After eight years of planning, wildlife photojournalist Andy Skillen finally captured one of the Arctic’s rarest spectacles: polar bears fishing for char in a remote northern Canadian fjord
I checked my Thermos again. It was still empty.
Having been sat for five hours on the edge of one of the unnamed, braided glacial rivers that feeds the Ikudliayuk fjord in northernmost Nunavik, Canada, with nothing other than a biting wind for company, I had, predictably, succumbed to boredom eating.
The dried risotto that I’d packed that morning from camp had long since been consumed, and my failure to appreciate the quantity of hot water I’d need to bring this space-age, calorific packet of delights to life not only meant that I’d had a slightly chewier lunch than planned, but that I was now left without enough hot stuff to make any more tea. I shivered at the prospect of drinking the cold water I had, pulled the hood of my jacket just that little bit tighter and consoled myself with a peanut energy bar.
Enjoying this article? Check out our related reads…
Peering downriver towards the wide expanse of the fjord on which I’d landed by float plane early that morning, I could see an increasing prevalence of whitecaps on the water, and began to wonder at what point we’d have to abandon the shoot and head back to the aircraft to ensure a safe take-off. It would take us a good hour to reach the beach where we had tied up, across some pretty unforgiving terrain, so nothing could be decided at the last minute. What a day.
There was a tap on my shoulder. I looked around to see Alain, my guide, binoculars clamped to his eyes, staring towards the same watery abyss that I was.
‘One is coming.’
At first, I didn’t exactly register the statement. A combination of Alain’s gravelly Québécois accent, the slicing wind and, perhaps, my own disbelief meant that the full gravity of what he’d said hadn’t sunk in.
‘For sure, he’s on his way.’
The follow-up struck me like a lightning bolt. Within a second, I had swung one of my cameras around on its tripod mount to point in the same vague direction as my guide’s unwavering stare.
And there it was in the viewfinder: a lumbering, perfectly white polar bear about 800 metres away, heading directly towards us from the fjord. Eight years of attempting to pull together the logistics to get to this spot were seemingly about to be rewarded. This wasn’t going to be just ‘another’ polar bear encounter.
It was summer, or rather, what passed as summer in this part of the world, just south of the Arctic Circle. This briefest of seasons is when the tundra is at its most abundant. Dwarf fireweed coloured the wide glacial valley floor with swathes of pink petals, while Arctic poppies, seaside bluebells and the glowing white blossoms of the ubiquitous Labrador tea provided a break to the monotony of the grey mountainsides of this boulder-strewn landscape.
At the point Alain and I had based ourselves, the river course we had chosen to follow was at one of its lowest points, perhaps just 30 centimetres deep in some parts and mid-thigh in others. Downstream to our right, as you moved back towards the fjord, there were deeper patches punctuated by gravel bars, around and through which we had to navigate ourselves to get this far upstream.
I had never been quite so nervous carrying all my kit. Leaving the float plane behind, we had waded ashore and then criss-crossed our way over a couple of kilometres through this braided waterscape. At times, the water would be pushing waist-deep, icy cold and moving with enough pace to make the already slippery boulders underfoot feel even more treacherous. It was always a relief to reach our ‘wait it out’ spot with everything intact.
Although the river flowed towards the fjord, as tides rose and fell further out in the ocean, a pulse of water was pushed up-valley and into its feeder rivers. Indeed, the peculiar geography of Ikudliayuk, whereby a pinch point around halfway down its length created a greater surge of water upstream, was one of the key determinants for why we had gone to such lengths to get here.
We timed our appearance for August for a very particular reason: the appearance of Arctic char, an ice-age relic from the salmon family. For just a few weeks a year – perhaps, if you’re fortunate – these powerful fish migrate upstream from the oceans to inland lakes to either spawn or simply hang out over the soon-to-come winter, and avoid freezing ocean temperatures. The aforementioned squeeze through the fjord’s mountainous sides meant that these fish could school on one side, before using the impetus of the rising tide to give more upstream propulsion.
But this isn’t like an Alaskan salmon run, and it’s important to forget all notions of predictability and scale. This isn’t the million-fish affair seen elsewhere. The fish come in small shoals rather than by the thousand, perhaps a pulse of 50–100 coming through together. These pulses themselves can be hours apart, and sometimes might consist of just a handful of struggling fish as the majority opt to stay in deeper water downstream.
