Two summers in Bush Alaska

    The "bush" wasn't something I'd heard of growing up in Dayton, Ohio.  With a population of almost 150,000 and ever expanding suburban sprawl, Dayton was far, far from the bush.  I grew up within a 15 minute drive of 3 Walmarts, a mall, and later 3 of my personal favorite restaurant- Chipotle.  I'd always had almost instant gratification of material goods and a plethora to choose from.  I'd also never had to worry about becoming dangerously lost; Dayton's parks inevitably led to some sort of development.  I had access to hiking trails, ice cream stands, movie theaters, arcades, shopping centers, etc., as most American youths do, yet I was bored.  I longed for adventure in a faraway land, preferably with fewer people and more wildlife.  I would get my wish, and it would forever change me for the better.

      As long as I can remember, I wanted to go to Alaska.  I picked Alaska for a state project in elementary school, Balto and Brother Bear were two of my favorite movies, and I desperately wanted to see wolves, bears, and eagles in the wild.  Hence, when offered a summer avian internship working for the US Fish & Wildlife Service in King Salmon, Alaska, I quickly accepted. 

     King Salmon has a population of about 350, one grocery store, and 2 restaurants/bars (one of which is only open seasonally).  There is one paved road, the Alaska Peninsula Highway, that runs about 15 miles from the end of the airport runway to the neighboring town of Naknek (population is about 500).  When the road ends, the only ways to travel are by plane or boat. 

     As the plane descended towards my home for the summer on May 5^th, 2014, I gazed out the window at the strangest landscape I had ever seen.  Flat, scattered with ponds of various sizes, and spattered in shades of red, yellow, and green, the tundra stretched below me.  Water was everywhere and the sky promised more; the clouds hung low and the air was humid as I walked off the plane towards the tiny King Salmon Airport.  That night I fell asleep to the whistle-like honking of Tundra Swans and the winnowing of Wilson’s Snipes, sounds foreign to my ears. 

     The beauty of the tundra and the town of King Salmon is more subtle than that of the snow-capped mountains and volcanoes that line the Alaska Peninsula coast.  Walking on tundra is like walking on the softest pillow; the ground sinks beneath your feet.  The land changes colors like deciduous leaves in the fall; blankets of red, orange, and gold.  Kneeling to the ground, one can see the intricacies of the tundra.  With its feathery Sphagnum, cream-colored Labrador Tea flowers, shiny Bog Cranberry leaves, segmented Horsetails, leathery lichens, and a variety of other plants and fungi, the tundra at the microscale looks like another planet.

     The small town of King Salmon is home to some of the kindest people I’ve met.  Everyone in town waves as they drive by, the grocery store cashiers know you, and people share stories of fish, bears, and more.  The few people that live on the wild Alaska Peninsula all have a story; some belong to families whose presence extends back to World War II, some are bush pilots, some fishermen, some federal employees stationed here, among others.  These people are bound by their ability and willingness to live separated from larger society but completely bound to the land and sea.  This is one of the few populations that truly understands humankind’s interconnectedness with and dependence on nature.  Bristol Bay, which includes King Salmon, hosts the world’s largest Sockeye Salmon fishery.  The talk of the town in summer is the salmon run; people depend on the fish for food and finance.  The potential outcomes of the berry and moose harvests, and inevitable interactions with bears (both positive and negative) are also often discussed.  Summers are short and winters are long, cold and dark; resources must be utilized and never wasted.  This is a brave, strong people, and I feel privileged to have spent time among them. 

     Time moves slower here.  Without many of the distractions that life in more populated areas involves (rush-hour traffic, city lights and noise, advertisements everywhere, etc.), one is better able to focus on fostering relationships and finding creative outlets.  My first summer, I had no internet or cable in my cabin, and no Verizon service.  I found myself spending more time outside, reading, and sketching wildlife.  My second summer, spent working for Katmai National Park, I invested more time in artwork.  Not only did I sketch more pictures of wildlife, but I made charcoal drawings, porcupine quill and feather earrings, and casts of bear tracks.  I also went pack-rafting, and fished almost every weekend, catching Rainbow Trout, King Salmon, Sockeye Salmon, and Silver Salmon.  I worried less and adventured more, flying in small, single-passenger bush planes and camping the backcountry.  Stress melted away as the towering volcanoes, powerful Brown Bears, and determined salmon led me to the realization that the only thing I am in control of is myself.  Nature is the best teacher, and the beauty and danger of the Alaska bush gave me a new understanding. 

