24/09/2024
Eye to Eye with the King of the Ice
In today's world, where wildlife is more often seen on screens than in its natural habitat, misconceptions about these creatures abound. For many, the wilderness is a far-off notion-a place to visit. But for the animals that live there, it is home. To capture their true essence as a wildlife photographer, I've learned that it requires more than technical skill. It demands immersion-learning to live, survive, and feel at home in their world.
Over the years, I have ventured deep into the high Arctic-Canada, Russia, Svalbard-studying polar bears and their patterns of existence. Each trip revealed something new, but nothing could have prepared me for the moment I found myself crawling across the ice toward a sleeping polar bear. I had envisioned this moment for years-the great King of the Arctic not as the apex predator we always imagine, but in a vulnerable, peaceful state, resting in the midday sun.
In 1992, I was on expedition in Arctic Canada, searching the pack ice to photograph sleeping polar bears, and the the Inuit guides I worked with were instrumental in making this moment possible. Their knowledge of the land, the animals, and the shifting winds was critical to finding the bears. When one of the guides spotted the sleeping bear, we dropped to our knees and crawled together, approaching the bear with the wind blowing toward us, keeping our scent from reaching its hyper-sensitive nose. Eventually, I took the lead and the guide stopped. I moved forward slowly, stopping every few meter to glance back at my guide for reassurance, and then inch forward again. The bear lay roughly 25 meters ahead, completely unaware of my presence. My goal was to get within 5 to 7 meters—a daunting task in the freezing cold with my equipment.
I carried a Nikon N90, equipped with an 80-200mm lens. This meant I had to get dangerously close to capture the shot I had in mind. For 40 minutes, I crawled on my belly, my chest and arms pressed against the ice, each movement deliberate and slow. My hands were nearly frozen to the camera, my breath sharp with each inhalation of the Arctic air. But despite the discomfort, adrenaline kept me focused. I wasn't just there to capture a photograph of a bear-I wanted to humanize this king of the ice, to show a side of it rarely seen: the quiet need for rest, the desire for warmth and shelter, the vulnerability of a creature that dominates its environment.
When I finally got close enough, I paused, marveling at the bear's massive form as it lay peacefully, eyes closed, completely unaware of the intrusion.
I took a few initial shots, ensuring I had something in case I needed to retreat quickly. These were safety shots, but I longed for more-an image that captured the essence of this moment. I glanced back at my guide, who signaled that the wind was still in my favor. Encouraged, I exhaled deeply and braced myself for the next step. My hands were trembling with cold, so I clenched and unclenched them, forcing the blood back into my fingers. Shifting the camera into a vertical position, I captured a few more frames, trying to block out the discomfort and focus on the scene before me.
Then, everything changed in an instant. Just as I began to prepare for my retreat, the bear opened its eye. It was a deep, glowing orb, reflecting the golden light of the Arctic sunset. Our gazes locked, and for what felt like an eternity, time stood still. The bear's eye shimmered with awareness, not of me as a threat, but as a fellow being, both of us existing in that frozen world together. I continued to shoot, mesmerized by the raw beauty of the encounter. This wasn't the fierce predator that the world imagined-it was a creature filled with wisdom, strength, and vulnerability, all at once.
Suddenly, my guide began to wave, reminding me of his earlier instructions.
I knew I had to move slowly and carefully. Any sudden movement could startle the bear, and I didn't want to test its reaction. I kept my head low, avoiding eye contact, and began my retreat. Each movement was painstakingly slow, my heart pounding as I distanced myself from the massive animal. I felt the weight of the experience settling over me, a profound sense of connection to the wild and to this extraordinary creature.
As I crawled back, my body numb from the cold, I couldn't help but reflect on the magnitude of the moment. I had come face to face with one of nature's most majestic animals, and for a few fleeting seconds, we had shared the same space. It wasn't just about capturing a photograph- it was about understanding, about respect, and about the delicate balance of survival in the Arctic wilderness. Those moments, captured in my camera, became more than just an image. They were a testament to the quiet patience required to work with nature, the humility needed to enter an animal's realm, and the profound beauty of simply being a part of that world, if only for a moment.
1992, Borden Peninsula on Baffin Island, Canada. Nikon N90, 80 - 200mm lens. 1/250sec. f-8. Kodachrome 64 ASA pushed one stop 120 ASA.
; it was about understanding, respect, and
