by Dorene O’Brien

She was ambling through the woods toward Iceberg Lake when she noticed the hikers and scrambled off the path, her two cubs trailing her dutifully. Moving deep into the woods, the three threaded their way through the dense forest, the smell of salmon spurring them on, but as they rounded the bend at Sable Pass they were started by two people moving toward them. She barked the cubs into a run and attacked. As Paul Crane fell to his knees, she clenched his arm in her massive jaws and jerked her head back and forth, tearing flesh and carving deep gashes. When he stopped flailing, she dropped him and lumbered back into the woods.

The Rands, a retired couple hiking through the western park system, saw the grizzly but told television reporters that it was too late.

“We tried to drop into a fetal position like the ranger told us,” said Lorna Rand. “But the bear already had my husband in her mouth. I could hear its teeth puncturing his skin, the popping sound like air escaping. Then he passed out and the bear dropped him. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“The doctor said it’s a miracle my husband lost only partial use of his left hand. Said the bear came inches from nicking an artery but God was with us. He’s pretty banged up, though,” she added defensively. “We want that bear destroyed. Hunting should be reinstated in high grizzly population areas.”

Jay Lambert stared blankly at the television screen in Moe’s office. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“What?” said Moe.

“A high grizzly population area.”

Lambert was the park ranger assigned to the case, which involved closing the trail where the incident occurred, staring down a slew of angry hikers and tracking the bear.

“They want blood,” said Moe, his supervisor. “We’re going to have to give it to them.”

“The trail was packed that day. Why do you expect the bear to be more patient than the people overrunning its territory?”

“The bears have been pretty gracious, I’ll grant that,” he said. “But this one wasn’t.”

“The bears have been acting a helluva lot more rationally than we have.”

“I’ve got a retired couple on a crusade,” said Moe. “I can assign someone else.”

“No,” said Ryan. “I’ll do it.”

“I’ll meet you out there after the press conference.”

She moved the cubs toward the mountains, crossing the lake under a blanket of darkness. The air pricked her skin, foretold an early hibernation, and instinct told her that she would wean this litter in the spring to protect them from these hunters. Although they could kill from great distances, they were baffled by the whitewater rivers, marshy bogs, and thick forests she crossed with ease. The going would not be easy for the cubs, but they would learn early. She would push them until they scaled the steep, creviced mountain face that ended well above the tree line and in the safety of a den abandoned by an old boar several winters before. The ice sheets and snowdrifts on the rock wall would keep the hunters at bay, at least until after the thaw.

Fresh scat and sharply defined depressions where the bear had last bedded down confirmed Lambert’s suspicion about why she was moving too cautiously: cubs. Damn, he thought. Moe would catch up to him in a day or two and there would be no stalling. He cracked the face of his watch against a birch tree, sent glass splinters into the leaves below, smiling as he placed the broken watch into his pocket. The sun arced westward, fighting through the tangle of leaves and branches, and he knew the grizzly would take advantage of the night. Lambert made camp on a jagged limestone outcrop that overlooked a meadow and sat on the sun-baked stone contemplating his assignment. He wasn’t hungry, but he made a roaring fire and waited for the moon. “I’m here, girl,” he whispered.

The cubs were hungry, but each time they stopped to dig for grubs she nudged them forward with such force they toppled over. They loped through the dense mist, making good time across the vast meadow, three humped silhouettes gliding past the yellow disk of the moon. She dreaded mornings because the sun highlighted the great distance between them and the safety of the long sleep, and it also exposed them to the hunter whose foul smell she’d caught that evening after putting her nose to the wind and wagging her head. The fetid odor and the hunter’s fire provoked her; they would move night and day toward the harbor of the mountain and eat only food that required little harvesting, like willow shoots and flower bulbs.

Lambert broke camp after dawn and picked up a trail of dried prints; they’d made good time in the night. He wondered if they could keep up the pace. There was another meadow and two river crossings between the bears and what rangers called the Wall, a near vertical divide of rock and brush that would end his mission unless he caught up with them before they reached it. After cutting through the forest a little too easily, Lambert broke onto the meadow to see the bears skirting its perimeter. Her caution will kill her, he thought as he lifted his rifle and drew a bead on her head. She was out of range, but wouldn’t be for long. He considered the irony of his assignment; he had taken an oath to protect the endangered grizzly, and now he was on a mission to destroy the animal he had vowed to defend and leave her cubs to fend for themselves. Lambert cut across the meadow and hiked the far woods toward Eagle River, emerging from the thicket just in time to see all three bears on the opposite shore shaking water from their blond coats, their muscles rippling like waves under their fur. It would be an easy shot; he was close and she didn’t know it. He lifted the rifle, maneuvered the scope to just below her left eye and pulled the trigger as he yanked the barrel up, sending the bullet into a pine tree just above her head. The bears bounded into the tangle of woods and Lambert took his morning break.

They were panting hard, the water dead weight in their fur, and for the first time she understood that the cubs were scared. They followed her into the deep forest without complaint, oblivious to the lure of butterflies and beehives, resting briefly before the second river crossing, where the water was much faster and deeper, roiling noise and white foam flecked. The smaller cub, frightened and unsure, tapped its small claws nervously across the bank as the other bears jumped in and struggled with the current. The shore bound cub whimpered frantically, its paws drumming the rocks as it watched the other two pull themselves onto the opposite shore. Even as she bellowed desperately for the small bear to throw itself into the rapids, she understood that she must decide between fleeing with the stronger cub or facing the hunter in an effort to save both.

Lambert crossed Eagle River carefully, prepared for an ambush. Trembling, he stalked the sounds of a flushed starling and a falling leaf, imagined the sudden jolt, the slashing claws, the thick fur like sponge in his fists. He dropped her trail and circled around to avoid a confrontation at the next river and to get a better view of the Wall from an elevated clearing to the east. After picking his way through webbed undergrowth and using exposed roots to climb toward the sound of rushing water, Lambert held his breath as he neared the river with his gun steadied. He searched both shores in either direction, his view limited by sharp curves and overhanging branches, and felt vulnerable as he scanned the Wall with binoculars but saw no movement save the wind through the brush. She was waiting for him, perhaps watching him even now. He sighed, mentally reviewing his fabricated report: I pursued her vigorously, took a shot as she stood on the opposite shore of Eagle River where there’s a bullet six feet up the pine. Times estimated because of that accident with my watch. As Lambert scanned the riverbanks, knowing he would kill the bear when they next met, his binoculars picked up a faint glimmer where the sun touched the grizzly’s ruff as she approached the Wall with one of her cubs. “Damn it,” he said to the sky and the wind and the trees, searching fruitlessly for the smaller cub. He knew that he could cross the river and get off a clean shot before they reached the treacherous cliffs that confounded mere humans, but he realized how thirsty he’d grown and pulled his thermos from the pack before watching the two shapes climb through the rising coffee steam. “It’s hard to be sure without a watch, my girl,” he said, “but I think it’s break time.” He studied the bears for several minutes before glimpsing a shadow below them, a small cub clawing its way up the wall, fighting their rain of gravel.

Dorene O’Brien’s work has appeared in the Connecticut Review, Carve Magazine, New Millennium Writings, The Cimarron Review and others. She has won the Red Rock Review’s Mark Twain Award for Short Fiction, the New Millennium Fiction Award, and the Chicago Tribune Nelson Algren Award. She has also won the international Bridport Prize and has received a creative writing fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. Her short story collection, Voices of the Lost and Found, won the USA Best Books Award. Visit her at

The Song of the Shetland Wren

by Sally Huband

The antidote to a Shetland winter is the song of a Shetland wren. This is my fourth winter on these islands and it has been by far the worst, enough to make me doubt my resilience. Storm followed storm and the lulls were few, the noise of wind was almost constant as was the wind’s silencing of birds. In January, in a relative lull, I watched a family of whoopers grazing on the flooded banks of a loch. Now and then one of the cygnets would lift its head out of the water to let out a single soft call. It lifted my spirits to hear the cygnet but it was all too brief a moment and all too quickly swept away by the next storm.

