McNeil River State Game Sanctuary, Alaska
In the Lower 48, the dreamscape at this game sanctuary would be a nightmare. Cresting a low-rise, we nine hikers suddenly were standing within 40 yards of 12 700- to 1,400-pound Alaskan brown bears.
Like a magpie, I reacted to every flash of color – a dozen feeding bears, their heads haloed by rapidly beating wings of pink-footed gulls; two adult eagles and one mottled immature; a red-breasted merganser herding five polka-dotted ducklings; and a color-swirl of pooling, rising, jumping, calico-patterned salmon. Slightly unnerved, I exploded with laughter watching a gigantic, spread-eagled boar belly-flop on top of a chum salmon.
Conditioned as we were to think of nature’s sounds as “silence,” the air around us thundered nonetheless with cascading, spinning waters; the high-pitched keer-keer of glaucous-winged gulls; the suckling of ever-hungry cubs; the full-bodied growls of fighting boars; the eagles’ jagged kleek-kik-ik-ik-ik-ik; the formidable bellows of a sow protecting her young.
Bowlegged and pigeon-toed, a bear on the ridgeline lumbered stiff-legged toward us, but he covered ground rapidly. Pivoting, I kept him in view as another brown brought his catch up from the river, stopping beside us. We were surrounded.
When my husband and I entered the Alaska Department of Fish and Game’s annual lottery, securing two of the sanctuary’s 185 guided-viewing permits seemed like a long shot. (For every four-day viewing period between June 7 and Aug. 25, about 1,800 people worldwide apply.) But standing on that sensory-glutted knoll, I knew our gamble had paid off.
Excited as we juggled a 75-pound weight limit to pack an extreme-weather tent, warm rain gear, hip boots, water filter, food and cooking utensils into dry bags, we had booked flight to Anchorage, driven to Homer, and chartered a float plane. Crossing Cook Inlet to Kamishak Bay, we had skimmed Augustine Island’s cloud-rimmed volcanic cone en route to the sanctuary’s roadless acres in the Aleutian Range’s rolling foothills.
“Camp” is still bears’ turf
At high tide on a clear day, the waterway was flagged fuchsia by lush banks of fireweed. Route-markers included flotillas of ducks, a pod of blowing humpback whales and an island carpeted with sea lions – all leading us to North America’s largest terrestrial omnivores, the world’s greatest concentration of wild brown bears.
For centuries, these charismatic and usually solitary mammals have gathered at McNeil River Falls when the wild iris bloom for the annual “iqaluk” migration. Here browns feast upon thousands of fat- and protein-rich spawning salmon, banking weight to outlast winter. Because they live 100 or fewer miles inland (and are larger due to their diet), these bears commonly are referred to as browns, but they are, technically, grizzlies.
Immediately north of the sanctuary’s 200 square miles is McNeil River State Game Refuge, which in combination protects 388 square miles (248,120 acres) of bear habitat. Add the federally protected lands of Katmai National Park and Preserve lying south and west, and we lucky few were guaranteed unparalleled opportunities for photographing bears.
But upon our landing, wildlife tech Tom Griffin began our orientation, and safety concerns surfaced. “Camp” is a minuscule patch within the sanctuary’s 128,000 acres, and to the browns it’s home turf, indistinguishable from their territory-at-large. The rough semicircle of gravel tent pads fronting the cook cabin are secluded from one another by towering fireweed and cow parsnip (good forage for bears) and by rings of dense willow and alder (thickets papa bears think are “Just right!” for bedding down). Also, two outhouses outflank the tent sites. They are taller and more substantial than willows, and Griffin explained that they sometimes also serve as rubbing posts for Ursus arctos.
However, no one has been injured by a bear, and no bears have been killed by visitors since the sanctuary’s 1973 initiation of the 10-visitors-per-day permit system.
“In the cook cabin, there’s a shelf of air horns,” Griffin added reassuringly. “Shout, ‘Bear in camp,’ or sound an alarm, and we’ll escort any bears from camp.” Three resident guides do this about a dozen times per viewing season.
A clinic on ursine angling
Morning’s 2-mile trek to the falls offered us wildflower- strewn camera-miles, with a few sobering frames. Boot- sucking mud supersized already gigantic bear tracks running alongside ours, stretching their imprinted claw marks to lethal-looking lengths. Silently I registered the frequency of blossoming cow parsnips, beheaded by omnivorous grizzlies; patches of sedge, flattened by slumbering behemoths; mounds of crowberry-filled bear scat, steaming along the trail.
But that all seemed innocuous, standing on McNeil’s 10-foot-by-20-foot viewing pad, watching massed bears tolerating my curiosity. Half our group stayed within this graveled area, as the rest slipped beneath its overhanging ledge. The second, almost river-level vantage point was about 100 square feet of adrenaline-rush.
“… 29,000; 30,000 … ” I counted as a brown stayed underwater 30 seconds before bobbing up, jaws locked around its squirming prey.
Talented anglers – the dominant grabbing the choicest locations – browns snorkel, body surf, chase fins, pounce or rake the river water with their claws. Some sit on their haunches; others lie supine on the bank, all scanning the river, each ready to torpedo migrating fish. Those preferring purloined chum boast bloody battle wounds.
