Bear Tales from Our Family Camp Along Arctic Alaska's Kobuk River

By China Kantner

At six in the morning, Dad awoke to our black dog, Worf, sniffling and whining on the plywood floor of our cabin. It was springtime at my favorite place in the world: our camp along the Kobuk River in Northwest Arctic Alaska. I was ten, and a heavy sleeper. My mom had returned to Kotzebue and her job. Dad and I were on our own.

Bear photo by Seth Kantner

Still groggy, Dad stumbled over to the window, to see what Worf was fussing about. Inside our qanisaq (storm shed; arctic entryway), but a foot from the window, sat a big black bear. The bear spotted Dad and scrambled away. Then Dad turned to the brown-haired lump in bed across the room.

"Wake up, China!" said Dad. "There's a bear out here."

It took some vigorous shaking before I woke up and yawned.

"You sure it isn't Clarence?" I mumbled, reaching for my glasses.

"Yeah, I'm sure," laughed Dad, as he walked back to the window.

This early morning call was far from the first time bears have visited our camp. One day, long before I was born, Dad was alone at the cabin. He answered a knock at the door, thinking it was his good friend Clarence. Instead, Dad discovered a bear's nose pressed against the window pane. That's one of my favorite stories. Now, on this early morning, another bear was visiting. I got out of bed and made my way to the window.

"I can't see it," I complained, so Dad moved me to a different angle.

There in a flickering ray of sunlight stood the bear, the sun radiating off of its big black nose.

"Wow! I love bears," I said. "Is he gorgeous or what? Male, right?"

"Yep, good job China P," Dad replied. (Somehow that "P" attached itself to my name when I was little; now my parents rarely use just my first name.)

Dad opened the cabin window and wriggled out the screen. He aimed his camera straight toward the bear. He started clicking. The bear moseyed down to our little tin boat, the one we use to ferry up the tributaries of the Kobuk River near our camp.

Dad and I worried our visitor might sink the little boat. Mom always jokes about that boat being made out of aluminum pop cans. I don't drink pop, but that boat sure seems thin sometimes. The bear sniffed at some old blood left in the boat from a caribou earlier that spring. Then he placed one paw in the bow. Immediately the boat descended into the water, startling the bear. He sniffed once more before strolling onto the tundra.

Black Bear photo by Seth Kantner

A moment later Dad and I climbed back into our beds. I lay there, thinking of all the other times bears had wandered into our camp. When I was three, a grizzly bear had come through our yard and ate all the food in our qanisaq. Then the bear started standing on his hind legs, pushing on our door! Mom was frantically pushing back on the other side of the door, while Dad put his pants on and got the gun. I was in bed.

"Oh, he's so cute!" I kept saying.

My dad shot the bear right through the open window. Even today, fading blood stains remain on the floor of the qanisaq.

The next year, we had caribou meat hanging by the food cache. One morning, we awoke to find it had disappeared. That evening, I was standing by the chopping block, playing with kindling, when the bear that had stolen our food earlier that day appeared at the woodpile. Mom snatched me up and rushed into the house.

Out of my daydreaming state, I sat up in bed, feeling watched. The bear was sitting outside our window.

"Dad, the bear's back," I said, just before both of us jumped out of bed.

Dad grabbed his camera. I opened the window for him. Worf heaved himself out from under the bed. Outside, by the old birch tree, the bear sniffed the stinky pot where we store scraps. He sat down and ate everything in the pot: goose wings, rotting eggs, duck feet, caribou hair. Finishing up, the bear licked his lips before walking out of sight. Hardly a moment later, though, we heard bear claws scratching on the roof.

"I hope he doesn't punch through the skylight!" I said, wincing.

Dad had always instructed me to be careful around the skylight. Amazingly, the bear managed to step around the skylight. He finally stepped off the roof to enjoy a long, leisurely drink from our water barrel. Thankfully, he didn't tip it over. My arms still ached from hauling buckets of river water up the hill to the cabin. The bear lay down next to the pot again. He held it with his claws. He licked it out for a long time. Dad just kept clicking away with his camera. After awhile, I got bored.

"Hey Dad, can you hold my legs while I lean out the window and get my slingshot and some ammunition from the shelf?" I asked.

The night before I'd begged my dad to help me make a slingshot. I wanted one because he had one when he was growing up at this same camp. I'd also gone hunting for moose turds for ammunition.

"I told you that you might want your slingshot," said Dad with an I-told-you-so smile. "I'm not letting you lean out the window with a bear out there. You'd get me in trouble with your mom."

The bear finished licking out the pot and walked around to the other set of windows. I put my hand to the window. The bear leaned his head toward my hand. He hit his nose on the glass trying to reach me. He opened his mouth to try to get in. He hit his teeth on the glass, looking shocked.

"I hope you're taking pictures, because this is awesome," I whispered to Dad.

The bear turned and lumbered down the hill and out of sight out toward the tundra.

Afterwards, I prepared my breakfast, wondering if I'd ever see that bear again.

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