On the last Sunday in March, a windless and warm day, I picked my way along the strandline of a rocky shore searching for beached birds. Just one intact fulmar, now destined for a research laboratory in the Netherlands where the plastic within its gizzard will be sorted, counted and weighed. For the first time this year I could feel my muscles starting to relax in the warmth but spring still felt a long way off. Fulmars occupy nest sites as early as January but it’s not until May that the first sea swallow (Arctic tern or tirrick) ‘snips the string that holds the world in’ (from April Birthday by Ted Hughes). April is the longest of months in Shetland. Carrying the fulmar back to the car, I was halted by the blistering full song of a Shetland wren, the first I’d heard this year. The wren was perched on a dry stone wall, head tilted up and back, throwing its powerful song out over the voe. All remaining tension drained from me, it was a blissful moment.

Six islands in the north-east Atlantic have Eurasian wren subspecies all of their own, including Shetland and Fair Isle. And each of these island wrens has a different mean song structure and length (Shannon et al., 2014). In 1952 Edward Armstrong wrote of the St Kildan and Hebridean wrens; ‘the songs of these two populations, only about 45 miles apart, are so distinctive that they could not be confused by any attentive listener with sufficient musical discrimination’. He describes the song of the Shetland wren as more ‘twittery’ and different ‘from that of the European wren in being less shrill, mechanical and percussive.’ To me the sound of a Shetland wren is all the more remarkable because other than the ‘blithe chorus of reassurance’ of singing skylarks (Ursula Venables) there is very little birdsong in Shetland, this is a place of seabirds, shorebirds and moorland birds, not songbirds. In our garden, when the wind allows, we commonly hear the chatter of house sparrows and the curious wiry songs of starlings, the caws of the neighbourhood hoodies and the more occasional cronk of a raven flying high overhead. There is no blackbird song, though they breed elsewhere in Shetland, and no dawn chorus as such.

It seems churlish to lament a lack of bird ‘song’ in a place of remarkable bird sounds. The reedy honk of whoopers is soft on the ear and so too is the tender cackle of fulmars on the nest. The noise of some birds can jangle nerves, the loud repetitive squeaking of agitated oystercatchers and the screeching of pissed-off Arctic terns, though I long to hear both during the winter. Shetland is a place where it is often possible to feel bewitched by birds, the urgent ascending scales of displaying curlews and the wobbling moans of snipe tail feathers winnowing the air. The high pitched lowing of rain geese (red-throated divers) is eerie but the strangest call of any bird is that of a storm petrel on its nest, a stuck record played at too high a speed. The wren sounds ‘out of place amongst the cackling and laughing of gulls’ (Kenneth Williamson) because it sings a song, recognisable as such to our human brains.

The musicality of the wren’s song causes us to assign this bird with the human traits of ‘friendliness’ (Ursula Venables) and ‘cheerfulness’ (Henry Saxby). I find myself thinking of this small creature as plucky. Though the Shetland wren, like all the north-east Atlantic island subspecies, is far from small. If a Eurasian wren is a touch bigger than a goldcrest then a Shetland wren is closer in size to a dunnock. In the Aberdeenshire garden that we left behind when we moved to Shetland we would see tiny wrens foraging along the mossy drystone walls on most days and there was an extravagance of nests in a rickety outbuilding. But in the spring of 2011 they were gone. The weather that winter had been exceedingly harsh, icicles over a metre long had encased the cottage in ice for weeks at a time, 40% of Scotland’s wren population perished. Their small size hints at fragility and the complete collapse of our local population compounded this impression.

Shetland wrens may be less dainty than the mainland form but they are still dwarfed by the scale and hostility of many of the habitats in which they eke out an existence. To my skewed to mainland Britain perspective, Shetland wrens have the capacity to survive in astonishing places. One windless winter’s day I walked the narrow length of an uninhabited peninsular. It was an overcast day and the silvery sea met the dark sky at a sharp edged horizon; the sea appeared to be pouring over and off the edge of the world, Ultima Thule. The fins of porpoises broke through the sea’s surface and startled black guillemots into a running flight. A five-strong group of great northern divers bunched tightly together. Steep slopes dropped down to the sea and in places the short sward bristled with the tiny black, hooded cobra heads of earth tongue fungus.

At the end of this peninsular a boulder beach faces the full brunt of the sea. There is little shelter here and even on a calm day there are waves. Though remote it is far from pristine and many forms of plastic litter cover the beach. On this occasion a large block of polystyrene dammed a stream, the source of the synthetic hail that covered much of the ground. Foraging in amidst all the plastic, kelp stems and boulders, a scurrying Shetland wren; ‘[h]e’ll whirr trickle-low as his shadow – Brief as a mouse’s bounce from safety to safety.’ (from Wren by Ted Hughes). One of the Shetland names for the wren is sisti moose, from Norn (a form of Old Norse no longer spoken) meaning relative of the mouse. There is a similar Faroese name for the wren, músabróður (brother of the mouse) and another listed Shetland name, rindill echoes the Icelandic musarrindill. I like to think that these old names hint at a long-standing appreciation of this creature. Edward Armstrong notes that the St Stephen’s Day tradition of hunting the wren is not known in Shetland.

The winged mice of Shetland live around human settlements too, occupied and ruined, but territories are just as typically established on boulder beaches, cliffs and bogs. It is in the bogs in winter that I find their presence the most curious, and pleasing. Here snipe and red grouse scatter in flustered panic. I once disturbed a merlin which flew more calmly away, skimming the heather before dropping to the ground to magically disappear. Wrens, in contrast to all other moorland birds, stick about, companionably, reassuringly you could say. They emerge to assess my intrusion before dropping out of sight under a peaty overhang only to reappear slightly further up or downstream. Here they inhabit the subsurface of the land, the myriad burns that riddle and cut through the bogs, little bog divers.

Edward Armstrong, in 1952, was the first person to provide an account of the Shetland wren; ‘[u]nlike the St Kilda wren T. T. hirtensis, it never aroused the cupidity of collectors, and naturalists have devoted little attention to it.’ His meticulous field work revealed that Shetland wrens are usually monogamous, in contrast to those on mainland Britain. This, he was able to explain, is an adaptation to the Shetland environment. At 60 degrees north there is more daylight in the summer months, almost constant at midsummer, but the breeding season is shorter and the availability of insect prey is less. The full attention of both parents is required to raise just a single brood. Armstrong also deduced that the typical insect prey of wrens, the larvae of Lepidoptera, is less abundant here. Chicks are fed a higher proportion of adult insects which, with their chitinous exoskeletons, are less digestible. You can almost sense his excitement at discovering that juvenile Shetland wrens produce ‘castings’, ‘orally voided’ indigestible material. These were analysed to reveal the wing scales of moths, the bristles of Lepidoptera larvae, the front wings of a chalcid wasp, the spiracles of Coleopterous larvae and the jaws of chilopods, the list continues in beautiful detail.

I first delved into Edward Armstrong’s writing on wrens in the library of the Fair Isle Bird Observatory. By then my fascination with Shetland wrens had grown. When I learnt that a separate subspecies of wren inhabits Fair Isle, and only Fair Isle (a tiny island 5 km long by 3 km wide, only just visible from the southern tip of Shetland’s mainland on a clear day) that was the goal of my trip there, to see one of the rarest wrens of all. I asked a friendly regular visitor, an expert birder, where to seek one out. His eyes lit up at the mention of the Fair Isle wren and he pointed through the window to the impressive dry stone wall by the beach. I spent a long while waiting there but no wren. No wrens down in the south of the island either. I saw many remarkable sights, a juvenile pallid harrier hunting meadow pipits on the common grazings and warblers trying to skulk in the sparse cover of the brittle and blackened husks of hog weed but it wasn’t until I sought out gannets that I found a wren.

Fair-Isle-Wren habitat. Image by Sally Huband

From Fair Isle’s high northern cliffs there is a very fine view of the gannetry which occupies the roof and steeple of the aptly named Kirk Stack. A low bank of dense mist encircled the island a few miles offshore, intensifying the feeling of remoteness, of being on a small island in a big sea. On Shetland’s mainland I live next to the inter-island airstrip and, even though it was a calm day up on that Fair Isle cliff, I have never been gladder to hear the thrum of an Islander’s engines. A painted lady settled to bask nearby, another improbable migrant and a sight to behold in these, excepting the introduced large white, butterfly-less islands. A second movement caught my attention, a single silent wren working its way along a turf bank. I crept closer and it dropped over the cliff’s edge where it continued to forage on the smallest of ledges. Armstrong comments on the difficulty of estimating a Shetland wren’s territory size ‘because they may extend vertically’ and I wondered if this wren had a nest somewhere down on the cliff face.

