PB

Find the bear on the berg!In the Arctic, PB is not peanut butter. It’s a polar bear. Like crying fire in a movie theater when there is no fire, you don’t want to say the words polar bear in the Arctic—unless there is a bear. So as we floated from one fjord to the next on Spitsbergen, we would ask each other: “Seen anything interesting?” Anything could be a Beluga or a Walrus, or a Seal or a Minke Whale or any number of wondrous birds. But always, what we all wanted to see was a big white creature, a PB, a “furry friend.”

We had sailed into a beautiful fjord. Our three guides, Sarah Red, Sarah Blue and Therese went ashore to mark off a safe area. The scan and set-up was taking longer than usual. We stood on deck and strained toward the shore to know what was happening. The radios crackled. And then word came back: a bear was there, floating on a small iceberg. We could say those two words: Polar Bear.

The zodiacs ferried over all of the Arctic Circlers and we peered into the distance at the off-white pile of fur sleeping on a berg. I can’t say it was the most satisfying view, but there was no mistaking what was there. Sarah Red had spied it, changing her name to Sarah Bear.

Then, without fanfare, the bear slipped off of its resting spot and swam off. We returned the zodiacs and the safety of the ship. A half hour later, the bear ambled onto shore. It swung its legs in a casual manner, but its strength and speed, even at a distance was obvious. The bear was off-white, smudged by dirt, not fat and not thin. From the distance of the ship I couldn’t see details of eyes or teeth, couldn’t smell the fur of the big bear. I only could see big shaggy feet, a lumbering gait.

I had been thinking that the safety of the trip was excessive—so much precaution against so few bears (there are approximately 3,500 on Spitsbergen). But once I saw this bear I realized how unexpected it was, and how fast it moved. Since the early 70s, when the Norwegian government required all traveling on Svalbard to carry a gun, only five people have been killed. That’s an impressive record. So my feeling caged in by the limited safety zones was the bear’s freedom. That seemed a fair trade off.

Nansen in his expedition north on the Fram met many bears. And he never hesitated to pull out his gun and shoot—a polar bear provided a lot of food for his men, and the fresh meat was important in keeping scurvy away. But his shooting is often dreadful to read—there are sloppy and slow deaths, and then there is a moment when he kills a mother with two cubs. He shoots the mother first, then describes in oddly loving detail the young sniffing and pushing at their mother in despair. He shoots them as well. Nansen finds the breast of the cubs a delicacy. The bear moving before me, however, is protected. No one is allowed to shoot a bear, except in self defense (and then an investigation ensues to ensure the danger was real).

The bear walked the shoreline, and then headed uphill where a herd of reindeer grazed. They dodged the bear and continued to eat the low, green grass. The bear soon vanished in the distance. And that was it, the first polar bear I had seen in its own environment, there and then gone so quickly. Like many who marvel at the natural world, I anticipate these moments of seeing some of our great animals. I expect, perhaps, some sort of transcendent experience. But there was nothing but the simple excitement at seeing a large white animal lumbering the beach, knowing it was both free and safe. 

Snapping Turtle Tradition

We love traditions: Thanksgiving dinner, or that annual trip to the beach, or the first trip to the ice cream stand in summer. For me, the annual events that I look forward to are Christmas Bird Count, the salamander big night, and the week in early June when snapping turtles lay their eggs. All of my traditions involve preparation and excited anticipation.

I prepared for snapping turtle week by buying a fishing net. As I left Gander Mountain someone called to me: “butterflies?”—those would be some butterflies!

“Nope, Snapping turtles,” I called back, cheerful.

He rolled his eyes.

my finest rescue techniqueBecause snappers travel to lay their eggs, they cross roads and railroad tracks—and often are crushed. Already I had clumsily shoved a turtle across a road, the turtle snapping, four or five of us offering suggestions, stopping or slowing cars, and from time to time screaming in surprise when the turtle lunged with a snap.  The net was the solution to all of my turtle rescuing problems.

Last year, I stumbled on the maternity ward of snappers along the train tracks that slice the North Tivoli Bay from the main artery of the Hudson River. There, in the black gravel laid as foundation for the tracks the snapping turtles can easily dig, then the sun warms the eggs beautifully. On June 6 of last year, I saw dozens of turtles digging, and rescued one caught between the rails. The next day, dozens of turtles lay crushed, mangled by the trains barreling north and south. This year, I was going to save as many turtles as possible.