    As the tundra is a mosaic of different plants, fungi, and lichens, King Salmon is a mosaic of different people, all with a love of the land and sea, and adventure.  From this place I have learned the beauty of simplicity, and the timelessness of the land, sea, and the creatures residing within.  Bristol Bay’s Sockeye Salmon run has occurred every year for thousands of years.  The mountains have stood for even longer.  I am humbled by all of it.  There is a wisdom in this land and in this lifestyle; a community surrounded by wilderness rather than a green area surrounded by a city.  The Alaska bush is simple in some ways but complex in others, quiet yet wild.  It is definitely unique, and for me it has become another home.  

Close Encounters of the Ursine Kind; Lessons I've learned from Bears

I felt as though I was being watched.  I turned around.  I saw her immediately, staring right at me, not 20 yards off.  My heartrate quickened, and I began to tremble.  The golden colored, subadult female Brown Bear started to walk toward me….

     Bears.  I knew their general biology (large, omnivorous mammals, hibernators, extensive maternal care, etc.), but until I came to Alaska this was my knowledge base.  My experience was limited to zoo trips and several sightings of both Brown (Ursus arctos) and Black Bears (Ursus americanus) in Yellowstone National Park.  There is a growing population of Black Bears in Eastern Ohio, but it is still so small that many residents of my home state probably do not know it exists.  The species is classified as endangered there.  Conversely, the striking statistic often quoted for the Alaska Peninsula is that there are more bears (Brown) than people.  If you spend a summer on the Peninsula as I have done, sharing the same main protein source as bears (salmon), you will undoubtedly interact with these non-human neighbors.  These creatures are powerful not only in physical strength but in their influence on human minds and cultures.  If you look inside a bear's mouth (preferably not by the way I'm sure you are thinking about), you will see that aside from enlarged canines, it's teeth look similar to ours.  They are omnivores like us.  If you examine a bear's tracks, you will notice that they are five-toed like ours, and have smaller front than hind paws, like our hands and feet.  Sometimes they stand and even walk on their hind limbs like us.  Finally, if you spend time closely watching a bear, you might see certain behavioral similarities as well.  At this point I've spent a lot of time watching bears, and along with a mysterious wild wisdom, there is something strangely familiar in the eyes of a bear.  

     In many Native American cultures, the bear is a symbol of the wild, emotional side of ourselves.  Bears are typically solitary animals except for mothers with cubs.  Mystery surrounds the being that wanders the mountains alone; we can relate to a need at times for solitude and introspection.  On my trips into the Becharof National Wildlife Refuge wilderness last summer, bears were often the only other mammal seen each day, and aside from a mother with two cubs, each was alone.  I didn't know anything about these individual bears, except that they were powerful and deserved respect and distance.  My coworker explained how each bear has its own personality, and might respond to our presence differently on one day over another because “Bears have good and bad days too”.  If a smaller bear is chased numerous times by a larger bear, it might be more likely to stand its ground or become aggressive towards us (although this is rare).  Some bears would run immediately as they saw us or picked up our scent, others would stand and watch us.  It was clear that both we humans and those bears could feel the tension between our species.  We tread an invisible line; a delicate balance formed from a long history of competition and combat. 