It seems remarkable, at a time when humans have shifted from naming to deleting species, that the Fair Isle wren was only recognised as a subspecies in 1950. In this year Kenneth Williamson travelled to the Royal Scottish Museum to examine 20 wren specimens collected from Fair Isle. Williamson was, at this time, the director of the newly established Fair Isle Bird Observatory and was responsible for establishing the scientific work and for the construction of the Heligoland traps. It was the wrens captured in these newly built traps that prompted his visit to the museum collection. Williamson concluded that these ‘more rufescent’ birds are distinct both from the Shetland subspecies (Troglodytes troglodytes zetlandicus) and the mainland form and successfully proposed that wrens on Fair Isle should be recognised as a new subspecies, T. t. fridariensis, after the name Fridarey given to the island in the Orkneyinga Saga. He writes of their feistiness; ‘wrens struggled and squirmed with surprising strength and vigour for such small mites, and no bird was more wily and difficult to secure’. Indeed the measure of a well-built trap was that it could contain a Fair Isle wren. Since this time, the population of this subspecies has fluctuated between ten and 50 singing males, individual wrens may be feisty but the population as a whole, on this small and isolated island, is fragile.

Every once in a while our Shetland garden is visited by a migrant wren, probably birds breeding in Norway, and in a reversal of astonishment I marvel at how small they are. My brain has normalised the Shetland wren, the migrant and more common form is now the more curious. Shetland wrens no longer seem so incongruous in the company of snipe, fulmars or gannets. I’m less inclined now to think of these birds as fragile or dainty, maybe this was always a misplaced impression, but I’m still momentarily taken aback when I have walked for miles through a lonely winter bog or along remote cliffs to hear one singing or to see one skulking along ahead of me. Each time I see one in such a setting it feels a little akin to climbing a mountain only to find a blue tit foraging among the stones of the summit cairn and for that, they are all the more wonderful to see. Most of all I am very glad of their presence for the gift of their song. It made me smile to read the sentence that Mike Toms uses to finish his account of the wren; ‘[t]o me, a description from the very start of the 1900’s sums up the Wren; ‘even on uninhabited island rocks … [the Wren’s] … lively song relieves the awful solitudes.’ That it does.


References and thanks:

The Birds of Shetland by Henry Saxby published in 1874 by MacLachlan and Stewart

The Wrens of Fair Isle by Kenneth Williamson published in volume 93 of Ibis in 1951 (pages 599-601)

The Behaviour and Breeding Biology of the Shetland Wren by Edward A. Armstrong published in volume 94 of Ibis in 1952 (pages 220-242)

“Casting” by Shetland wren nestlings by E. A. Armstrong and W. H. Thorpe published in 1952 in volume 45 of British Birds, pages 98-101

Tempestuous Eden by Ursula Venables published in 1952 by Museum Press

Fair Isle and its birds by Kenneth Williamson published in 1965 by Oliver and Boyd

April Birthday by Ted Hughes from Season Songs published in 1976 by Faber and Faber

Wren by Ted Hughes from Collected Poems published in 2003 by Faber and Faber

The British Trust for Ornithology article on wrens by Mike Toms can be accessed here:

A genetic screen of the island races of Wren Troglodytes troglodytes in the North-east Atlantic by Thomas J. Shannon, Robert Y. McGowan, Bernie Zonfrillo, Stuart Piertney and J. Martin Collinson published in 2014 in Bird Study, volume 61 (2), pages 135-142

Many thanks to the BOU for access to the Ibis papers


Sally Huband has a background in nature conservation and a PhD in the butterflies of Carpathian hay meadows. She swapped mountains for islands to live in Shetland, writes a nature diary for BBC Wildlife Magazine and blogs about the land, habitats and wildlife due to be impacted by a 103 turbine wind farm

In the Eyes of a Bear

by Julian Hoffman

As the sun rose over the mountains I walked a treeless ridge that buckled into the hazy distance. A vast summer sky cradled a few threads of cloud and a warm breeze rolled over my shoulders. Skylark song sparkled like sunlit rain above the meadows. The alpine world was bursting into song, the brief, ecstatic season when the mountain’s granite bones are clothed in wildflowers and butterflies. It was a morning of bird monitoring for me, but as I neared the place where I’d spend the coming hours scanning the skies around a wind farm for raptors, ravens and pelicans a very different kind of creature stepped into sunlight ahead of me.

I’d always imagined that my first real encounter with a European brown bear would unfold in a forest. It’s where our legends and myths tell us they live, deep in the dark and leafy heart of the remnant wild. And over the years, it’s where I’ve most often found their prints, large and looming in the yielding earth, big enough to make my hand resemble a child’s in comparison. Forest raspberry canes are stripped clean of their fruit within days of ripening and high claw marks decorate those trees chosen as scratching posts. Mounds of bear dung mark the woodland floor like native cairns, their varying constituents an inventory of the seasons: plum stones, beetle wings and rosehips; apple pips, wasp heads and fur. Seeing these signs is a reminder: that for all that is solitary about my walks, this world is shared and sentient beyond measure.

Bear Tracks. Image by Julian Hoffman

So sudden and unexpected was the appearance of the animal in the meadow that for the slenderest of moments I had no idea what I was looking at, whether some giant feral dog or a strange hybrid of creatures more common to me. It didn’t fit with anything I’d ever experienced as it lumbered into view from behind a rocky outcrop, stepping up to settle in sunlight on a boulder in front of me. But that momentary flicker of uncertainty was eclipsed by a swift blaze of clarity, as if the scene had been floodlit and telescoped into focus: only fifteen metres of alpine meadow separated me from a brown bear, the European relative of the American grizzly. My mind suddenly emptied, leaving a clear and continuous space in which all I could hear was my heart, like the quivering thrum of an arrow after hitting its target. From its low saddle of stone the bear eyed me in the meadow, and the wild rushed in like a river.

Although the sun was still low in the sky, it was rising with summer fire. The sunlight reached my back and flared past, illuminating the bear in fine and delicate detail, its eyes magnified to dark, absorbing pools. In his book Becoming Animal, David Abram says that “reciprocity is the very structure of perception.” To look into the eyes of a wild creature is to enter into a relationship, a shared exchange carried out over common ground. For all that we praise and rightfully honour the other senses, sight remains for humans the most elevated of perceptual tools. It’s how we tend to map and render the world. Peering into the reflective gleam of a frog at ease on both land and water, or to look between the ancient, knowing lids of a tortoise sheltered within its shell, is to be offered the possibility of empathy, of imagining a remarkable life and lineage vastly different to our own. But there in that bright meadow, looking back at the bear as it stared at me intently, I felt no tingle of curiosity or inquisitiveness. Awe and fear had filled me in equal measure, leaving no space for anything else.

Image by Julian Hoffman

The light poured over the mountains until the bear was enthroned in summer glow. Its fur was more grizzled than brown, sleek and shimmering, as if each length of hair was tipped by a silver shard. Dark rings encircled its eyes and waves of muscle rolled through its shoulders when it moved. It nodded at the air with its stout black muzzle, picking up whatever traces of adrenaline and fear were seeping through me. Although on all fours it would have stood about waist-height against me, it appeared to be a young bear on the cusp of adulthood, and I was sure its mother was near. I turned slowly in search of her, the space between the bear and me seeming even narrower than before when I considered the consequences of coming between them – all that a threat to a mother’s long labour of blood and nourishing would entail – to see only an empty meadow rippling with wildflowers and wind. Feeling the stare of the bear deepen inside me, I began backing up slowly into sunlight.

