Welcome to the polar bear capital of the world: ‘It’s kind of epic’

Churchill, Canada — On a cold November morning in the subarctic Canadian town of Churchill, Manitoba, Ian Van Nest sits in the warmth of his SUV and peers through binoculars at a pair of polar bears wandering along the icy shoreline. They are far enough away to not raise particular concern but every one of their large strides is bringing them closer to the community, and Van Nest knows that he might soon have to do something about it.

Van Nest is Churchill’s conservation officer, and for several weeks each year, keeping polar bears and people away from each other is his primary occupation. That’s because Churchill, a town of roughly 800 year-round residents on the shores of western Hudson Bay, is the polar bear capital of the world.

Polar bears are creatures of the sea ice and they spend as much of their time on it as possible, covering vast distances in search of seals. But because the ice of Hudson Bay melts completely each summer, the region’s bears must spend the warm months ashore, sheltering in cool, earthen dens. Then, when winter approaches and the temperatures drop, the bears begin to stir, heading toward the tundra along the bay shores as they wait for the water to freeze. And when they do, their path often takes them around—or through—Churchill.

Most residents have a bear story, versions of walking around a corner and unexpectedly bumping into a bear, which, fortunately, is most times as spooked as the human. More serious incidents do occur, however. There has not been a fatality in Churchill since 1983, but a bear did maul a woman on Halloween night in 2013, as well as a man with a shovel who, still wearing pajamas, ran to her aid.

From shooting bears to watching them

Home to Dene and Cree tribes for over 1,500 years, Churchill was first settled by Europeans as a fur trading post in the eighteenth century, and over the subsequent two hundred years has been a port, a World War II base for the United States military, and site of a research facility that launched suborbital rockets to examine auroras and the upper atmosphere.

For many years, the region’s polar bears were mostly considered a dangerous inconvenience to be dealt with mercilessly.

“It was common to shoot 25 bears in a bear season,” recalls Mike Spence, who has been mayor of the town since 1995.

Attitudes began to change in the late 1970s when tourists, in town for spring birdwatching, inquired about the prospect of winter bear watching. In 1982, National Geographic released a documentary about the town and the bears, and with that, the secret was out. Forty years later, polar bear season has become the backbone of the town’s economy and the source of most of its fame, its population swelling temporarily each October and November with the arrival of several thousand tourists who come by air or rail (there are no roads in or out of town) to spend anywhere from a couple of days to a few weeks looking for polar bears.

The bulk of bear tourism takes place on the tundra a short way out of town, on board specially designed buggies that can seat around 40 people at a time and look a little like buses on monster truck wheels. But sighting a bear in or around town is not unusual, and Churchill residents embrace their unique relationship with the world’s largest land carnivore. All over town murals and images of bears adorn garage doors, walls, and even trash cans. Two of the newest buildings on either side of the main street are owned by Polar Bears International and used as part of an ongoing collaboration with the town and others to study and educate people about the region’s bears.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the bears,” says Dave Allcorn, a British expat who came in 2006 as a tourist. He loved it so much he returned in 2007, found work as a guide and buggy driver and moved to town permanently in 2009. “I think it’s awesome, living somewhere where there are polar bears. I think it’s kind of epic.”

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“What blows my mind is how during the winter out on the ice, these bears cover literally hundreds of thousands of square kilometers,” says John Gunter of Frontiers North Adventures, whose company has been offering tours to see the bears since 1987. “And they somehow make their way back to Churchill every autumn. You look at the facial markings or the scar patterns on a bear and you think, ‘I’ve seen that bear before. Where has that bear been since I saw it last?’”

Awareness amounts to safety

Even so, sharing space with several hundred massive carnivorous mammals—the largest of which can top nine feet tall on its hind legs—can be a fraught exercise. Churchill’s evening silence is sometimes shattered by the sound of cracker shells—12-gauge shotgun cartridges that explode with a loud bang when fired into the air—encouraging a curious bear to hurry out of town. Residents leave doors of homes and vehicles unlocked, just in case someone suddenly needs a place to shelter.

Bear incidents seldom happen. That they’re not more common is due largely to the awareness of residents and to the Polar Bear Alert Program, which was established in 1982. Signs around town urge people not to walk in areas most frequented by bears and list a hotline number to report bear sightings. On the other end of that hotline are Van Nest and colleagues, who patrol the environs every day.

The response to the calls can vary. Most are addressed either by monitoring the situation until any potential danger has passed or by firing cracker shells. If a bear insists on coming close to the community, Van Nest and colleagues may deploy a culvert trap, baited with seal meat. A trapped bear is transferred to the Polar Bear Holding Facility (commonly known as the polar bear jail), a hangar-like building outside of town, and held until it’s safe to release the bear onto the sea ice.

“It's a fine balance to manage polar bears coexisting with humans and the added pressure of tourism as well,” Van Nest says. “You want to protect bears and humans, while still allowing people to have a good experience with a polar bear.”

For several hours, he has been keeping tabs on the two bears—a mother and cub—wandering offshore, happy to let them find their own way. But now, their path is taking them too close for comfort; it’s time to take preventive measures. He asks assembled sightseers to return to their vehicles and move to safety, then he and a colleague each fire two cracker shells into the air. The bears turn and run away, before slowing down and striding majestically across the ice.

For Van Nest, it is close to a perfect resolution: Nobody is put at risk, and the bears are free to continue on their way.

“It’s about coexistence. We’re on their territory. This is their home too,” he says. “Every time I deal with a bear, I think, ‘Hey, thank you—thank you for gracing us with your presence, and it really was a pleasure meeting you.’”