S5, E1: I’ve Dedicated My Life to Polar Bears. Here’s Why Everyone Should Experience Them in the Wild.

In the premiere episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season five, we meet Alysa McCall, a polar bear biologist based in Churchill, Manitoba—the polar bear capital of Canada.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: I’m Aislyn Greene, and welcome to Travel Tales by Dinogo. I’m thrilled to kick off the first episode of season five—we’ll be releasing new episodes weekly all summer long.

We’re starting this season with a bang. Though, to be honest, our topic today—polar bears—aren’t particularly loud creatures.

We’ll be hearing from Alysa McCall, a polar bear biologist affiliated with Polar Bears International. I first learned about her incredible work during a TED Talk event in collaboration with Destination Canada, where she passionately shared stories about polar bear conservation. Her storytelling is captivating, and her deep commitment to the protection of polar bears and their fragile, endangered habitat is unmistakable.

As you might expect, Alysa resides in a frigid location: Whitehorse, a city in Yukon Territory, where winter temperatures can plunge to minus 35 degrees. Much of her time is also spent in another cold spot: Churchill, Manitoba, renowned as the polar bear capital of the world. However, it wasn’t always a certainty that she would become a polar bear biologist. A pivotal encounter with a polar bear in Churchill transformed her path entirely.

Alysa McCall: If you had told me as a child that I would grow up to be a polar bear biologist, I would have felt a mix of joy and confusion. I adored animals, but polar bears weren’t even on my radar. I distinctly remember the release of the toonie—a Canadian two-dollar coin for those unfamiliar—with polar bears on one side. I thought, “Oh, how cute; I suppose they are quite Canadian.” Yet, these magnificent creatures rarely crossed my mind outside of television commercials. Black bears were much more prevalent, or rather, a nuisance.

Reflecting back, that’s where my journey began. I was raised on a mountain in Kamloops, British Columbia, surrounded by forests, but just a stone's throw away lay a semi-arid desert populated by rattlesnakes and cacti. As a child, I relished hiking with my dad and immersing myself in nature. We would traverse trails behind our home, past a rock quarry, exploring the mountain. While other hikes I've taken since were far more remarkable, each squirrel, flower, or scat pile was a new discovery to me back then.

Nature was a frequent visitor to our home. Outside our expansive living room window stood fruit trees, where black bears would often gather each spring and summer, right in front of our view. I could watch them for hours. If we needed to step outside to the car, we would simply bang pots, and they’d usually saunter away. Now, I look back and think, “Wow, my relationship with bears has truly evolved.” I still adore them, but I’m definitely less relaxed about it now.

It wasn't until high school that I discovered being a wildlife biologist was a legitimate career. Fortunately, my local university offered an outstanding animal biology program. For years, I debated between pursuing medicine or wildlife, but during a walk one day, it became clear that I had to follow my passion for animals. This choice ultimately brought me to where I am today.

As an undergraduate, I had the opportunity to engage in a significant amount of fieldwork. For years, I focused on small animals, which I thoroughly enjoyed. In one project, I fitted tiny tracking collars on deer mice to observe their daily activities. In another, I captured and released them in their desert grassland habitat, investigating how additional water affected their behavior. One year, I even helped attach mini radio backpacks to toads for tracking purposes.

As I approached graduation with my bachelor's degree, I was uncertain about my next steps. My supervisor recommended I reach out to Andy Derocher, a renowned polar bear biologist at the University of Alberta in Edmonton.

I thought to myself, “No way! Only extraordinary people get to do that kind of amazing work. I’m just a mouse biologist.” I was grappling with serious imposter syndrome, doubting my luck despite having good grades. But eventually, I asked myself, “What’s the worst that could happen?” So, I sent a quick email to Andy, and later that day, he replied, saying, “Absolutely. Come over. See you in September.”

I relocated to Edmonton for school that September, and within weeks, I saw my first polar bear in person. At that time, I had only read about them, but Polar Bears International needed outreach support in Churchill, Manitoba, that fall of 2010.

Polar bears are classified as marine mammals, meaning they thrive in oceanic environments rather than on land—they prefer the frozen ocean where they hunt for seals. However, each summer near Churchill, the melting ice of Hudson Bay forces these bears onto land. Every fall, visitors flock to Churchill to observe the bears before the ice returns, and to discuss their plight—though not for field research. This setting provided me with a gentle introduction to both the species and Polar Bears International.

I arrived in Churchill in the evening and ventured out onto the tundra under the cover of darkness, visibility limited to our headlights. That night, I slept in a tundra buggy—think of it as a luxurious glamping experience in a school bus outfitted with monster truck wheels, gently rocked to sleep by the wind. When morning came, I awoke in my top bunk to a view of the coast nearby and was instructed to watch what I initially thought was a rock just ahead. To my amazement, that 'rock' stirred to life, revealing itself as the world's largest land predator. Awestruck is an understatement.

I spent an incredible week in Churchill, learning about polar bears, observing their behaviors, and connecting with my future colleagues. As I boarded the plane home, I was certain I would return as soon as I could.