For as long as we’ve depicted animals on cave walls and shared language around fires, stories of our relationship to the wild kingdom have helped render this world sensible and meaningful to human consciousness. Those stories have also been practical guides, of vital importance to our survival. But on that ridge of rising summer light, only a short and startling distance from an animal more than equal to myself, I finally understood something of what the philosopher Krishnamurti meant when he wrote that “the description is not the described, the word is not the thing.” No amount of stories about our wild inheritance could prepare me for its actuality, the arising of our animal essence. From the moment the bear appeared my skin was electric, every last hair bristling and alive. My entire body felt charged with a taut pulse, as if no longer flesh but a conductor of pure and necessary energy. I acted with little thought, my mind operating on some ancient, preserving level, the same kind of instinctiveness that our ancestors must have known intimately. That immediate, visceral response to the near presence of the bear was the evolutionary reaction of prey to a predator. I was no longer the dominant species; all the assumptions and riches of human culture had fallen away, exposing some kernel at the core of our animal beginnings, like the stripped-back bones of those mountains before summer bestows its flourish of colour on them. All that was ever wild remains within us.

For whatever reason, the bear suddenly startled. There’d been no sound or sign of a mother in the end, so that only the two of us shared that brimming spring world. It may have finally seen my dark silhouette as it edged out of the blinding glare with the shifting angle of the sun, or picked up an additional scent on the wind, some pungent, primitive smell of mine that resonated with its genetic inheritance, the stories its own species carries in blood, nerve and bone. The bear padded off the rock to hit the meadow in full flight, charged with electric intensity as I retreated with slow steps. It thumped across the unfolding summer flowers, scattering butterflies into the still air. Silence welled up to fill that long, hollow second until the bear sheered away, hurtling down the slope of bilberries and meadow grasses to slip into a pocket of mountain beeches. The echo of its run beat like a drum across the miles, and all I could do was stand still in the sunlight, breathing, breathing, breathing, as skylark song fell about me like rain.

Julian Hoffman lives beside the Prespa Lakes in northern Greece. His book, The Small Heart of Things, was chosen by Terry Tempest Williams as the winner of the 2012 AWP Award Series for Nonfiction and won a 2014 National Outdoor Book Award for natural history writing. You can catch up with him at

Poetry – Issue 2.1

The Ornithologist

by Anita John

So small is your skull, short-eared owl,
so black your beak (that blessed the lives
of mouse and vole); so hollow your eyes
which once funnelled the last of day’s light.
Without your soft-blended feathers you have
none of your former glory; the satellite dish
of your face reduced to calcium and phosphate.
You are stripped to a morsel of your former self;
your territorial cry no longer quartering
the white moor, nor your moth-like flight.
In my hands, you are all and nothing.
Nothing but bone; life compounded.


by Barbara Hickson

Soil-smell home, roots to get round,
out to grass and air sniff.  Safe.
Slug juice sticky, cross grass to hedge.
Squeeze through gap, sharp thorns in fur.
Stick dangling.
Into trees and dead-leaf rustle.
Stench of fox.  Moon bright.
Grunt and forage.
Easy-food run across short grass,
appletang juicy and milk steal.
More grass then claw-tap solid.
White line.  Two moons.  Too bright.
Run!  Screech of thing.

The Clearing

by Chris Powici

hoofprints in the hard, bright snow

you think of a slim-legged hind
stepping delicately out of the trees
into the lit silence
between the wood and the river

the way she stands at the edge
of the clearing – lean, wary
skin the colour of oak bark –
and lifts her head to the low sun

barely seems to breathe

then a slither of hooves
the hind, the river, leaping

Poet Biographies:

Anita John is a poet and short story writer, and teaches creative writing for Edinburgh University’s Lifelong Learning Department. Her work has been widely published in literary magazines including GutterNorthwords Now and MsLexia. Child’s Eye, her debut collection of prize-winning stories and poems, was published in 2013 by Biscuit Publishing. You can find her at:

Barbara Hickson lives and works on the south-eastern edge of Lancaster, overlooking the Bowland Fells which inspire much of her poetry.  She has had several poems published by Indigo Dreams and ‘Stravaig’ the on-line journal of the Scottish Centre for Geopoetics and was long-listed in the 2013 Cinnamon Press pamphlet competition.

Chris Powici’s poetry has appeared in various magazines and anthologies including New Writing Scotland and BBC Wildlife. Chris teaches creative writing for The Open University and Stirling University and edits the literary magazine Northwords Now. A new collection of his poems, This Weight of Light, will be published in 2015.

Poetry – Issue 2.2

Horseshoe Crab

by Oonah V Joslin

horseshoe crabs
the sang royal of living fossils are
blue-blooded hemocyanins
copper bottom feeders

under their carapace
like armoured spider-tanks
with many eyes and legs
they invade the beaches of New York
each year generating eggs in
superabundance inviting
summer flocks
that mock their reproductive cycle

it’s the best seafood diner
on the east side

men milk blue crab blood
to test products for toxins
then casually throw them back
to die

there is no copyright
on blue crabs
no blueprint
on endangerment
but in Chesapeake Bay they try

Dust Catcher

by Jane Burn

Spider’s web in the hay barn, sailing its meal of motes
between two bales. Saggy with dust – a hammock
for stalks razed by machine in the thick of a hot September;
delicious with scent. A hermitage for a Charlotte
heavy with eggs.

This one though – deserted. Perhaps her sac was only spun
with fluff, opening to a gasp of empty air.
Tension slack without the pluck of testing claws –
the wind measures a small tear
in this broken home.


by Morgan Downie

easy to fall in love
with words here
make the leap
from linnaean to local

scarf and hiplin
on the headland
between the leap
and dive of maallie

at the sea’s edge,
ebb-fools and sandilu,
while from the grass
the cry of spooie rising

words of weave
wirds o makkin
words to stitch
the sea and sky

yarn and thread
to keep the past
being unspooled
from the present

Shetlandic words:

scarf – cormorant
hipline – shag
maallie – fulmar
ebb-fool – sanderling
sandilu – ringed plover
spooie – curlew
makkin – knitting, a gathering of women to knit

Poet Biographies:

Ulster born poet and writer Oonah V Joslin has lots of work online including 100 horrors in Microhorror and you can find links to most of it at her blog  Parallel Oonahverse. She is currently poetry Editor at The Linnet’s Wings literary magazine.

Jane Burn is a North East based writer and a member of 52. Her work has appeared in magazines such as Butcher’s Dog and Ink, Sweat & Tears. She has been long-listed in the 2014 Canterbury Poet of the Year and National Poetry Competitions, as well as being commended in the Yorkmix. Her work has also appeared in Emma Press and Kind of a Hurricane Press Anthologies and her first pamphlet will shortly be published by Talking Pen.

Morgan Downie is a poet, short story writer and visual artist with limited bird watching skills. He was Sumburgh lighthouse artist in residence in January this year which is where these poems were written. Further details at:

A Gyrfalcon for a King

by Colin Williams

“An Eagle for an Emperor, a Gyrfalcon for a King; a Peregrine for a Prince, and a Saker for a Knight; a Merlin for a lady, a Goshawk for a Yeoman, a Sparrowhawk for a Priest, and a Kestrel for a Knave”

I didn’t see her until she was upon me.

I was sitting – tired and contemplative – deep down beneath a small outcrop of volcanic rock amongst the boulders sloping to a shingle beach into the sea. In the shadow of the rocks at the end of the jaws of the cove I could see the clarity of the low arctic waters and a flurry of terns rolled and dipped along the shoreline. The sea was oil-still in the bright white light peculiar to the northern landscapes. Nearby, the carcass of a juvenile killer whale gave the air a taste and in the bay the head of a grey seal watched the shore as if keeping an eye on the sleeping but still lethal orca, it’s dorsal fin clearly visible as it lay on the beach. Auks were whirring close over the surface of the water and behind me lay the silent hulk of the volcano, capped in snow and ringed in cloud.

And then, from my left, just a few metres away, she came; appearing at the edge of the small cliff where the peaty turf hung in ribbons over the rock. She was not alone. Behind her trailed a ragged streamer of mobbing, desperate birds; wheatear, oystercatcher and a purple sandpiper, at least five of them testing their will and speed against the gyrfalcon. She passed by quickly and touchably close, only just over my head and over the opposing cliff bank before disappearing across the volcanic grassland pitted with sink holes and caves. Electrified by her sudden appearance I had risen to my feet almost before she had passed. In the same instant, in response to my movement the seal had exploded into the water. I rose but was not able to see her, her speed had already taken her behind some upstanding rocks.

