“When you look a polar bear in the eye, it changes your life.”
This is according to one Jim Baldwin, a man who would have knowledge of the matter. He is, after all, a tundra buggy driver for Frontiers North.
What is a tundra buggy? And where can you go to make eye contact with a polar bear?
I wouldn’t have known the answer to these questions two months ago. And very few are ever lucky enough to encounter a polar bear in the wild. (Less than 1% of the human population, in fact). To see such a magnificent sight, one has to voyage up to northern Manitoba, to a tiny town called Churchill, otherwise known as the ‘Polar Bear Capital of the World.’ From there, you ride said buggy out to the sub-Arctic tundra, where these apex predators wait for the ice to freeze (and seal hunting to begin in earnest) along the shores of Hudson Bay.
I took this pilgrimage in early November with Frontiers North on an expedition that can only be described as, well, life-changing. So, I guess Jim Baldwin was right. Read on for an inside look into one of the most unique safaris in the world, and — if you reserve your spot now — maybe your life will change next fall, too.
The Polar Bear Capital of the World
(Image provided by Katherine Parker-Magyar)
I set out for the Canadian North on October 31st, my Halloween plans monopolized by Air Canada as I flew from Newark to Toronto and onto Winnipeg. The following morning, I boarded a two-and-a-half hour flight even further north to Churchill, in Canada’s subarctic. From my window, I watched a spellbinding sunrise above the tundra, the first of many on this trip — this far north in the wintertime, the sun hangs low in the sky, resulting in a neverending golden hour.
My timing was deliberate — Frontiers North operates its polar bear adventures in autumn, and late October into early November is the peak period for wildlife viewing. This elevated bear activity also has an annual impact on the remote hamlet of Churchill, where there are no traffic lights or chain restaurants, and the local population is roughly 800. (Meanwhile, the local polar bear population every fall clocks in at around 600).
As a result, residents don’t lock their cars in the autumn months — the safest way to escape a charging bear is by hiding in the nearest vehicle — and red street signs with the outline of a polar bear warn: DANGER. DO NOT WALK. Bears that attack the town too frequently are held in ‘Polar Bear Jail’ and released once the water freezes on the Hudson Bay and forms the sea ice that allows the bears to hunt seals and abandon the tiny town for richer waters.
We were there on the eve of this seasonal occurrence, as well, headed west to Hudson Bay to watch the bears — while they watched us back and occasionally dared to approach and inspect our vehicle for a treat. They were hungry, and we smelled like food. And who could blame them? Their entire existence is, quite literally, on thin ice.
The precariousness of a polar bear’s existence, forever at the mercy of an ever-warming planet, was driven home by our visit to Polar Bears International (PBI), which was headquartered right there in town. They were stationed where the bears were, of course: “If you want to be sure you’ll see bears, this is where you need to be,” says Amy Cutting, PBI’s vice president of conservation.
And if you want to do so ethically, you’ll do so with Frontiers North. While sustainability should be at the forefront of every traveler’s mind, it should be particularly important when visiting one of the most rapidly changing ecosystems on the planet. This family-owned, Manitoba-based company partners with PBI and prioritizes conservation and social responsibility alongside nature and adventure. In fact, a PBI representative is present on every one of their safaris.
Amy Cutting categorizes the partnership as one of shared values: “Frontiers North gives Indigenous peoples a platform to tell their stories, and a big part of their mission is for people to fall in love with the North — not just with their polar bears, but with their cultures, with their peoples.”
The rich Indigenous history of this region was on display at the Arctic Trading Company, where I purchased cold-weather supplies pre-trip. (A visit to the local liquor store for Bailey’s would provide additional sustenance).
Our last stop in town was an Indigenous cultural presentation led by Florence Hamilton, a local Churchillian, and member of the Sayisi Dene First Nation. Throughout Canada, government-sponsored residential schools had been implemented to isolate Indigenous children from their native culture and resulted in the deaths of thousands of children. The daughter of a residential school survivor, Hamilton is compelled to share and document her family’s history and the history of the Dene people in Hudson Bay: “I share this story to honor my mother, my grandmother, and my ancestors. Our history is an oral history, and each time we lost an elder, we lost a library. So, it’s very important to have that knowledge and to pass it on.”
The old traditions haven’t entirely faded with time, however. “We still have elders who live that nomadic lifestyle, and they are our link to the past, to our history,” says Hamilton, adding: “The spirit of my ancestors are stronger with me when I’m on the land, so I go back to the land often.”
From there, we headed out onto that very land, a starkly beautiful expanse of snow and ice.
The Sounds of Silence
(Image provided by Katherine Parker-Magyar)
We drove west until the road was no longer traversable by car and boarded enormous tundra buggies for the hour’s drive west to Hudson Bay. The buggy served as our safari vehicle, with a viewing platform out back and 5.5–foot tires to protect from bear attacks. And it was for that very reason (to stay alive) that my feet wouldn’t touch the ground for the next four days.