And they might not come at all. If conditions aren’t perfect (and they’re increasingly not), the water might not be deep enough for them to head too far inland. This point had been abundantly clear to me from our first forays days before. I sat and surveyed the river in front of me, which would need to be navigated by these most northerly of freshwater fish. I could only imagine the physical effort it would take to push through water just a couple of centimetres deep, let alone over exposed gravel sections. If the water temperature isn’t right, the char might also be dissuaded from their journey. And, last but not least, they might simply opt to choose another river, or even not enter the fjord at all.
On this particular day, we had been smiled upon. The water had periodically bubbled with the excited froth of industrious char making their way inland, and the weather was clear. I had the conditions and the fish. All I needed now was the bears.
The ambling white blob had now closed to around 50–60 metres away, and was making his way along the riverbank, eyeing us with mild curiosity as he did so. As interested as he possibly was in us, this polar bear had his eye on far more important matters. Char. His gait quickened, breaking into an ursine jog as he closed on the bubbling water until, with one leap, he belly-flopped into the hubbub, disappearing into a wave of spray before emerging with his flapping prize firmly in his jaws. I had just seen a polar bear chase and catch a fish. Not a grizzly – a polar bear.
It was the desire to capture this unique behaviour that had been the driving force for me for years in getting here. Rumours of fish-catching polar bears had circulated for a long time, but there was little evidence. However, here, on a sunny afternoon in northernmost Nunavik, I had seen it with my own eyes.
It didn’t end there, of course. This particular bear, which we estimated at around 400 kilos, went on to catch a further 15 fish that afternoon. Unlike their southern cousins, the grizzlies – from whom their family tree diverged around 300,000 years ago – this bear would eat every last scrap. With just a few ravens for company, there was little point in leaving too many scraps around.
As the afternoon wore on, more white blobs appeared on the scene and over the next few days (which became the backbone of my shoot), increasing numbers of polar bears would descend on this spot. At one point, I had seven in view, all evenly spaced along the riverbank opposite us, each choosing their own point of attack into the river that separated us. At times, in the long lulls between fish pulses, I would catch one of them staring straight at me and calculated it would be about five seconds for it to get up and be beside me if it so wished.
However, these bears, who’ve probably never met or seen a human, were so fish-focused we never had a feeling of true apprehension. Occasionally, a younger, pushier one would get bored and edge its way towards us, but we were confident that if the normal shout of ‘Hey’ at a somewhat bemused bear wasn’t enough, then the noise, smoke and flash from loaded flare guns would be a suitable deterrent.
One of the most fascinating observations over the days we sat and watched these bears come and go was their inherent patience and understanding of the tides. They knew when to arrive and where to wait. There would be an investigation of the area when they first turned up, and then a settling into position. Younger bears, lacking the experience of their older peers, would be more restless.
These would expend far more energy trotting up and down the riverbank, as if the fishing was always going to be better elsewhere. The older, more experienced bears knew exactly the best places to situate themselves and, once in position, would simply doze off, nose pointed at the water, until the tell-tale splashing of an arriving shoal triggered their immediate interest. In no time, eyes were open, heads were engaged and the chase was on. The time from slumber to action was but a blink of an eye.
Techniques were also varied. Some would invest a great deal of time running up and down the water, scattering the fish and perhaps causing one or two to beach themselves to make for an easy meal. The belly-flop, as discussed earlier, was also an oft-used strategy involving a leap, or sometimes a shorter surge, followed by a four-paws-out dive onto the target.
This ‘dynamite’ style of attack would stun some char for a few seconds, enabling the fisher to scoop a few from the water. Finally, there was what I ended up calling the optimistic diver. In some of the deeper sections of the river, you would occasionally see a bear rolling and diving as if chasing some impossible underwater quarry. The chances of success would be zero, and I couldn’t help but think that those bears were simply doing it as a warm-up rather than a serious hunt.
What was particularly interesting, in a world where you would imagine that the bears would target every possible calorie, was that there was little to no theft between them. Each bear seemed to respect another’s catch or catching point, and all the time I was there, I witnessed only one short disagreement, where two protagonists suddenly found themselves in too-close proximity and opted to settle the dispute with a bite, roar and spat that was over in seconds.