Scrambling up the beach to find a place with a better view I pulled myself up using tussocks of grass and looked in the direction she had passed but she was already gone. But looking again, I knew she was there. All I could see was a sign of her presence, a ripple of clamour in the sky where she had passed. She had scythed over the surface of the ground putting waders and other birds up and now, shedding all pretenders, all that was left was a pair of merlin climbing and stooping down to a spot that was invisible to me. She was there.

I walked over the rough ground until I could see her and, thinking that my sudden and intermittent appearances over the tussocks and mounds would scare her, I sat and watched from a distance. But soon I pressed on to get closer, almost crawling at some points. In truth, she knew I was there. She waited for me it seemed and I was a pilgrim, willing to prostrate myself and drag myself over the difficult and sharp terrain to meet her eye.

Soon I was metres from her. She was royally impervious to the screeching of the merlins at the very top of a tall, grass covered stone. The merlins shyed away from my presence long before the falcon who looked at me with cool and quick precision. At that moment the gyrfalcon was absolutely in its landscape, full of tundric beauty; at that moment I was in a place that was more than just a spot on the map of a remote peninsular; at that moment my powers of detached human observation of weather, plumage and botany deserted me. All were replaced, for that short time revolving around the pinnacle created by the bird on its rock. It was the very definition of its place. It was all of nature, a thing of fierce and independent beauty.

The heavy minutes turned before she dropped away, beating her wings powerfully in slow motion. The feeling of muscular and taut control was pervasive, a visceral and tangible presence. She circled around to my right before tacking back towards me and then, meeting the light landward breeze drew herself close over the ground and disappeared behind the cliffs.

While those moments lasted I had briefly – gloriously – been un-human, nothing more than another living thing returned to its proper place in the ecologies of my own species’ history; I was just another animal. Reckless, then, the human who attempts to tame the experience. For all the imagery and words I could lay at its feet I had, ultimately, knelt before the gyrfalcon empty-handed, helpless. The thousand-channel thrill of the encounter passed, I was lying where she’d left me, earth-bound and dejected. Looking up at a white sky, the high and lonely bubble of passing whimbrel was the only sound.

Colin Williams is a writer exploring our relationship with the landscape and its wildlife. His work has been praised as having ‘a deeply personal precision’ and his book Shadows in the Hay has been described as ‘a beautifully precise…elegant homage to the landscapes and places that shape us’ and ‘evocative and unexpected’.

How Sweet My Calling

by Alex Lockwood

They must be sacred still to some deity, these geese in a holding

over the same pharmaceutical company’s front lawn
on which their ancestors were staked
till their calls,

we hear, had drawn
down more geese flying north, must ache still as their ancestors
for the chance to fend off a night attack by the Gauls.

— Paul Muldoon, ‘More Geese’


The Ontario Honker lays it on thick for the newcomers at the corn site. Still, their presence makes him edgy. If they’re true they might call out his augured heart. Hunting this spot makes him nervous. Geese falling in two directions, acres of cereal taller than a man so he can’t see both ways, front and behind. No way to mark and a busy highway less than two hundred yards from his deeks, decoyshe spells it out for them, full of country commuters heading to work. His dogs would break at shot, and if a dying honker drifted over the road… No, he won’t direct them to that field until Fred cuts his corn, until he can see how they’re falling. Some way into his direction and he can see they’re rapt, that they haven’t figured out yet what keeps him awake. They await his instruction on the manner of good gunnery in these here parts. He smiles so as he tells them:

This is how you set the decoy. Stake it up in the spread two or two and one-half metres between. Three in a cosy, then two outliers. If you have time decide on a “J” or “W” wedge formation. Either will do. You don’t need to be too creative. Have your deeks face the same general direction, south is good, broadside to the rising sun. You may not get a chance to do anything specific. If time is barely there, just get ‘em in the ground.

Go hide your bulk, your Herculean muscle, your hunting sights and your cross-hatched souls in the standing corn and when the honkers come in for a low pass overhead get your best bitch—what’s her name? Opal? A fine name!—situated. Throw in the decoy bag and unpack your gun. Stay alert. Load up while they’re circling.

Say your first shot smokes two. By the time you figure out who’s coming down and who isn’t you won’t have time for a second shot. If you get in a second then you got lucky. A mile that way is where they be yesterday, today, well, here’s ornery. Half an hour later you’ll have four more, I’ll attest, all pass shots at pairs and singles ready to land. They won’t understand what’s hit! Haul the decoys in when they’re landing around. Run down to the rig in the corn and wait for the big flocks as they come in. Maybe you’ll get a pretty shot in there tonight. It will be fun.

He sends them off. It works every time. ‘Really hard to screw it up’ he says with a slap on one’s green-cottoned back, rounded from deskwork at an insurance firm in Lawrence. Later he will go and do some fine shooting of his own. Eight rounds and five birds. ‘The third honker was almost certainly coming down after one shot but I didn’t want it drifting into the huge field of standing corn behind me so I popped it again. At thirty-five yards I puffed it with the full pattern. Won’t be fun cleaning that one. And forget about how sweet my calling was. It was still wrapped up in my pocket!’

All birds were ‘killed dead,’he tells the newcomers that night, with multiple wounds.

I’m finally getting it together,’ he thinks, but that’s enough thinking. Even he knows it’s not right to dwell on the calling of the half-bereaved once he has pocketed her partner. These geese mate for life. He knows in all its blood-borne truth that he has broken apart a blessed companioning. He shakes away what irritates, the unsweetness of it.‘And just in time,’ he says to himself, fluffing up his chest, brushing away the error. ‘Pheasant season is about to open in Montana.’

A ‘calling’ is the hunter’s sound piece that imitates the honk of the goose to trick the animal into landing

Dr Alex Lockwood is a writer based in the North East of England. He has published widely on environmental issues and animal studies; in 2014 he guest-edited the ‘Men and Nature’ issue of Earthlines. He is a Winston Churchill Travel Fellow, and is writing a book on climate change and animal agriculture.


by Karen Izod

27th May, Bhaltos, Isle of Lewis

I am back at Bhaltos, a small scattering of houses overlooking Phabaigh Mor on the Isle of Lewis. This is the last week in May. It’s cold by my southern standards and spring feels like it is slow to arrive: primroses are in abundance, but only a few bird’s-foot trefoils, and marsh marigolds hold the promise of a more abundant machair. Wheatears are everywhere, their white rumps flashing across this sparse and rocky terrain.

When I was last here in September 2013, it was on the heels of a Force ten gale. Rough seas, just calmer as they reached Caolas Phabaigh, the narrow stretch of water that we wake to each morning, was a theatre of gannets: wings drawn back ready for the dive, then sudden explosions all around as they hit water. One after another, it rained gannets. This time it is much calmer, and only a hand-ful of these wide-winged birds are coming in, still a spectacle, just a smaller scale.

These are long days, light until 10.30 or so, and there is time for late walks on the beach. It’s a still evening, the wind has dropped and the light stretches right out over the muted greens and greys of Loch Roag towards Bearnaraigh. Tonight I’m watching a couple of sanderlings running in and out with each wave, their speed is extraordinary, comic even. I look across the sand, then I see that there are more: only their movement gives them away, scarcely visible against the white sand, and the mottled browns of the weeds and rocks. Further along towards the end of the cove, a ragged group of ringed plovers suddenly take flight, their high-pitched see-sawing cries carrying on the rising wind.

Yesterday, I narrowly avoided treading on a clutch of ringed plover eggs. Lying in the shallowest of scrapes, encircled by a dried out necklace of stipe and sea wrack, the nest lay stepping distance from the marram grasses at the edge of Traigh na Berie. As we moved quickly on, my daughter’s keen eye had seen the mother return to the scrape and settle in an instant. From a distance now, we could watch the effectiveness of the camouflage working away at what to us seemed the most fragile and exposed site for nesting. We start to calculate how long the nest needs to survive; can it get through these next few days with its half-term visitors in their camper vans? It feels so very precarious.

Later, we are at Losgaintir, a vast tidal expanse on the Isle of Harris, walking against the backdrop of huge dunes. Over towards Mhiabhaig and the mountains to the North the sky is purple with imminent rain. On the beach is a gannet: newly dead, with only a dusting of sand over its crumpled wings. It’s hard to see what has happened to it. Close up, I can see the power it once held in its head and neck, the beauty in that flush of yellow.