     Bears show intense, arguably emotional, responses to different stimuli.  From the raised platform at Brooks Falls in Katmai National Park, I’ve been able to observe wild bears closely for hours.  I've watched a bear slap the water with anger after having a fish stolen from her, a mother charge a much larger boar (male bear) without hesitation as he came too close to her cubs, and many other conflicts.  I've seen a cub cry for its mother after being left in a tree, and I've seen footage of a mother in severe distress as her cub was killed by a boar.  I've also watched bears play; jumping on tree limbs and wrestling with each other for hours.  I've seen desperate hungry lunges at fish and genuine pleasure while stripping the skin off of a Sockeye Salmon.  I've seen pain and amazing recoveries from severe injuries.  

The boar on the left came too close to the sow that the bear on the right was courting.

The sow at the top right is growling at the other because she stole her fish.

The fierce look of a mother bear (her 3 cubs are outside of this frame).

Two young bears play in Brooks River.

A look of hunger and triumph.

Enjoying salmon.

Hungry cubs grab at a fish mom just caught.

Below: Contrast the face of Brooks Camp Bear #410 Four-ton, who is 26 years old, with Bear #500 Indy, a young subadult female (who is also who walked toward me in my introductory narrative).

One of many stories of perseverance and survival: Bear 130 Tundra suffered what appeared to be a superficial facial injury as a yearling cub.... (Photo by NPS)

She lived with only a scar to show.... (Photo by NPS/Mike Fitz)

It wasn't until after her death that biologists realized that her injury was not superficial.  130 Tundra had been living with a major skull deformity, perhaps from a blow to the head, that likely caused severe pain (Photo by NPS).

     Through these experiences, watching the lives of bears and interacting with them on occasion, I’ve learned a lot.  I will discuss three important lessons.  The first is to be strong.  This may seem immediately obvious, but it runs deeper than being able to knock a tree over.  130 Tundra and others have recovered from major injuries, showing resiliency and perseverance through struggle.  Bears continue on even when they are in pain.  

     Second, bears have taught me to face my fears, to stay calm in potential danger.  When I first came to Alaska and started to read Stephen Herrero’s Bear Attacks: Their Causes and Avoidance, the fact that bears are dangerous animals that can kill people began to cause a sick feeling in my stomach; fear.  Training in bear biology and behavior, how to react when encountering a bear, and bear spray and firearms helped build confidence, but I still nervously anticipated my first encounter.  It was on my second field mission to take a survey of bird species and abundances.  I had seen bear trails and scat on my first, but no bears.  I was canoeing the Kejulik River with my coworker to our field site.  It was cold, wet, and windy; so miserable that both of us had ceased speaking and my thoughts were of warm places and a longing to be curled up in my sleeping bag.  I heard “Bear”, in a serious tone and looked ahead to see a giant dark figure on the shore downstream from us.  I shook not from the cold now, knowing that we would have to canoe by the bear.  The mighty creature took one look at us and then turned and ran up a hill with such ease that I was entranced by its power.  We saw many bears on that trip, and I’ve seen many bears since, but there are several encounters that stand out in my mind.  

It is a humbling moment to have eye contact with a large, sentient, nonhuman being; both of us are mutually aware of each other, and both of us are curious and afraid.  In addition to facing my fears, bears have taught me humility.  I am reminded of my small size (in both a literal and abstract sense) when in the presence of bears.  Returning to my introductory narrative; I was on my way back to Brooks Camp after a walk on the beach and had walked into the forest to examine a beaver pond when I turned to see a young bear.  She was obviously a curious subadult by her small size and approach; head up and an unsure walk.  I talked to her, repeating “Hey bear” and “Stay back” in as firm a voice as I could manage.  I had to make several turns, returning to the beach before she finally lost interest.  I will never know her motivations beyond curiosity, but she looked lonely and confused by my hostility.  Subadult bears are chased away by their mothers and must learn to survive on their own.  I hoped that I had helped to teach her an important lesson; to stay away from humans. 

The subadult female after she had stopped following me.

There is much we can learn from bears.  If the bear represents our wild side, then are we left confused like the subadult female?  Do we fear the darker side of our own nature, or do we turn and look it in the eye?  We will likely never completely understand, but we can acknowledge our different sides and grow.  The very essence of wild is intangible, and therefore unattainable.  We are left to wander, respecting the bear and learning when to use its power.