TIME: Almanac 1993/TIME Almanac 1993.iso/time/091691/0916340.000

Text File | 1992-08-28 | 7.4 KB | 152 lines

                                                                                NATURE, Page 70

In Search of the Great White Bear


A handful of hearty U.S. government researchers brave dangerous
Alaskan ice and cold to track and protect elusive arctic polar
bears

By TED GUP/ST. LAWRENCE


    Above a glistening ice pack in the Bering Sea, a helicopter
stalks a polar bear, following paw prints in the snow. The bear
suddenly appears as a hint of movement, white against white,
padding its way across the ice. The helicopter descends, hovering
over the frightened creature, and a shotgun slides out the
window, firing a tranquilizer dart into the massive fur-covered
rump. Minutes pass. The bear shows no effects. The helicopter
drops for a second shot. This time the bear stands its ground,
and the pilot, fearing the animal is about to lunge for the
aircraft, abruptly noses the chopper skyward. He remembers how a
9-ft. bear once swiped at a helicopter's skids, shredding the
pontoons.

    But this bear finally staggers, then stretches out on the
ice like a giant sheep dog. The helicopter sets down, and
biologist Gerald Garner advances, kicking the bear in the behind
to make sure it is immobilized. A swivel of its head and a
flashing of teeth warn Garner that there is plenty of defiance
left in this 272-kg (600-lb.) carnivore. With a syringe, he
injects more drug. At last the head droops, and Garner can
proceed. Around the bear's neck he fastens a vinyl collar
containing a computer that will send data to a satellite,
allowing scientists to keep track of the animal for a year. By
the time Bear No. 6,886 raises its head, the helicopter is
safely aloft.

    Those tense moments were all in a day's work for Garner,
one of a handful of hearty scientists, pilots and technicians
taking part in a ground-breaking and hazardous $700,000 annual
U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service study of arctic polar bear
populations. In an effort to follow the fate of more than 600
bears since the program's inception, the researchers have braved
wind-chill factors of -59 degrees C (-75 degrees F), spartan
living conditions, the constant threat of mechanical failures
and the peril of being stranded on an ice pack. Last October two
government biologists and a pilot vanished while tracking polar
bears from the air. Officials believe their helicopter plunged
under the ice, muffling their emergency signal. Other
researchers have been rescued after a wakeful night on an ice
floe.

    "This is a very unforgiving environment," says mechanic
Lester Hampton. "The biggest danger is getting caught in bad
weather and running low on fuel. The second biggest danger is
having a mechanical failure and having to put in out there. The
third biggest danger is that after you do, the bears are going
to come in and try to eat you up -- and that's if you don't
freeze to death. If you go in that water, it's a done deal --
you're dead."

    Two decades ago, big-game hunters, not researchers,
pursued polar bears from the air and on the ground. A thousand
carcasses a year littered the Arctic. The number of ice bears
dwindled, and there was worldwide concern that the animal might
be hunted to extinction. Today the bears' recovery is one of the
success stories of conservation. Worldwide, polar bears now
number as least 20,000, all of which are protected by a 1976
international agreement. Alaska has 3,000 to 5,000 polar bears,
and only the state's Native Americans can hunt them -- and
strictly for subsistence purposes.

    The Fish and Wildlife Service project is part of a
continuing effort to advance biologists' understanding of the
polar bear and assess potential new threats against the
creature. Researchers, for example, are most concerned about the
impact of increasing oil and gas exploration in the Arctic.
Another concern comes from the Soviet Union, which has proposed
to lift its 35-year-old ban on polar bear hunting. Many of
western Alaska's bears migrate as much as 1,609 km (1,000 miles)
to set up winter dens in the Soviet Union. U.S. and Soviet
biologists are working together to find out how many bears
migrate in this fashion to ensure that one country does not
undermine the conservation efforts of the other.

    In search of the bears, the Fish and Wildlife Service has
dispatched scientists to some of the most remote regions of the
U.S. One expedition earlier this year was based on St. Lawrence
Island's desolate expanse of tundra and mountains rising out of
the Bering Sea. In Savoonga, an Eskimo village on the edge of
the frozen sea, researchers lived in a bunkhouse with no running
water and snow drifts above the windowsills. "We're stretching
everything to the limit in terms of safety to accomplish these
research objectives," says Larry Pank of the Alaska Wildlife
Research Center. "We have a real interest in ensuring we have
a polar bear population at the same or similar levels 50 or 100
years from now."

    Many of the pilots and mechanics have Vietnam combat
experience. "Most of these guys have been shot out of the air
a time or two. That's valuable experience if you have a
mechanical problem," says biologist Garner. Pilot Paul Walters
flew low-level reconnaissance in Vietnam. Before taking off to
track polar bears, he tells any neophyte on board that if the
chopper crashes, survivors should kick out the glass, retrieve
the orange survival bag and activate the emergency transmitter.

    "Risk goes with the territory," says biologist Tom McCabe,
who lost a third of his arm to shrapnel in Vietnam. If another
bear charges while he is examining a bear, he will try to scare
it off with Teflon bullets. If that fails, he has a shotgun and a
.44 Magnum pistol in a shoulder holster. "The polar bear is the
ultimate predator," he says. "He doesn't seem to fear
anything." Alaska polar bear expert Jack Lentfer remembers how
a bear that was thought to have been tranquilized suddenly
reared up and chased him. When the bear was almost upon him, a
colleague shot the animal. ``It would have chewed me up," says
Lentfer.

    "You develop a fatalistic attitude. If something happens,
it happens," says Garner. He has handled 250 polar bears -- and
450 grizzly bears. At times he resembles a bear. He stands 6 ft.
2 in., weighs 225-plus lbs., chomps cigars through a wild beard
and is girded in layer upon layer of insulated clothing, topped
off with a beaver hat. He has little time for worry. Mornings
he contacts Anchorage for the latest satellite fixes on his
bears. During the day, he tracks and collars the animals. Each
is subjected to an exhaustive exam. A tooth is removed to
determine age. Vials of blood are drawn for immunological and
genetic study. A hole is punched in the ear for an
identification tag. A number is tattooed on the bear's upper
lip. A snippet of fur is cut. At night Garner spins bear blood
in a centrifuge, readies his darts and cleans the barrels of his
shotguns.

    Any hardship is offset by the chance to work with mammals
as charismatic as they are inaccessible. "This is as good as it
gets," says Garner. "I'm surprised people would pay me to do
this." Ian Stirling of the Canadian Wildlife Service sums up the
admiration felt by most of the bears' scientific followers: "The
polar bear is the Arctic incarnate. When you watch one
sauntering across the ice and it's 30 below, he looks as
comfortable as someone in a pair of shorts on the beach in
Hawaii."