“The guys who work here are out here for six weeks,” says our guide, Frank Wolf, putting things in perspective. “It’s kind of like The Shining.”
Arriving at the Tundra Buggy Lodge, it felt like entering a spaceship with our bunk beds and communal living. For the rest of my stay, I was, for all intents and purposes, out to sea, aboard a motorized ship in the middle of the wilderness. The lodge can accommodate 40 guests in a series of buggies that resemble adjoining train cars. The seasonal structure features a skylight lounge with panoramic, floor-to-ceiling windows, a dining room (where the food is always sublime — a true feat in the middle of the woods), and two sleeping units of parallel bunks.
The lodge also boasted outdoor viewing platforms and an observation deck, ideal not only for spotting wildlife but also, if you’re lucky, the Northern Lights. Churchill is famous for its clear winter skies, and the lodge, far from the light pollution of town, is prime for Aurora viewing. But if you miss the lights during your stay, you can always book a Northern Lights expedition later that winter. (Frontiers North hosts an array of seasonal trips in Canada’s North, including a Beluga whale safari in the summertime).
That November evening, I settled into the first dinner and met more fellow guests. They were a fascinating group of wanderers and explorers of all ages and nationalities. A Hudson Bay polar bear safari is not your first vacation, and many of them were better traveled than I was, as a professional. We were led by the infectious wittiness and wisdom of Frank Wolf, our guide and one of Canadian Geographic’s top explorers.
I’d just started dessert when I heard a gasp across the dining car. “BEAR!!!!!”
I looked out the window at the otherworldly spectacle of an enormous polar bear approaching the lodge in utter silence.
“They’re like ghosts,” says Frank. “They float around.”
Watching as this nearly 1,000-pound bear approached, the exterior lights illuminating its white fur, which glowed a brilliant cream against the even brighter glare of the alabaster snow, I understood why the animal was revered by the native community. After a kill, the hunter would wait three days for the bear’s spirit to return to its family before hunting again.
There was something spectral and supernatural in its imposing presence, yet also human-like, as well. I was, and would remain, utterly transfixed. Luckily, there would be more, many more, of these moments ahead.
True North
(Image provided by Katherine Parker-Magyar)
“If I see a bear, I’m gonna keep going unless it’s right on the road because there are bears at the lodge,” our buggy driver, Bob Devets, announced the next morning as we set out for safari.
Though Devets had the air of a man who’d seen it all — “I took this as my retirement job,” he’d tell me later that day — he was right. There were bears simply everywhere across the tundra. To not see a polar bear on a November afternoon was more of a feat, it seemed. Spotting a polar bear in Churchill was like finding a zebra in the Maasai Mara: Not guaranteed, but highly likely.
We had bears approaching the buggy, their paws outstretched towards the outdoor viewing deck. Bears that crawled beneath the vehicle, standing up to touch the grates we were standing upon. It was at once frightening and mesmerizing.
During downtime, the driver told stories of being caught in his underwear on the tundra, and Frank would regale the crowd with near-death encounters with the Arctic’s apex predator.
It felt cozy and collegial. Though the temperatures outside would drop below freezing (averaging 23°F), the sun shone brightly, and it was toasty inside the buggy. Spirits were certainly warmed by the daily Tundracchinos: coffee and Kahlua, served mid-morning.
As an avowed safari-lover, I must confess to occasionally experiencing a certain restlessness during a game drive. But, I found watching the polar bears to be utterly enthralling, nearly hypnotic. So little is known still about their behaviors, and their interactions with one another were endlessly fascinating. I was engrossed in imagining their ruthless world of survival in the harshest of environments.
But I was most struck by the silence. The silence of the animals and of the sub-Arctic itself. Snow covers ambient sound, and the stillness of the setting is remarkable. The bears exist in this vast quietness, noiseless in their approach. Their 12-inch paws help to distribute their hundreds of pounds of strength and muscle, enabling them to move in silence across the thin ice of the Arctic. The tranquility of their approach belies the horror of their size. The bears seemed serene, yet contained the possibility of untold danger, mirroring the contradictions of the landscape.
The ever-golden light and shadows cast upon the snowy tundra of Hudson Bay offered a sense of sublime peacefulness and unknowable mystery, as well. That first day, I was struck by the seeming emptiness of the landscape, but the longer I stayed and observed, the more I appreciated its variations in color, the endless shades of blue and white. The openness of the landscape, and its wildness, inspire a sense of calm, of reflection. You could feel the eternity of time and its passing. I felt liberated somehow, despite the fact my feet were not to touch the ground for the next three days. The effect was spellbinding and made me long to return to again and again.
“The Arctic is the only place in the world where you can go and not see other people for a month,” says Frank. “It’s just you and the landscape. It’s pure freedom.”
Luckily, this sub-Arctic landscape changes quite dramatically from season to season, and Frontiers North varies its offerings accordingly, prompting even more reasons to return. Perhaps for a Big Five safari in the summertime? Once you’ve fallen in love with Canada’s North, it’s an affair that will last a lifetime.
