bears that day, some nearby, some at a distance. The close ones, if they were awake, would come over to the buggy and stretch up on their hind legs trying to get a look inside. We were definitely the croissants in the pastry shop window. The most entertaining bears we encountered were a mother and cub that held court for hours for several buggies. Mostly the pale yellowish sow rested—occasionally stretching her long neck up and sampling the air for danger—but the cub frolicked, tried to play with her, had a fight with a willow, and finally took a nap, resting his creamy head on her rump for a pillow.

I had two days where I separated from the tour group, which was sampling other cultural activities in Churchill—one was a dogsled ride, on wheels since there was no snow. I rented a beat-up pickup truck and headed out of town, planning to drive the 40 or so miles of roads in the area, searching for birds. The narrow two-track road wound down toward the bay, passing through dense willow thickets and barren glaciated rocks, worn flat and still showing scratch marks from the thousands of feet of ice that slowly slid over them millennia ago. A common raven sat on a rock, feeding on some small mammal it had captured. Snow buntings darted through the vegetation.

Suddenly the truck sank, like someone simultaneously flattened all four tires. I got out and saw, to my growing horror, I was in up to my axles in loose sand. I couldn’t get free.

I had to make quick choices. If I waited here for help, no one might happen by until spring. The first thing to come along might not be a person, either; I was in prime bear habitat. If one smelled me, I was sure it would come to investigate. The truck was no protection. Polar bears hunt by crushing the lairs of their prey and ripping them out of their hiding places. An image came instantly to mind: Gary Larson’s “The Far Side" cartoon of two polar bears standing over an igloo, remarking, “I just love these things! ... Crunchy on the outside with a chewy center!" I decided to carry nothing and walk out to the main road as quickly as I could. I made the 1.25-mile walk in 15 minutes and flagged down a passing truck. The first thing my new best friend said to me was, “Man, you shouldn’t be walking out here. There are a lot of bears in this area!" We drove back to my truck and he pulled it out. No more back roads for me that day. There hadn’t been much in the way of birds, either. Because of the bears, I couldn’t get out and wander around.

My second free day found me at the home of longtime Churchill resident Bill Calnan, who built his beautiful log home several miles outside of town, on the edge of the boreal forest. He railroads in thousands of pounds of seed each year to take care of his wildlife. On my way to Bill’s, I noticed a smallish raptor perched on the tip of a dead spruce. With a rapid wingbeat, it fluttered from one treetop to the next. Its round head, short wings, and long tail were now apparent. I couldn’t believe my eyes! The northern hawk owl is supposed to be extremely rare here, occurring only from April to July, yet here one was in late October.

I spent most of the day at Bill’s feeders, enjoying the company of a multitude of birds and small mammals. Pine grosbeaks, gray jays, common redpolls—a wide variety of birds showing an infinite variation of plumages came to feed, including a totally improbable common grackle—unknown for Churchill. Snowshoe and Arctic hares, red-backed voles, and red squirrels also competed for attention.

So what’s happening in the northern reaches of our continent? How does it affect birds that rely on the Arctic and boreal forests to nourish and protect them? I am not a scientist, so all I could do is ask questions and gather anecdotal information. I decided to speak with a variety of people who have lived in Churchill for many years and whose lives are intimately tied to the environment.

Mike Macri, who has lived in the area for 35 years, is the founder of Sea North Tours, a company that specializes in birding, whale watching, and general ecotourism. “The ice on the bay that used to break up around June 15 is now breaking up at the end of May, sometimes as early as mid-May," Mike says. “It would form from mid- to late October, but now it’s mid-November before the bears can go out on it. The birds are staying a lot later and arriving earlier. And the spruce trees near my cabin, which used to grow 1/4 to 1/2 inch a year are growing 4 to 5 inches a year."

Kara Masaschi, zoologist and tour representative for Polar Bears International, accompanied our tundra buggy and presented an informative talk about the natural history of the bears. She and every other scientist and layperson with whom I spoke agreed that the “ice season" had been shortened by at least two weeks at either end. The cause of this phenomenon is still subject to debate. Kara pointed out the well-documented “Pinatubo effect" that occurred in 1991. When volcanic Mount Pinatubo in Indonesia erupted that year, spewing huge amounts of ash into the worldwide atmosphere, global temperatures dropped four degrees Fahrenheit. That year, the ice on Hudson Bay formed in mid-October and didn’t break up until mid-June. The polar bear cubs born that year are known as “Pinatubo bears" because more and healthier cubs were born and survived than in any other year since temperatures started rising again and ice levels decreased.

It is much more difficult to assess the effect of these changing conditions on migratory bird populations. Based on Chartier’s records through 1987, virtually all of the 20 migratory species I observed in Churchill toward the end of October previously had a late date of mid-September. On the other hand, winter migrants from the North that previously reached their peak numbers by mid-October were not observed at all during my trip.

What happens to the birds that linger? What is the impact on the environment, insects, and vegetation from migratory birds arriving earlier each year and staying later? What is the effect on the true Arctic birds—like gyrfalcons and snowy owls—that arrive later each fall and leave earlier in the spring? How does this affect their breeding cycles and the prey they consume?

Birds, like polar bears, are excellent indicators of environmental change. There are many questions, but answers are problematic and subject to intense debate. It was apparent to me that the Arctic is changing fast, with hefty implications for its people and wildlife.

Sam Fried and his wife run Flights of Fancy Adventures, Inc., which offers birding tours throughout the Americas, and the only combined golf and birding tours in the world. Contact them at magesfried@aol.com or 860-243-2569.

When to go: The best time to seems to be shifting, but right now I would recommend early to mid-November for the best time for bear viewing. Contact your tour operator for the latest information on bird and bear activity.