Karen Izod is an organisational consultant and academic and the author/editor of several books and articles. Her creative work focuses on attachment, identity and belonging. Long-listed in the 2015 New Welsh Review’s Writing Awards, People, Place and Planet. Karen’s poetry is published in Agenda, the Journal of Attachment, and

In Search of the Mountain Ghost

by Katey Duffey

Understanding a Culture to Protect an Iconic Predator

Bounding along the Mongolian steppe in a Soviet Russia era van, it is clear how this vast, virtually uninhabited land came to be known as the “Land of Blue Sky”. In every direction, as far as the eye can see, a bright blue, cloudless sky blends into the horizon. Eagles, buzzards and vultures hover on thermals or rest on the ground, searching for a meal from the countless rodents whose burrows turn the plains into Swiss cheese. As my team from the Mongolian Academy of Sciences and Irbis (snow leopard) Mongolia Center traverse this wild environment, the senior biologist, Dr. Bariushaa Munkhtsog, points out various landmarks and sacred places. Ovoo, spiritual monuments made of piled rocks and covered in blue rags, are common. We stop at one of these monuments to pay respect to the gods of the land and to ask for good luck for our expedition by walking three times in a clockwise direction around it and tossing rocks onto the pile as an offering. Being invited to participate in some of the traditional rituals is truly an honor for me. Most importantly, it gives me a more thorough understanding of the culture in which I have immersed myself for the sake of studying one of the planet’s rarest cat species, the snow leopard. To save a species, you must first understand the human culture in which it lives.

Buddhism and Shamanism are dominant beliefs in Mongolia that form unbreakable connections between this resilient wilderness and its people. From the mountains that dominate the horizon to the creatures who thrive in this harsh land, everything is sacred. Snow leopards especially are highly revered in the culture. Evidence of this can be seen outside temples, which are guarded by “snow lion” statues, derived from snow leopards. The snow lion symbolizes strength, fearlessness, happiness, a clear mind, and are the protectors of Buddha.

Image by Batkhuyag – Otgontenger SPA

The gorgeous, endangered snow leopard is an icon of some of the highest and most remote places in the world throughout 12 range countries. Its total wild population is roughly estimated between 4,000-7,000 individuals. Mongolia is home to the second highest population with 1,000-1,500 cats. The presence of snow leopards is a strong indicator of a healthy mountain ecosystem. They are a “keystone species”. However, snow leopards are increasingly threatened, directly and indirectly, by the people who have held the traditional belief that to kill one of these sacred predators is bad luck. The greatest of these threats are habitat degradation, retribution killing after livestock are attacked, and poaching for the traditional medicine trade.

At least half of Mongolia’s population is fully dependent on livestock for meat and wool products. As the population grows, so does that of domestic herds. Overgrazing from millions of free-ranging livestock has become a serious ecological issue. The landscape bares the signs of overgrazing with tracks, dried manure, and sun-bleached remains of domestic animals scattered across the steppe in every direction. Livestock significantly outnumbers wild prey species. Sightings of wild ungulates seem just as difficult to come by as finding signs of the elusive snow leopard. I considered myself lucky to catch a fleeting glimpse of a herd of gazelle, leaping out of sight in the far distance, their tan hides appearing as mere specks on the plain. Ibex, one of the snow leopard’s main prey species, are also hard to encounter. Even the steep, rocky slopes the ibex are adapted for are not safe from the appetites of meandering herds of goats, sheep, yaks and horses.

As a result of too many domestic animals competing with wild prey species for food, herds graze within closer range of snow leopard habitat, making depredation inevitable. Winter camps of nomadic herders are set right against the side of a mountain, offering protection from the extreme freezing weather. Unfortunately, it also offers a convenient route for a snow leopard to climb down to take its pick from an improperly guarded or corralled herd. Often, many animals may be killed within a corral when a snow leopard becomes confused from the confinement. These campsites can be spotted as dark patches at the base of a slope during other parts of the year, acting as a visual reminder that this seemingly wild environment shares its resources with humans at all times. A growing concern is that the retribution killing of snow leopards by angry herders will further threaten the already precarious existence of the “ghost of the mountain”.

In order to evaluate what kind of impact habitat degradation from overgrazing is having on snow leopards, biologists must first locate signs of the cats, obtain genetic data to determine population densities, and determine the range of the cats in an area. This is no easy task considering that snow leopards live at altitudes of 3,000m- 5,400m, can have home ranges of up to 1,000km2, and leave signs of their residence around steep cliffs and rocky outcrops.

Recon Mission: Finding Snow Leopard Signs and Interviewing Herders

“Kate! Snow leopard!” The sound of my teammate’s voice carries over the rapid pounding of my heart as I search for signs of the rare cat while my body adjusts to an elevation 3,000m higher than where I come from. I make a mental note to not force myself to keep up with those who grew up in this habitat as they nimbly ascend the mountainside like ibex. A bit out of breath, I make it to where my teammate is pointing. Sure enough, tucked under a sheltering rock ledge, there is a pile of scat. Snow leopard scat! And based on our reactions, one would think we had won the lottery…

Otgontenger Strictly Protected Area (SPA) is located within the Zavkhan province of Western Mongolia, in the Khangai Mountains. The area encompasses 1,000km2 and is best known for the country’s most sacred mountain, Otgon Tenger Uul, and its diversity of ecosystems. For a nature enthusiast, Otgontenger SPA has it all: mountains, steppe, forests, lakes, rivers, marshes, sand dunes, and even hot springs! With such an array of habitats, it should come as no surprise that this locality is home to a large variety of biodiversity, including several endangered species. It is a biological wonderland!

Otgontenger_regionSimilar to other regions, livestock depredation by snow leopards is a concern to nomadic herders. While the populations of these cats and economic impact of livestock losses has been investigated in many other major ranges such as the South Gobi, Trans-Altai Gobi and the Northern Altai Mountains, no data has been collected in Otgontenger or surrounding areas. From mid-June-mid-July of 2014, my team rambled along in our trusty van from site to site, gathering dozens of scat samples, recording scratch marks found on rocks and trees, and places where we found urine spray. We also set up several camera traps in hopes of catching images of our “phantom quarry” and its prey species. This process involves knowledge of snow leopard behavior and habits. To find a snow leopard, you have to think like a snow leopard. That means sometimes crawling on all fours to set up a camera trap at the right level or delicately stalking across a ridge-line wondering where you would relieve yourself if you were a snow leopard.

Another aspect of my team’s project was interviewing local herders to acquire information on livestock losses and attitudes toward snow leopards vs. wolves (the other predatory threat to livestock). How do you find a nomadic settlement? First, find a herd of goats, sheep or yaks. Second, drive around that area until you spot riders watching the herd or until you come across gers, the traditional nomadic housing of the pastoralists. Once you actually locate a ger which has seemed almost as elusive as the cats themselves, make sure to yell “Nokhoi Khoi” (“Hold the dog!”), even if there is no guard dog(s). Not only is this more polite than knocking on a ger flap or door, but it also allows a chance for the host to gain control of any dog(s) present. Finally, after greetings and an explanation of the purpose of your visit, be ready to experience true Mongolian hospitality.

tribespeople_interviewInterviewing these nomadic people is not as simple as asking questions, recording responses, and leaving. With each family we visited we were invited into the home to socialize, sample homemade soup of goat or yak meat in noodles, try yogurt products made from goat or yak milk, and get our fill of biscuits spread with fresh churned goat or yak butter. To wash it all down, we would be given bowls of rich, hot milk tea, also made from, you guessed it, goat or yak milk! More often than not, cups of vodka would be passed around, as well as a snuff bottle. Out of courtesy it is recommended to try it all, or at least pretend to, which ended up being the case for me after visiting several families in one day.

Stomachs full of heavy carbs, dairy and meat, the questionnaire could begin. Having previous experience studying wolves and conducting coyote coexistence outreach in the States, I expected responses toward snow leopards to be negative. Surprisingly, most of the herders acknowledged the importance of these cats in their environment, despite losing livestock to them. Many herders admitted, “The snow leopards have just as much right to the land as the people. It is the people’s responsibility to take better care of their animals.” One herder showed us a goat that actually survived an attack by a snow leopard. It had large scars on its neck and face, and tattered ears. Even this herder, who was annoyed about the incident, did not blame the cat and said, “We must either learn to live with them or move.” However, not everyone shares these positive attitudes toward coexistence, leading to incidences of retribution killing.

