The Bears Shall Inherit the Earth

All aboard the Polar Bear Express!

​By Zach Hively

Of all the marvels in the modern world, the greatest by far is that I met my first polar bear in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
​
Polar bears? In New Mexico? Might not be as strange as it seems. For starters, as polar ice continues to recede faster than a monk’s first tonsure, those bears have to go somewhere. New Mexico is as likely a locale for nuclear winter as anywhere else.

Ice in New Mexico. It happens. For real.

Do I sound less ridiculous if I point to an expert?

This summer, I attended a talk by Peter S. Alagona, who studies possibilities for reintroducing grizzly bears into much of their historic territory. I define their historic territory as “where they lived for many thousands of years before European-Americans came in and gentrified the whole American West.” Most grizzlies can’t afford the rents in their historic territory anymore, let alone qualify for mortgages—and the ones who can are all too often forced out of the nicer neighborhoods by fearful, intolerant HOAs.

But—and this is critical—grizzly bears cannot thrive in a studio apartment. Thus, dedicated groups of humans are exploring the feasibility of giving these bears a fair shot in the wild. There, if all goes to plan, they will thrive on a diet of fish, berries, and ranchers.

I bring up the possibility of reintroduction because, genetically speaking, grizzly bears and polar bears comprise two parts of the same Oreo cookie. And the Southwest definitely housed grizzlies once upon a time. Humans killed the last known one in New Mexico in 1931, and in southern Colorado in 1979. Historically speaking, a Colorado grizzly could have listened to the Allman Brothers on an 8-track. Kind of like how Lincoln could have sent a fax to a samurai, only with more marijuana involved.

Possible evidence for possible polar bear habitat in New Mexico

Now, no one but me is openly discussing introducing polar bears into the lowest reaches of the lower 48. I offer all this context as simple fodder for my fantasy that humanity disappears.

That’s it—that’s the fantasy.

But if that happened, maybe Kiska the polar bear could spring the locks on his enclosure at the Albuquerque BioPark and take a swipe at repopulating the entire state by himself.

The odds of this coming to pass are low, I know. The region lacks naturally-occurring squid, lard, and grape juice, which are three of Kiska’s favorite foods. His ancestors sustained themselves straight-up on the blubber from seals, so that this boy could live his best life by drinking juice from a squirt bottle.

I know he loves it, because we are basically friends now. I mean, we have at least smelled each other, Kiska and me, which I think counts for something.

We met through my brother-in-law. Let’s call him Scott. Scott is a zookeeper. To celebrate my little sister’s birthday, he invited me to join them in a far higher than normal likelihood of getting our fingers bitten off on a backstage tour of the polar bear exhibit.

Oh, sure, I had seen Kiska and other polar bears before—but on the public side, where guests are so far removed from the animals that parents and other caregivers cannot “accidentally” throw their children into the water.

Backstage is different. Backstage is closer. Backstage is far more dangerous. Scott, who works every day with apes who would pop his arms off like a Barbie doll’s just for enrichment, would not step within ten feet of the thick black mesh designed to keep 750 pounds of geriatric polar bear from fulfilling its evolutionary directive.

That’s a healthy respect for nature, which I clearly lack. I got as close to the mesh as possible without triggering any sudden movements from Casey, the assistant mammal curator.
Casey had guided our little birthday party for our officially sanctioned, no-special-treatment tour past the Mexican wolf enclosure and through a series of locked doors. We stepped through what she called, in professional lingo, the oh-shit bars—spaced widely enough for most humans to flail through if needed, narrowly enough to foil all but the most emaciated polar bears.

Which, Kiska is not. Kiska downs several thousands of calories a day. Casey educated us on polar bear diets while he lapped a week’s worth of peanut butter off of what might have been a ping-pong paddle. On his hind legs, Kiska wasn’t much taller than a UPS truck, nor much broader. From up there, he eyed up the tub of squid bits at Casey’s feet. “Male bears can get up to about twelve hundred pounds,” she informed us casually.

So could my dog, I suspected, with that much bulk-store peanut butter. Up close, Kiska resembled nothing in the eyes and tongue so much as a Pyrenees. He and I shared a rather doglike moment, where I got to connect with a being I admire and he got bored with me as soon as he realized I didn’t bring snacks.

We were not permitted to take pictures on the tour. So, please imagine a polar bear in this New Mexico creek on a snowy day.

Many people are opposed to zoos on principle. I get it. I can see why humans, out of all the species, would oppose forcing a creature to put on a public face for eight or ten hours a day, every day, stuck in a little pen, with no real hope of retirement or relocation or escape until death.
But unlike American office workers, Kiska gets to contribute to education and conservation efforts. Plus, he is not contained to a cubicle, nor to a studio apartment. He’s not even contained to his enclosure, with its refrigerated water and its toys the size of Volkswagen engines. No, Kiska has a private entrance to what was once a lion exhibit, where he can change his scenery whenever he pleases.
Not only does this provide him with better exercise than most hourly wage employees—it also prepares him and his bear brethren for the future, when they may well be introducing themselves to whatever environment they can get.