To celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary, David and I decided to do something a little different. On the advice of a friend, we headed north to Churchill, Manitoba—the polar bear capital of the world.
I wasn't quite sure what to expect.
As our small charter plane approached Churchill, I looked out the window and saw a landscape unlike anything I was used to at home. It was incredibly flat, with low, shrub-like green trees scattered among expanses of beige rock. I immediately found myself looking for polar bears.
I didn't see any from the plane, although I did catch a brief flash of white among the rocks and greenery. I thought it might have been a swan. Later, our guide told me that it was possible, as Tundra Swans are found in the area. I'll never know for sure what I saw, but somehow it seemed like an appropriate introduction to Churchill: a landscape that asked me to slow down and really look.
On our way from the airport to our lodge, we stopped at a beach. There were signs warning us about the possible presence of polar bears.
And there, in the distance, we saw our first beluga whales.
There were so many of them, breaching in the water. Then someone spotted a tiny white speck among the rocks.
Our first polar bear.
I pulled out my binoculars and could see it more clearly. Nearby officials released a drone, apparently to make noise and encourage the bear to move away from the area. We quickly learned that managing the relationship between the town and its polar bear neighbours is a serious, round-the-clock job. Parks Canada rangers patrol around the community to keep bears from wandering into areas where people live.
It was a good reminder that we were visitors here.
When the sky danced
That evening, we settled into the cozy Lazy Bear Lodge. Sunset was just after 9 p.m., but it stayed light until surprisingly late.
Then, around midnight, there was a soft knock on our door.
At first I ignored it, but the rustling in the hallway grew louder. When I opened the door, the guides were going from room to room, inviting us to get on a bus to go out into the bush to see the aurora borealis.
So, in a sleepy daze, we got dressed and climbed aboard.
As we drove away from the lights of Churchill, streaks of light began to appear in the sky. Then we arrived at a forested spot, stepped outside and looked up.
The sky danced.
The aurora shifted and moved above us for about 45 minutes. To our eyes, the colours were surprisingly subtle—mostly whitish, with hints of colour around the edges. But when we looked at our cameras, the greens became much more vivid, with touches of pink and purple.
Every so often, the sky would make a dramatic shift and a quiet chorus of “oohs” and “ahhs” would ripple through our group.
The guides stood nearby, watching over us with their “bangers”—devices used to make noise and shoot flares to scare away any bears that might wander out of the surrounding darkness.
It was an extraordinary way to spend our first night in Churchill.
Wildflowers and whales
The next morning, we headed out in a Zodiac boat with our guide, Mirko, looking for belugas and polar bears.
We saw loads of belugas in Hudson Bay before crossing the river and heading toward Prince of Wales Fort, just across the river from Churchill. To get there, we walked through a field of wildflowers.
This was one of the first moments when I really started noticing the colours of the North.
There were magentas, yellows, pinks, reds and greens everywhere. Fireweed, in particular, caught my eye. Its intense magenta-pink blooms seemed to appear wherever we went.
I took photographs of it constantly.
Back on the water, we continued along the coast, surrounded by the sounds of belugas breathing. There is something wonderful about hearing a whale exhale nearby—a sound that is both gentle and unmistakably wild.
And then we spotted another polar bear.
A large one was stretched out on the rounded rocks, enjoying the sunshine.
Later, on our way back to Churchill, we spotted the same bear again. Only now, it had wandered over to the dock where we had gotten out earlier to visit the fort.
It was wandering around the very rest area where we'd been only a short time before, slowly making its way past the outhouses and in the direction of the fort.
In Churchill, apparently, the bears don't always follow the itinerary.
That evening, we celebrated our anniversary with our friends, who had brought bubbly. We weren't allowed to open the bottle inside the lodge, so we stepped onto the back porch, popped the cork and poured our drinks into coffee mugs.
It wasn't exactly a traditional anniversary toast.
But somehow, it was perfect.
Life in a place ruled by nature
The following morning began with a polar swim. About six brave people, including one of the guides, actually went into the water while the rest of us cheered them on and took photographs.
Later, David and I wandered through Churchill on foot.
The town is tiny and remarkably remote. There is one road in and out, and the landscape surrounding it is so vast and flat that I kept wondering what it must be like to live there through the winter, when the bay freezes and snow and permafrost take over.
Yet the town had a warmth of its own.