Preserving Livelihoods and Protecting Snow Leopards

“True conservation is all about fashioning human attitudes and activities that foster a working relationship with nature.” ~Rene Dubos

The root of any successful conservation effort begins with developing a relationship with the local people. From far across continents or oceans, it is easy for many of us to suggest certain areas should just be suddenly blocked off completely so local people, who have lived off the land for centuries, can no longer utilize resources. However, preserving the culture of these peoples is just as important as collecting information on a threatened species. A crucial aspect toward the development of conservation plans in a community is to obtain public attitudes and values. Wildlife officials need this baseline data in order to work with a community, instead of against it. In instances where public attitudes are considered, such as with the implementation of predator coexistence programs, efforts are most prosperous.

Currently, the Mongolian Academy of Sciences, Irbis Mongolia Center, and Snow Leopard Conservancy are working together to help decrease conflicts between predators and herders. They are doing this, not by preventing them from raising their livestock around snow leopard habitat, but by educating communities on responsible livestock husbandry methods and sustainable land use. One of the main goals of these partner organizations is to persuade local people that snow leopards are worth more alive than dead. To help raise money for communities, handicrafts made from wool are created and sold by herder women. Funds from these products go directly back to the community to assist in predator friendly livestock husbandry and wildlife conservation.

Electronic devices such as Predator Guard, that emit a solar powered flashing light, are also being tested where livestock graze. These devices are mounted on bushes or fence posts, and will flash during the night to scare away predators. In the areas where the predator deterrents were tested within Baga Bogd Mountain, no livestock have been killed by snow leopards. Another electronic predator deterrent that is being successfully used by the Snow Leopard Conservancy in other regions and will be tested more in Mongolia, are FoxLights.

While listening to the stories herders shared about their encounters with snow leopards, I felt a greater connection to them. Were they irritated about losing livestock, their only source of income, to the cats? Yes. Did they have a right to be, especially since there are no government compensation programs where they are? You bet! I originally began my journey into Mongolia with the intent of studying and protecting snow leopards. Yet, the herders’ passion for their traditional way of life, and their willingness to do what is necessary to maintain a harmony with the land, fueled a stronger desire to do whatever I could to help them as well.

By using the information gathered during my team’s recon mission, a movement to work with the local communities to protect their livestock, while studying an unknown population of snow leopards, has been initiated. Actions include: improving corrals by predator proofing them, training park staff and community members on the use of camera traps and electronic predator deterrents, and implementing capacity building for community members. Eco-tours, which will allow tourists to explore select snow leopard sites and help gather data that will help fund future conservation projects, are in development as well.

As I await my return to move onto the next stage of our project, I will continue to long for the endless plains where herds of horses run free. I will cherish the moments of companionable silence with a local ranger as together we watched the sunrise over the mountains, transitioning the purple morning sky to reds and oranges. I will crave being surrounded by the friendliest people I have ever met, and a culture that enriches my soul. A part of me cannot help but wonder just how often the feline guardian of the peaks was watching us. I do not know if I will ever see that majestic cat beyond images from a camera trap, but that is how it should be. For its survival, the snow leopard must remain a specter, keeping watch from a distance, and never becoming comfortable in the company of humans. And so, until next time my dear Mongolia, “Bayartai!” I bid you farewell.

Katey Duffey has a B.A. in Zoo and Wildlife Biology and a minor in Psychology from Malone University. She also earned a M.A. in Zoology from Miami University in collaboration with Project Dragonfly. Her research interests are in carnivore ecology and mitigating human-carnivore conflicts. @UnciaKate

Header image of snow leopard paw prints by Ochir – Otgontenger SPA


Snow Leopard Conservancy

Mongolian Academy of Sciences

Predator Guard




Death of a Foster Son

by Nancy Campbell

The doctor called out to me as I shuffled downhill through the snow, going sideways and slowly, trying not to fall over. We’d met over a dinner of suaasat – seal soup – at a neighbour’s house the previous evening.

‘Did you hear? A polar bear’s been caught!’ He told me the hunter would be bringing it back to Upernavik that afternoon. ‘You should go and take a look.’

IMG_1387The news had come to him through a friend who had a radio connection to the hunters out on the ice. ‘Nothing happens for weeks here,’ the doctor said ruefully, ‘so make the most of this.’ He’d just returned to the island after several months back home in Denmark, bringing his young son with him to attend the local school. Now he seemed eager to share his knowledge with a newcomer. For my part, I was grateful to find someone with whom conversation ran within familiar patterns, someone fluent in my own language, although he made me feel uneasy and I could not fathom why.

Unable to sleep on a full stomach the night before, I’d read a book of Greenlandic folk tales collected by Knud Rasmussen. During the years when Europe was stained by the carnage of WW1, this anthropologist travelled through the Arctic documenting the culture of its inhabitants. Bears featured in many of the stories, and were central to one called ‘The old woman who had a bear for a foster-son’, which begins:

There was once an old woman living in a place where others lived. She lived nearest the shore, and when those who lived in houses up above had been out hunting, they gave her meat. And now and again they caught a bear, so they frequently ate bear’s meat. One day they came home with a whole bear. The old woman received a piece from the ribs as her share, and took it home.

Later the wife of the man who had killed the bear came to her window and said, ‘Dear little old woman in there, would you like to have a bear’s cub?’

And the old woman went to collect the cub and brought it home, and because it was frozen, she shifted her lamp, and placed the cub up on the drying frame to thaw.

I wasn’t sure that I wanted to see the polar bear. For a start, there was no guarantee of the time the boat would arrive, and I hadn’t yet learnt that particular form of patience the Arctic demands, quinuituq, described by the writer Barry Lopez as ‘long waiting, prepared for a sudden event’. (Lopez observes this patience in a hunter’s ‘long wait at a seal hole for prey to surface.’ Nowadays it is often experienced in the wait for weather conditions to become suitable for a plane to take off.) I told myself that I had so much work to do writing about the island itself, that really, I should just go home and get on. Plus I felt self-conscious in public places: my light skin marked me as an outsider and my command of the local language let me down in the island’s small grocery store and the post office, which flew a blue flag with a polar bear rampant, the coat of arms of Greenland’s self-rule government. What reason did I have to attend the gathering at the harbour?

Suddenly the old woman noticed that the bear moved a little, and took it down to warm it. Then she roasted some blubber, and in this way she fed it from that time onwards, and it lay beside her at night.

It grew very fast, and she began to talk to it in human speech, and so it gained the mind of a human being, and when it wished to ask its foster-mother for food, it would sniff. The old woman no longer suffered want, and those living near brought food for the cub.

The children came sometimes to play with it, and the old woman would say, ‘Little bear, remember to sheathe your claws when you play with them.’

In the morning, the children would come to the window and call in, ‘Little bear, come out and play with us.’ It would break the children’s toy harpoons, but when it gave one of the children a push, it would always sheathe its claws. At last it grew so strong that it often made the children cry.

Did I go? Of course I did. I was looking for material everywhere, and as the doctor implied, I would have been a fool to turn the opportunity down. Yet five years on, rereading a poem that I wrote shortly afterwards, I have a moment of doubt. Did I really witness all the things I describe in the (now abandoned) poem, or had I sulked in my little house down by the shore and concocted the details from the books I was reading and my own dreams? Such uncertainty is central to my perception of the event. Human understanding of Arctic mammals has long confounded fact and fiction: the narwhal that existed in the European imagination for so long as a unicorn; the sperm whale which dives to deep regions we know less about than the moon, and communicates across frequencies we can’t hear; and the polar bear, whose fur is not white, as so many people believe, but translucent, and grows out of black skin. It was the hope of discovering the reality behind the legends, as much as material for a poem, which drew me to the harbour in the end.

And now the grown-up people began to play with the bear, and they helped the old woman by making it grow stronger. But after a time not even grown men dared play with it, so great was its strength, and they said to one another, ‘Let us take it with us when we go out hunting. It may help us to find seal.’

And so one day at dawn, they came to the old woman’s window and cried, ‘Little bear, come and earn a share of our catch; come out hunting with us.’

Before the bear went out, it sniffed at the old woman. And then it went with the men.