Witnessing polar bears in their natural habitat deepened my understanding of their unique conservation needs. During my work with mice and frogs, I could directly influence their environment—like providing them with water—and immediately measure the effects. It was tangible and straightforward.

But then there are polar bears. Their reproductive cycle is lengthy, and they bear few cubs. They depend on a fragile habitat—the sea ice—which is rapidly disappearing due to rising temperatures. Unlike smaller species, we can’t simply cultivate more ice or enclose it in fences for protection. There are no patrols we can hire for this habitat. To safeguard polar bears, we must enact change in our global atmosphere. This challenge demands a new conservation strategy, one that involves extensive communication and collaboration with world leaders. Although the scale of the issue felt overwhelming, I knew I had to continue my journey to understand these ice bears and their survival on these transient floating platforms—and to find ways to ensure their future stability.

My first opportunity to engage in genuine fieldwork came in February 2011, back in Churchill, Manitoba. This time, I knew it would be much colder, so I attempted to cram my bulky Canada Goose down jacket into my suitcase, which ended up taking nearly all the available space. At the time, Churchill felt like it was way up north, though I now live even farther north.

I vividly recall flying in and gazing out the airplane window, where all I could see was white—pure white. The landscape was filled with frozen ponds and scraggly trees, stretching flat as far as I could see. As I disembarked, bundled in my warmest gear, the frigid air hit me like a wall. It was in the minus 30s, cold enough, but actually colder than usual, which meant we were grounded for the first week. Our fieldwork relied on helicopters, incredible machines that unfortunately have their limits in extreme cold. Each morning, our lead biologist, Nick, would check in with the pilot, who would invariably respond, “Not so good, Nick.” So instead, we spent our time at the old Churchill Northern Studies Centre playing cribbage. There’s a new facility now, but the old one resembled a set from the movie The Thing.

The dormitories were separated from the main building by a frigid corridor we dubbed the Arctic Hallway. Each morning, if you wanted coffee, you had to dash down this hall to reach the cafeteria. I remember shuffling around the research station in slippers and wool socks, while at night, we were treated to breathtaking displays of the northern lights.

After a week, the weather finally cleared up. I felt a thrilling mix of excitement and sheer terror. The helicopter was scheduled to pick us up just after legal light. I woke up feeling alert, bundled in layers, and stuffed my backpack with even more gear. I included extra socks, along with a notepad and pencil (because pens freeze in the cold). I also prepared lunches for the team, packing plenty of peanut butter sandwiches and thermoses filled with hot water and coffee.

When the helicopter finally arrived, we loaded it up with our heavy backpacks, firearms, tranquilizer darts, and emergency supplies for if we got stranded. Just as we lifted off, Nick asked if I had my large parka. To my dismay, I realized I only had my smaller one. We had to fly back, and I felt so embarrassed running past people sipping their coffee, having just bid them farewell. But finally, we were off—for real this time.

Soaring above the ice felt like stepping onto another planet. The scene was disorienting, resembling the world’s largest jigsaw puzzle made of immense, irregularly shaped white ice fragments that shifted and drifted atop the dark blue ocean. The fact that polar bears depend on this fragile, ever-changing habitat—existing only under specific weather conditions—is astonishing.

Nick pointed out the pressure ridges, where large sea ice plates had collided, creating chunky ridges that resembled stitches. Seals utilize the spaces beneath these ridges to give birth and raise their pups, finding shelter under the peaks. Polar bears often navigate these pressure ridges like a dynamic road map, trailing along the undulating hills until they catch a whiff of something enticing, then breaking through to investigate whether a warm, squishy prize awaits them.

I was also honing my “bear eyes.” It truly takes time to adjust to spotting a polar bear against the backdrop of sea ice, considering both its color and size. They aren’t as starkly white as one might expect. Eventually, I learned to recognize the lovely creamy yellow shapes nestled amidst the harsh white ice.

After some time in the air, we finally spotted our first family group. To study these bears, we needed to safely tranquilize the mother—only when no males were nearby. The cubs stayed close to her, allowing us to approach and administer a small dose of Telazol, a tranquilizer that puts them to sleep for about 30 minutes. But first, the pilot had to position the helicopter perfectly for the biologist to aim at the mother. This meant the chopper needed to be light, requiring me to be the first to disembark.

I grabbed my backpack, radio, and gun, stepping out alone. There I was, isolated on the moving sea ice in frigid temperatures, surrounded by ridges. It was a surreal experience, yet I felt no fear, thanks to the trust I had in the crew. The silence was profound, broken only by the wind and the sound of water beneath the ice. My eyelashes froze, and I shuffled my feet to stay warm, despite layering more than I ever had in my life. Even with my high-quality winter boots and two pairs of thick socks, my toes began to numb.

At last, after what felt like ages, I heard the unmistakable whomp-whomp-whomp of a helicopter approaching in the distance. They were coming to pick me up and return me to the bear and the biologist. I could feel the rush of air hit me as the roar of the engine filled my ears. Crouching down with my gear to ensure nothing flew away, I watched as the helicopter landed in a flurry of swirling snow. I shielded my face from the rotor wash, and when the pilot gave me the thumbs up, I cautiously approached while the blades still whirled.