Snapper laying eggsAt seven in the morning, Christina, Kate and I tromped out Cruger Island Road under a gorgeous blue sky. Red-winged black birds showed off their velvet red epaulets, Willow Flycatchers called out fitz-bew, and the world seemed perfect.  When we arrived at the tracks, we spotted a turtle right away. Scooping up a turtle in a fishing net isn’t as easy as I imagined. Added to that, the turtle wasn’t happy with being displaced from there, between the rail lines. It hissed, and snapped at the net, while I looked cautiously over my shoulder for a train in the distance. With encouraging calls from Kate and Christina, I loaded the turtle and wobbled over to the edge. Untangling a turtle from a net is even more difficult, its long claws caught in the webbing. After a bit of work, I released it with a tumble into the cattails. There it looked at us in disgust before we walked off.

Further up the track it was a regular egg laying fest. Over twenty nests had been dug and raided—no doubt by raccoons. Shreds of the eggs littered the disturbed holes, the white so white against the black soil. But over a dozen lady snappers were still in holes, quietly laying their round, white eggs. Three had gathered near to each other, hind ends burrowed deep in the soil. When we returned half an hour later, one was gone—and her nest already empty. How quickly the thief works! 

And yet--though the raccoon was hard at work, we saw no turtles crushed by the steel wheels of the train. This, a small relief. 

We stopped for tea and sticky buns brought by Kate from the Tivoli Bakery—for any tradition to be a success, good food is essential—and watched barn swallows wing in and out under the underpass.

Kate & Christina with netted turtleAnother stray turtle on the tracks pulled us south for a second rescue by Christina and Kate. Here’s hoping these two we pulled from the tracks continue on their path and that some of those eggs escape the hunger of the raccoon. In August I’ll walk out, looking for baby snapping turtles.

Does saving two snapping turtles make a difference? Maybe, but maybe not. It is comforting but naïve to think that every little bit helps—because in the face of our environmental problems this doesn’t even register. What matters, though, is that saving these turtles is what I can do, it’s what I do. It’s one of my traditions. 

Baby Beaver

Horned GrebeI am an optimist. But on Tuesday morning as I launched my kayak onto the Hudson River at 7:30 in the morning I was not filled with my usual sense that just around the corner was the next glorious sight. I wouldn't say I was feeling pessimistic, but rather more grumpy. And I was grumpy because the height of migration has passed--it comes and goes so quickly it is excruciating. I decided that nothing special could come my way ("all the best birds are gone" I said to a friend, sounding like a twelve year old having a tantrum). Armed with this bad attitude, I stroked south under a bluing sky toward Magdalen Island and the entrance to the North Tivoli Bay.

Map TurtleJust to prove me wrong, the river first offered up a Horned Grebe, in elegant breeding plumage, floating placidly at the opening to the North Tivoli Bay. It bobbed along, as if it belonged there (it doesn't--it should be in Canada somewhere far north). I scooted down the main waterway, lined by cattails and phragmites. Red winged blackbirds sang their insistent conkla-dee, and marsh wrens trilled from the reeds. A Map turtle sunned on a log. Two Canada Geese crossed the channel, three babies trailing behind. Fifty yards later, a Mallard mother scooted thirteen young into the reeds. I couldn't help but laugh at myself. This was the most glorious day.

In the distance, I saw the tell-tale V of a beaver plowing through the water. In 1840, the beaver was a rare animal in New York State. Trapping had all but wiped out this large rodent, whose pelts were used for hats and coats. When trapping was finally prohibited in 1895, some claim there were but 10 left in the State. In the North Tivoli Bay, it is hard to believe this desperate history: I always see a beaver. Or rather, I hear a slap of a broad tail, signaling danger before the beaver dives below the surface.

So it came as a surprise when I spied a beaver snout moving toward me. About five feet in front of my kayak, the little beaver crawled up into the mud, and perched there, letting out a darling, but slightly heartbreaking mew. It then plunked back into the water and swam toward me, looping around my paddles and nuzzling the boat.

I guessed it was lost. Across the channel rested a stick pile, a beaver lodge. I moved my boat to the middle of the channel thinking the little beaver might swim to me once again and this would get it closer to home. It did. And I had the foresight to turn on the video in my pocket camera. And sure enough, after it rounded the stern of my boat, the baby beaver swam off toward the lodge. Watch the video here.

Full of optimism, I paddled home.