There was art everywhere—especially murals and sculptures, many featuring polar bears. The Trading Post had local prints, paintings and carvings alongside traditional Indigenous clothing and handmade objects. I noticed a skin kayak strapped to the ceiling and intricate embroidery on garments. Antlers seemed to be everywhere.
We passed only a couple of people during our walk, and both smiled and said hello.
There was something about that small gesture that stayed with me.
Singing to the belugas
That afternoon, we headed farther out into Hudson Bay on a larger boat.
We ate a packed lunch and homemade polar bear cookies while belugas surrounded us in pod after pod.
Our guide lowered a microphone into the water and recorded the whales communicating. Then he played the sounds through a speaker above the water.
It was incredible.
We could actually hear the belugas talking to one another beneath us.
And then came the bears again.
We watched one large polar bear swimming along the rocky coast, mostly submerged, until it tried to climb out onto the smooth rocks.
Its enormous paws grabbed the shoreline. It hauled much of its body out of the water—and then slid right back in.
For a moment, it turned and looked directly at us.
It was almost as though it were embarrassed.
I'm sure it was actually watching us carefully, making sure we weren't a threat. But I couldn't help giving the moment a little human interpretation.
Face-to-face with belugas
The next day brought one of the most extraordinary experiences of the trip.
We went aqua-gliding.
Wearing thick wetsuits, masks and snorkels, we lay on our stomachs on a floating foam mat tethered to a slowly moving Zodiac. The idea was to float at water level and get close to the wild belugas.
We were told that making sounds could attract them.
I couldn't think of anything to sing, so I tried O Canada a couple of times.
Then I resorted to what I call my “puppy talk”—the high, modulated voice I use when I'm talking to my dogs, telling them how beautiful they are and how much I love them.
And somehow, it worked.
Belugas came right up to us.
They swam beneath our faces, including some babies, and spun onto their backs to show us their bellies. They were curious, playful and completely wild.
For a couple of hours, we floated there with these magnificent animals.
It was surreal.
And wonderful.
Afterwards, we explored a little more of Churchill and visited the Itsanitaq Museum. It is small, but filled with Inuit carvings, archaeological objects, sculptures and other remarkable works.
I found myself particularly drawn to the art.
By then, the whole trip was beginning to work its way into me—the landscape, the colours, the animals, the art, the vastness of the place.
I couldn't wait to get back into my studio.
The bears came closer
On our last morning, we climbed aboard an Arctic Crawler, a huge all-terrain vehicle designed to take visitors safely across the tundra.
The tires were as tall as I am.
From the enormous windows, we had a remarkable view of the landscape. We soon spotted a mother polar bear swimming with her two cubs in the distance.
And then, incredibly, we found another mother and two cubs.
The guides quickly repositioned the Crawler so that we could watch them emerge from the water. We parked at a respectful distance and watched as the mother came ashore, followed by her two playful cubs.
They crossed the land in front of us and disappeared into the bush.
WOW.
They were the closest bears we'd seen.
But the story wasn't over.
As we drove away, the trio emerged from the brush and headed into a pond. There were geese on the water, and we watched the mother bear hunt.
After several unsuccessful attempts, she caught one and brought it ashore.
The cubs tried to imitate her, going after the fledgling geese themselves. They weren't successful, but watching them copy their mother's movements was fascinating.
Eventually, the mother shared her meal with them.
We had to leave because of the time, but I could have stayed there much longer.
Bringing the North home
Soon we were back on the bus, then at the airport, and flying south again.
Our Churchill adventure was over.
But I haven't really left Churchill behind.
I'm still thinking about the enormous white bears moving through the landscape, the belugas swimming beneath us, the fireweed glowing magenta against the tundra, and that extraordinary sky shifting above us in the middle of the night.
As an artist, I'm always looking.
I'm looking at colour, texture, shape, movement and the way things exist together. Churchill gave me so much to look at.
The landscape was sparse, but it wasn't empty.
Its colours were subtle in some places and incredibly intense in others. The rocks, the low vegetation, the wildflowers, the water, the animals and the sky all seemed to belong to one enormous composition.
I came home with photographs, memories and a head full of ideas.
And perhaps that's one of the best things about travelling somewhere completely different: you return home seeing your own world a little differently.
I'm already wondering what Churchill might look like in winter.
Maybe I'll find out someday.
For now, I'm happy to be back in my studio, with bears, belugas and the aurora borealis still swimming around in my imagination.