Reboarding the helicopter turned into a bit of a comedy. Trying to maintain my cool while encumbered by all my bulky gear made me feel like the Michelin man, with layers upon layers, a backpack, and heavy boots. Once I finally squeezed into my seat, I struggled to fasten the awkward seatbelt over my massive parka. As I fumbled and tried not to look completely ridiculous, the pilot, Jon, calmly nudged my shotgun, which I had been absentmindedly pointing at his face, away from him. He remarked, “You probably don’t want to point your gun at your pilot; it’ll be a long wait for help if something goes wrong.” Mortifyingly embarrassing—funny enough, I ended up marrying him later on.

Upon reaching the polar bears, Nick was ensuring that the mother was resting comfortably and that her cubs stayed close. I hopped out as the helicopter powered down and grabbed our gear to bring over.

As I walked up to the bears for the first time, I couldn't shake the thought, “Wow, is this really happening?” Jon, the helicopter pilot, seemed to pick up on my attempt to stay composed. Since the cubs were sleeping, he gently picked one up and let me hold it for a quick photo op.

However, the overwhelming urge to melt into a puddle of joy at their cuteness was quickly overshadowed by the biting cold and the need to complete our task swiftly to minimize any disturbance to the family. So, we got right to work.

My initial task involved documenting data as the biologist measured and handled the bears. Fortunately, I had a glove-mitten combo that allowed me to remove the top part and free my fingers for jotting down notes. I quickly learned to work with numb fingertips. Meanwhile, we kept an eye on each other for signs of frostbite, particularly on exposed skin like noses and cheeks. It’s crucial to catch it early to avoid serious issues. We also took turns scanning the horizon for any approaching bears, since they can move surprisingly fast and silently, appearing almost out of nowhere.

The information gathered from this long-term study has been vital in enhancing our understanding of mothers and cubs in this area and beyond. Mothers with cubs represent the most vulnerable and essential group in the polar bear population. Cubs are crucial for sustaining their species, and raising them is becoming increasingly challenging in a warmer and less predictable environment.

As we began to conclude our work with this family, ensuring they were resting together, we spotted another family on the horizon. We all fell silent, captivated by a mother and her two cubs, just months old, navigating the ice parallel to us. Despite being in the harshest habitat I had ever encountered, the moment felt remarkably serene. Even Nick, who had been studying polar bears for three decades, paused to take it in. That quiet moment, where we collectively appreciated this new family on the sea ice, became the most profound experience I had had thus far. I felt what my four-year-old would call big feelings: hope, happiness, fear, anxiety about the future, and curiosity—I felt it all.

By the end of the day, I was both exhausted and cold, but I was certain I could never turn my back on polar bears. A sense of panic washed over me, like, “Is this it? Is this as good as it gets?” From that moment, I knew I had to commit to protecting this wild habitat if I wanted to find fulfillment on my life’s journey.

This is a global issue. The loss of sea ice is directly linked to the excessive burning of fossil fuels. While it’s grounded in science, the solution lies in effectively communicating with the public. We need to explain the mechanisms, the problems, and potential solutions. But what we truly must do is urge our leaders to implement significant changes and offer more affordable and accessible solutions to safeguard the future for polar bears and humanity alike.

In the past, science communication often avoided emotions, focusing instead on graphs, data, and PowerPoint slides. However, I believe that expressing these profound feelings is key to inspiring change. It’s the emotional connection that will truly help us advance conservation efforts.

I can share facts about bears and ice all day, but what resonates with people—and what makes them care—are stories, passion, and personal experiences. From connection comes love, and from love arises the motivation to protect.

The remainder of the field season proceeded smoothly. We worked with numerous families, including one that had triplets. There was a small runt among them who likely didn’t survive, but each bear was truly an amazing creature.

I often find myself wondering about the cubs I held, how many of them are still alive, and how they are coping with their swiftly changing environment. We know this population has dwindled from around 1,200 polar bears in the 1980s to just over 600 today.

What will the future hold in 10 years? 20? By the time I’m no longer here? All I know is that I can contribute in some way to maintaining a stable habitat for polar bears—and for us. And I’ll do it driven by love.

Aislyn: That was Alysa McCall, an exceptional polar bear scientist. As we mentioned earlier in the episode, she resides in Whitehorse with her helicopter pilot husband, Jon, and their four-year-old daughter.

To catch a brief interview I did with Alysa, check out YouTube—I’ll share the link in the show notes. She shares her favorite recent polar bear encounters, explains why everyone should try to visit Churchill, and discusses why her daughter isn’t particularly interested in polar bears (yet).

For more insights into her work at Polar Bears International, visit polarbearsinternational.org. It’s a wonderful resource that includes polar bear cams, symbolic adoption kits, and a wealth of photos and facts. We’ll provide that link in our show notes, along with Alysa’s TED Talk.

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This has been Travel Tales, a production of Dinogo Media. The podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music composed and produced by Strike Audio.

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