The snow squealed with delight as they walked. Amanda noticed the pale sun cast no shadow.
Pete walked carefully, using the chisel to check the snow ahead of them. Every now and then he stopped, looking around. His eyes scanned the surrounding hills as if looking for danger.
Amanda could see nothing. But then, she knew a bear would see them long before they would see it. A polar bear motionless in the snow was nearly invisible. By the time you saw it, it was often too late. It could outrun you too.
Polar bears were not afraid of humans. They could and would attack, especially if they were hungry. Or if you were near their den. Or just because they didn’t want you around. Especially if you were in their range, and they were a nesting female bear. Those were the most dangerous of all.
Amanda began to speak. Pete shook his head. He pointed at the steep snow-covered hills around them. Noise could cause an avalanche. It could also attract a bear.
Amanda nodded, feeling snow on her lashes. She had never been to any place like this—she and her parents had never traveled much when she was a child, and then only on family trips where they did everything for her, and the entire experience felt curated, supervised, and controlled. This was different. Now she was out on her own.
Despite the dangers, Amanda felt calm and peaceful. It had been the same after the fire, she realized, and even after being chased. She felt filled with a warm glow of excitement and pure joy in life. Out here, in the snow, she was, finally, just Amanda.
Pete’s chisel suddenly broke the snow in front of him. He jumped back, pushing her back with one arm.
With a soft thud, the snow in front of them collapsed. A large dark hole appeared.
Pete lifted his rifle and waited.
Nothing came out of the hole. Pete crept forward, peeking. He put the rifle back over his shoulder.
“Come see,” he whispered.
Amanda came forward and looked into one of the marvels of nature: an abandoned polar bear den.
It was like a small snow cave, she thought. The den was large enough for an adult bear, which meant it was several feet across. The snow had been melted by the bear’s breath and body heat, and then refrozen, forming an airtight, warm seal against the weather. The bottom was littered with tangles of shedded hair.
“This is a sleeping den,” Pete said quietly, kneeling to look.
“How do you know? Size?” Amanda asked.
“Yes. And a maternity den would have baby poop in it.”
“How do I get down there?”
“With my help. Hurry. If there is a den here, there is probably another one close by, and that one might contain a bear.”
He helped Amanda lower herself into the hole. Crouching, she quickly combed up bits of fur with her gloved hands. She put these into the baggies from Pete’s testing kit, which was in the bag she had carried. The plastic was so cold, it was crisp.
Pete kept an eye out. He remembered the researchers coming here against his advice, talking, barely paying attention to their ice picks. He had warned them. He took no pleasure in knowing he had been right.
Amanda crawled out of the hole with his help. She put the baggies back into the bag, her hands shaking. He looked into her face. The shaking was from excitement and pleasure, he saw, not fear.
“Ready,” she whispered.
They traced their steps back to the snowmobile. The sun never seemed to move position. As she walked, Amanda took a video of theendless white hills, for Molly. Bears had genetic memories. Molly would instinctually know her ancestral lands.
“Hurry,” Pete urged.
Amanda caught up.
“You ever worry about Molly charging you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. Molly was a wild creature, just like her. Both were unpredictable.
“That’s good. You sound like you know her.”
They were out of the hills and closer to the snowmobile. Pete had relaxed now that the risk of avalanche and bears was retreating behind them. “People talk about anthropomorphizing animals, but I think it’s more like infantilizing them. Listen to how people talk to their pets, in baby voices.”
