The bears shall inherit the earth

Of all the marvels in the modern world, the greatest by far is that I met my first polar bear in Albuquerque, N.M. 

This setting 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.

There’s more. This summer, I attended a talk by Peter S. Alagona, who studies possibilities for reintroducing grizzly bears into much of their former territory, where they lived for many thousands of years before Euro-Americans came in and gentrified the American West. Most grizzlies can’t afford the rents anymore, let alone qualify for mortgages – and even the ones who can are forced out of the nicer neighborhoods by fearful, intolerant HOAs.

But – and this is critical – grizzly bears cannot thrive in a studio apartment. So, dedicated 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. 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.

Now, no one but me is openly discussing introducing polar bears into the Lower 48. I offer this as simple fodder for my fantasy that humanity disappears. If that happened, maybe Kiska the polar bear could spring his enclosure at the Albuquerque BioPark and take a swipe at repopulating the entire state by himself. 

The odds of this are low. The region lacks naturally occurring squid, lard and grape juice, which are three of Kiska’s favorite foods. I know he loves it, because we are basically friends now. 

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.

Sure, I had seen Kiska and other polar bears before – but on the public side, where guests are so far removed 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, would not step within 10 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 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 squeeze through, narrowly enough to foil all but the most emaciated polar bears.

Which, Kiska is not. He downs several thousand calories a day. Casey educated us on polar bear diets while Kiska lapped peanut butter off what might have been a ping-pong paddle. On his hind legs, he wasn’t much taller than a UPS truck. “Male bears can get up to about 1,200 pounds,” she informed us while Kiska eyed up the tub of squid at her feet.

Up close, Kiska resembled in the eyes and tongue a Pyrenees. He and I shared a doglike moment until he realized I didn’t bring snacks and got bored with me. 

Many people are opposed to zoos on principle. I get it. I can see why humans would oppose forcing a creature to put on a public face for eight or 10 hours a day, stuck in a little pen, with no real hope of retirement, 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 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.