Next installment from Diane:

First, indulge my bemoaning that I needed this. It has been a tough month. Full of illness, of myself and those I adore. Full of worries. Full of working on planes and in hotels, trying to catch up. Full of sleepless dreams. The bears, for now, hold reality to the corner, where it peeks in but can’t make the turn.

And the bears. 37 by the count of birthday boy Arthur. The best day this season, according to Steve. Including three swimmers, which he said was unheard of. The first was spied, again by the birthday boy, less than 15 minutes after we started bumping on the buggy. The last, less than two minutes outside of the buggy station, causing delay in our dislodging while he was crackered away.

Today I saw my first sparring (bears, not people), with two males doing the he-man dance.
Bite the face. Paw the shoulder. Give the serious stare. Then stand and “fight.” For almost an hour. Steve told us that this sparring reflects neither aggression nor territoriality. Just bored play, until the waters decide to freeze; and training for the feast-fighting to come. It looked just like the PBS specials. But it was happening outside my buggy window.

At one point, Steve coaxed a big male under the outside buggy “patio,” over which we stood on a grated floor. That big black nose nudged ever so slightly up through the floor grates. Had we been brave, we could have smelled his breath. Then Steve held his outstretched palm high over the buggy’s side. The bear backed out from under the buggy, looked up, and jump-stretched onto the patio wall. Its stretch lasted 5 minutes. Those ears were two feet under the railing, which tells you where the face aligned.

Lunch was postponed and postponed again, while bear after bear trudged to us. By the time our soup was served (two hours late), the buggy was surrounded by 12 bears—11 males, 1 female (who kept her distance from the males), and no cubs.

My bears returned with a vengeance. But they didn’t remember me. I waited for recognition, for some sign of re-welcome. I stood in the buggy’s back porch, watching them, fighting the wind, hoping my bears would recognize my flying hair and iced glasses. I waved, but didn’t call. Guests don’t yell in their hosts’ homes.
My bears did not respond. Oh, they looked at the buggy, and incidentally at me. Out of boredom, not affection. They sloped around the buggy’s tires, and stretched up the buggy’s steel. Looking for food, not company.

No matter. I am back where I belong. At the most wondrous place on earth. More wondrous, even, than the penguins. Antarctica is crisp and clear. The sun streams through the water and ice like crystals; the penguins, and even the ugly elephant seals, seem digitized. HD on steroids.

The tundra, on the other hand, is like the old cinescope. Grainy. A little blurry. Like a cataract.
Thick grey clouds hide the sun. The land under the snow is brown, grooved by the buggies’ thick tires. The ice, when there is ice, is marled. The bears, and the foxes and ptarmigans, blend into this wasteland. They don’t stand out from it. I suppose this makes sense. If you stand out, you get eaten.

Either way, the November tundra, is a land of desolation. Antarctica, in contrast, is a sea of
life, above and below the ice. That I love it so speaks more of me than the tundra. I’m glad I’m not a psychiatrist.

Today was full. Tomorrow it repeats, hopefully with cubs.
p.s. This group continues to coalesce nicely. Lots of “look, look”, lots of sharing seats, binoculars and cameras, and lots of laughter.
And, pie for breakfast. The tradition continues, begun by Corrine of Paris (the Mary Louis Parker resembler), who had doughnuts and apple pie, followed by toast and jam, for her first meal. I looked at her plates, looked down at my oatmeal, and ordered more coffee.