In general, polar bears aren’t expert fishers and could learn a lot from their brown-furred cousins, but they are at least giving it a good try and, at a time when we hear only negative news for the future of these Arctic behemoths, to witness this startling example of opportunism first-hand was encouraging. Given the right conditions, bears can adapt to their changing surroundings.
Indeed, I had never seen so many huge polar bears in one place, all loaded with fat-rich char to the point of over-indulgence. Even the less successful managed a reasonable haul on an average day. These are bears that have learned this behaviour over years, handed down from mother to cub, and it’s the maintenance of this learning curve that’s crucial for this Nunavik population.
However, to assume all is right with the world remains a major mistake. Sometimes, water temperatures dictate that the fish don’t turn up or turn up in much smaller numbers, and commercial fishing pressures further into the ocean could potentially put this Labrador lifeline at risk. I can only imagine how morose a place this would be if the bears who turned up here, year after year, were suddenly left without anything to chase. Would this behaviour be lost?
When I boarded the float plane one evening for what proved to be the last time, to fly back to camp – weather thereafter preventing any further incursions to the fjord – I stared out of the window at one of the other, broader rivers that fed it. In the middle of it I could make out a gleaming white head and back that rolled and lolled in the water: a bear at total ease with itself and its surroundings. This was a true land of Ursus maritimus. I can only hope that this magical place stays this way forever.
Land’s End’ is an oft-used geographic term, but although this was essentially an unofficial moniker for where I’d chosen to spend my August, I was acutely aware that, for once, the phrase was wholly appropriate. The Ikudliayuk fjord is located on the northernmost tip of the Labrador Peninsula, in the spectacular Torngat Mountains. Around 18 kilometres to the east, it opens into the Labrador Sea, on the edge of the Davis Strait, which separates this remote part of sub-Arctic Canada from the west coast of Greenland, and around 50 kilometres to the north, the very tip of Nunavik’s spear-like profile gives way to the North Atlantic, with Baffin Island the next stop.
To reach here had been a major undertaking: a scheduled flight to Kuujjuaq from Montreal, followed by a two-hour charter to a remote fishing lodge that served as base camp. From there, when the weather window finally opened, it was a matter of loading all the gear onto a float plane for a two-and-a-half-hour flight north, stopping only to take on more fuel, which had been strategically cached en route.
With no people for hundreds of kilometres, it was truly the ends of the Earth. Camp was a simple, electric-fenced affair with a long-drop facility and dome tent, and the food came in packets, brought to life with boiled water from a nearby alpine lake. The spot had been chosen as it was just a 15-minute flight into the fjord and put us as close as possible t
You’re going where?
Land’s End’ is an oft-used geographic term, but although this was essentially an unofficial moniker for where I’d chosen to spend my August, I was acutely aware that, for once, the phrase was wholly appropriate. The Ikudliayuk fjord is located on the northernmost tip of the Labrador Peninsula, in the spectacular Torngat Mountains. Around 18 kilometres to the east, it opens into the Labrador Sea, on the edge of the Davis Strait, which separates this remote part of sub-Arctic Canada from the west coast of Greenland, and around 50 kilometres to the north, the very tip of Nunavik’s spear-like profile gives way to the North Atlantic, with Baffin Island the next stop.
To reach here had been a major undertaking: a scheduled flight to Kuujjuaq from Montreal, followed by a two-hour charter to a remote fishing lodge that served as base camp. From there, when the weather window finally opened, it was a matter of loading all the gear onto a float plane for a two-and-a-half-hour flight north, stopping only to take on more fuel, which had been strategically cached en route.
With no people for hundreds of kilometres, it was truly the ends of the Earth. Camp was a simple, electric-fenced affair with a long-drop facility and dome tent, and the food came in packets, brought to life with boiled water from a nearby alpine lake. The spot had been chosen as it was just a 15-minute flight into the fjord and put us as close as possible to our desired location. While this was a huge positive, it did mean that we were always in the lap of the weather gods when it came to getting in and out and, needless to say, 60 per cent of the intended shooting time was lost to inclement conditions.