The hunting habits of bears have more in common with those of humans than any other animal: both hunt seals using similar techniques, both – sometimes – hunt each other. Some of the hunters on Upernavik push the correspondence further, and still wear the bearskin trousers that have always been their best protection against the cold. There is a traditional belief that once a bear enters its den in the winter, it removes its fur and acquires a human appearance. In the past when a bear was killed certain taboos had to observed. One such taboo ruled that the hunter bringing in the bear had to remove his outer clothes before coming into his iglu, just as a bear was thought to remove its skin once safely inside its den.

One day when the men were returning home from a hunt, they called in to the old woman, ‘Your bear was very nearly killed by the hunters from the north today; we hardly managed to save it alive. Give it some mark by which it may be known.’

And so the old foster-mother made a collar of plaited sinews as broad as a harpoon line for the bear to wear around its neck. And after that it never failed to catch seal. It was stronger even than the strongest of hunters, and never stayed at home even in the worst weather.

There are two harbours in Upernavik. One, where the huge Royal Arctic Line ship Vestlandia docks in summer, occupies a disproportionate arc of the island’s coastline when the water is ice-free. In winter empty plastic Carlsberg crates and iron shipping containers clutter the land around it. By February, when I was on the island, there was hardly any food remaining in the store. When the shore ice melted, trade and traffic would resume. The island diet was heavily influenced by European (healthy) and US (sweet) culture: the store sold UHT milk, hot peppers from South Africa, lentils from Turkey, wine and beer and spirits from around the world. Food travels a long way to get here, and it’s expensive. There were frozen berries (a Danish brand). Frozen beans. Fish fingers. In central Europe frozen produce has pejorative associations as a convenience food, but here it is preferable to the ‘fresh’ (in fact often accidentally frozen then thawed) lettuces, alien apples and soft grey onions.

The second harbour is smaller and less exposed to the heavy tides of Baffin Bay. It lies in the lee of the promontory on which the little hospital stands; people moor their dinghies up against the ice foot there. There are just five or six vessels, and perhaps what goes on here is a little bit secretive, if things can be secretive on a small island. My house was not far away and often in the early mornings as I made coffee and settled down to write I heard the hunters cutting their boats out from the ice that had formed overnight, rasping the engines and setting off to sea. I saw their lights reflected in the dark water as they gingerly steered a path between blocks of ice as far as the horizon.

But now the people from beyond Angmagssalik heard that there was a bear which could not be caught, and then one of them said, ‘If ever I see it, I will kill it.’

But the others said, ‘You must not do that; the bear’s foster-mother could ill manage without its help. If you see it, do not harm it, but leave it alone.’

One day when the bear came home as usual from hunting, the old foster-mother said, ‘Whenever you meet with men, treat them as if you were of one kin with them; never seek to harm them unless they attack you first.’

And it heard the foster-mother’s words and did as she had said.

And so the old foster-mother kept the bear with her. In the summer it went out hunting in the sea, and in winter on the ice, and the other hunters now learned to know its ways, and received shares of its catch.

IMG_1562It was to the small harbour the polar bear was to be brought. Just as the hunter’s boats had left the harbour in zigzags, so those who had not been out hunting descended the steep slope, moving side-to-side across the island down the boardwalks and steps that spanned the snowdrifts on the hill. Walking down a steep mountain your journey takes longer than you might expect. In a casual cortège people came from homes where the living rooms had wide windows looking out over the sea, and a radio in the corner crackling live news from relatives far out on the ice. They came hoping for a share of the meat, because although much of the catch is sold these days, traces of the communal distribution system remain.

It was foggy and snowing lightly and we did not see the boat until it was almost upon us.

Once during a storm the bear was away hunting as usual, and did not come home until evening. Then it sniffed at its foster-mother and sprang up on to the bench. She went out of the house, and found the body of a dead man which the bear had hauled home. Without going in again, the old woman hurried to the nearest house, and cried at the window, ‘The bear has come home with a dead man, one whom I do not know.’

When it grew light, they went out and saw that it was the man from the north, and they could see he had been running fast, for he had drawn off his furs, and was in his underclothes. Afterwards they heard that it was his comrades who had urged the bear to resistance, because he would not leave it alone.

The huskies, chained down to plots of urine-soaked ice, shared the islanders’ excitement. They could smell blood, and strained to be free. The little dinghy chugged towards the ice shelf and the hunter, a stout man who appeared even stouter on account of his insulated jacket, waved his gun at the crowd in greeting and in triumph. There were murmurs in return. The boat was moored and then what was inside the boat had to be hoisted ashore. The hunter attached a rope to the animal and threw the loose end to a group of men standing on the ice, who heaved until the carcass leapt ashore as if the boat had given birth to it.

It slithered stiffly across the ice, fur stained from swimming through its own blood, and as they pulled a bullet wound unrolled a red carpet for the hunter to step on. The tongue slumped out over the teeth and froze fast to the ice; this blue muscle had to be chiselled free before the hunter could raise the head, buckle a collar round the neck and strap the carcass to his sled. A woman touched the fur gently, perhaps to gauge its quality. Two small boys wearing rubber boots kicked it in the back, and ran away. I longed to touch it, but I dared not – although I could see that it was dead. The huskies continued to howl, but no one released them.

Then the old foster-mother wept and said to the bear, ‘You had better not stay with me here always; you will be killed if you do. You had better leave me.’

But the bear thrust its muzzle right down to the floor and wept too, so greatly did it grieve to go away from her.

After this, the foster-mother went out every morning as soon as dawn appeared to look at the weather, and if there were but a cloud as big as one’s hand in the sky, she said nothing.

But one morning when she went out, there was not even a cloud as big as a hand, and so she came in and said, ‘Little bear, now you had better go; you have your own kin far away out there.’


Image courtesy of the Canadian Museum of History

The bear would be taken to be flensed and cleaned, the flesh divided according to traditional principles. Once skinned, a bear looks almost human. Ancient sculptures play on this resemblance, such as the tiny ‘Flying Ivory Bear’, an attenuated form which from one angle appears bearlike, and from another, human. A score of geometric lines across its surface could be the skeleton of either beast. The person who carved this fragment of ivory, working in the Arctic during the Middle Dorset period (AD 0–500), looked back to an even more distant past, when there were no boundaries between humans and animals: they could talk to one another and transform themselves at will. This amulet may represent the bears that led shamans on their journeys through the air or the animal spirits that were called upon when a hunter needed particular strength.

The next day I walked all round the island, hoping to learn what had happened to the bear, or even to see its skin hanging outside one of the houses. I’d read that hunters had once paid respect to the bear’s soul (tatkok) by hanging the skin in an honoured place for several days. But everything looked just as it normally did, a little obscure in the stormy winter twilight. The bear had disappeared.

When the bear was ready to set out, the old foster-mother, weeping very much, dipped her hands in oil and smeared them with soot, and stroked the bear’s side as it took leave of her, in such manner that it could not see what she was doing. The bear sniffed at her and went away. The old foster-mother wept all through that day, and her fellows in the place also mourned the loss of their bear.

I left the island a few weeks later. The weather had cleared at last and the twin otter plane achieved a graceful take off from the small airstrip in the direction of the rising sun. The pilot detoured from his direct route to Qaanaaq, and banked the plane sharply to show his passengers where the bear had been killed. Everyone craned their heads to look. He switched on the intercom. And told the story in his own language, for those who could understand it.

But men say that far to the north, when many bears are abroad, there will sometimes come a bear as big as an iceberg, with a black spot on its side.


Note: In 1973, representatives from five arctic countries with polar bear populations (the United States, whose bears are in Alaska; Canada; Denmark, whose bears are in Greenland; Russia, and Norway) signed the International Agreement for the Conservation of Polar Bears and their Habitat. This agreement protects polar bear habitat, as well as limiting what bears can be taken, when and by whom. In short, the agreement restricts polar bear hunting, while still maintaining that people of the region have the right to use polar bears to support their traditional ways of life. The agreement can be read in full here


Nancy Campbell is a writer and book artist. Recent works include The Night Hunter and How To Say ‘I Love You’ In Greenlandic: An Arctic Alphabet which won the Birgit Skiöld Award in 2013. Her first poetry collection Disko Bay will be published by Enitharmon Press this autumn.