Alaska’s Fish and Game Department reports “as many as 144 individual bears … sighted at McNeil River through the summer with as many as 70 bears observed at one time.” The literature also states “bears may be as close as 20 feet, but the general distance is 75 to 200 feet.” Since we viewers stayed inside designated areas, this would have been true – if the browns had also listened to the guides’ cautionary tales.
They sometimes closed in, their claws rolling over the small, lined-out stones separating us. They turned their massive heads, making eye contact. I stored my binoculars – instead listening as cubs nursed, their mother alongside me.
The guides carried a shotgun, but “the Dian Fossey of bears” – globally acclaimed, myth-busting educator Larry Aumiller – had shared his 29 years of experience managing sanctuary bears and visitors with the staff. Because all three were adept at defusing wired bears and anxious onlookers, one hour out we were savoring bear encounters that humans normally greet by shrinking into a fetal position.
Bears share their home
Meeting a bear in wild nature is a dance more often resembling a collision than choreography; standing toe-to-toe peacefully with Yellowstone National Park’s interior grizzlies, unimaginable. Aumiller grinned, conceding, “I never knew you could watch bears this close either, at least not without being well-hidden – and heavily armed.”
Alaska’s wilds lured Aumiller from Denver as a young adult, and a National Geographic special about the Craighead brothers’ research on Yellowstone’s grizzlies set his lifework’s compass point. He suggests harmony in nature mirrors the balanced chorus of passion and patience practiced in sanctuary management: an attitude of respect and reconciliation that honors bears and people; the original spirit of the wild allowing each to experience the good life at McNeil River.
“Give up some control; assume a little risk – and it’s really very little risk – and there’s so much to be gained. The single fact that Indians coevolved with bears, with only primitive weapons to pit against the bears’ enormous strength, suggests bears’ (capacity for) benevolence,” Aumiller said. “They’re our nearest neighbors on the food chain. We can coexist.”
Two days later, we forded Mikfik Creek, with Aumiller leading us to the falls. Summer on the Alaska Peninsula is frequently a state of mind – the land wide open to bone-chilling, gale-force winds and driving rain – and we were hiking with our heads down for protection.
“Hey, bear! Hey, bear!” Aumiller called, clapping his hands as high alders blocked our approach. We curved around blind to find ourselves facing a boar, close by. Without a word, we moved in unison one step to our left, and the large male wandered past on the path.
As long as our behavior acknowledged their fears, remaining consistent with mindful human activities they’ve learned to expect, the sanctuary’s bears exhibited remarkably high tolerance for us.
Knowing them by name
Understanding Aumiller’s decision to issue four-day permits is easy. By Day Three, I was seeing – rather than watching – bears. Close up – recognizing their individual features and calling the bears by name – I took a longer view.
I observed horrendous fights; saw Woofie bitten and clawed for stealing fish. But I also saw Teddy’s two cubs suckling – the way one kept his hand on Mom’s back as she fished and the surprise of the other when he caught a salmon independently. I watched them sleeping, cuddled into a puppy pile.
I witnessed contentious bears deferring to 28-year-old R.C. (wild bears live about 30 years); subordinate bears choosing to sit safely beside us to eat their fish (more dominant bears typically avoid people). I observed a courtship gone awry and Dolly Varden fishes filleted by a 1,460-pound boar.
By making trail noise, allowing bears to be bears (uninterrupted), never putting forth food, threat or competition, I was yielding little for a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.
Freelance writer Pattie Layser and her husband, photographer Earle Layser, live in Alta, Wyo.
The details
Applications for visiting the McNeil River State Game Sanctuary are linked to .
Not everyone must spend four days in the wilderness as self-sufficient, primitive-style campers. Katmai National Park’s Brooks Lodge is a cushy, modern facility with fine dining. Many people observe bears at Brooks Camp, but “many” is why we opted for the McNeil River State Game Sanctuary.
Alaska residents and Brooks’ visitors alike told us that an average of 400 people daily seek 20-minute time slots on a crowded viewing platform where photographers jostle others for prime positioning.
In case weather conditions delayed our departure from the McNeil sanctuary, we packed extra provisions and allowed additional travel days. But assuming a timely departure, we reserved rooms in Homer at Hallo Bay Bed and Bears, an empathetic place for re-entering civilization. B&B hosts Clint Hlebechuk and Simyra Taback own Hallo Bay Wilderness as well (an in-holding in Katmai National Park). There, they provide day-long bear-watching excursions or extended-viewing stays in a camp with spacious, well-outfitted fixed tents, a bathhouse and gourmet meals. Go to , or call 907-235-9462.
The Internet also lists numerous other bear-watching venues – including what I consider “the down-and-dirty” operations, with photos and rhetoric promising lots of browns with little apparent regard for the safety of either bears or people. However, like the McNeil River sanctuary, Hallo Bay’s visitor numbers are strictly limited, and the integrity of bear life and habitat are as important to the the owners as their clients’ safety. They provide an excellent experience with Alaska’s browns, at a different comfort level.
– Pattie Layser
