And Diane's last installment :(


The bears are gone. Or rather, we are gone from the bears.

At the last dinner and breakfast in Churchill, Steve volunteered that we were a good group and told us stories of some of his hideous customers.

Most recently, the tour company’s owner agreed to tour a Chinese group, in the hope of opening a new profit avenue. Apparently, the Chinese had different rules of etiquette and of the road. They had no concept of a tour guide as the guy they must listen to and follow. The basic buggy rule, of course, is that the group must be seated while the buggy moves, because it is so bumpy (this rule also, of course, is increasingly laxly enforced as the tour progresses). The Chinese group never sat down until the guide (not Steve—can you imagine?) shut off the engine and laid down the law. The group pushed and shoved everywhere, line or no line. But most stupidly, despite the continuous warnings not to be outside the city after dark, this group took it upon themselves to get up in the middle of the night, and trounce the nine blocks through Churchill, and beyond its guideposts, looking for bears. Three nights! Jeez. The tours are only in Churchill for three nights. And with no knowledge of English, except for the group’s translator. Good thing that those volunteers prowl the city’s circumference at night. But they are supposed to be looking for bears, not people.

Then there are the people who, according to Steve, “don’t know diddly about Churchill or the tundra.” People of both genders greeting Churchill in thinly lined raincoats, with no gloves or hats. Just a suitcase full of camera stuff.

Or the women who climb down the Churchill plane’s stairs in spikes. Or in minks (nice touch, you environmentalists).

Or the woman who complained that her sheets were too thin.

What to expect (well, not the sheets) and what to bring are described in the materials groups receive after final payment. There is loads of information on the internet. And these people don’t read their documents. “They don’t care.”

You don’t need fancy clothes for this trip. REI needn’t make a big sale. Just Wisconsin winter layers. Even Floridians can figure that out.

In fact, Steve said that one of the nicest things about our bunch was that we weren’t dressed like the latest REI ad. Sweatshirts, sweaters, jackets, boots, socks. No fashion plates among the bunch. He liked that we meant business. I liked that no heels or stockings were involved.

Also, days passed before we asked each other what we “do” (for those not retired). No one cared, except as our work histories affected one or another discussion (we almost solved the English school problem, but Steve gave his five minute signal before we could pull it all together). We wanted to know about families, kids and grandkids, dogs (lots of dog talk), horses and, of course, the next trip. It wasn’t until days in that we found out that our silent Swiss gentlemen had climbed to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. To the top! And he didn’t volunteer that info. Someone asked him, in the context of some conversation about something.

Well, the last breakfast has been eaten, and the last coffee drunk. Bless them, Liz, Linda, Rosi and Corrine had pie—blueberry, cherry and pumpkin. Our English compatriots had never had pumpkin pie, so an extra piece was ordered. The wife-owner responded that she had specially made the blueberry pie for us at midnight (they work so hard during the high tourist weeks).

At the airport, Steve told us that we were one of his best groups of the season. Arniel (one of the few U.S.ers, but born in India) cracked that he must say that to all the girls, but Steve demurred. Steve did say something similar to Susan W.’s group two years ago, but I know for a fact that statement’s truth. I don’t care whether this group was or was not a “favorite.” I watched Steve smile for picture after picture (note that he did not smile for the group photos), hug his charges and make one last crack to each of them. He is a doll.

We landed back at the new Winnipeg airport around 2 p.m. After check-in, I headed downtown to the Forks and the Exchange districts. I walked and walked, for the first time in almost a week. Through the punk, nose-ringed gallery area. Through Hudson Bay Trading Company’s remaining store which, disappointingly, is now like a Macy’s. To the Winnipeg aboriginal museum, which is exquisite and full of textures. A sunny, warm day. Back to the birkenstocks.

I am bagging the last dinner in Winnipeg. Another early wake up. 4:30. a.m. A long bath, antibiotics and room service awaits. Maybe even a Real Housewives show. Any Real Housewives. A girl’s got to come back to reality somehow.

At the end of the first Churchill day-into-night, after we had been on the go for 16 hours, I told myself that I could not do this trip again. Too old. But by the end of the first tundra day, I knew. I’ll be back. To my bears. They are greater even than the penguins. I can’t describe how great they are to me. Or why. Those feet. Those teeny ears (to retain heat). Those innocent but knowing eyes. Those ambling tons of grace.

Who would rip my lungs out in a second. I never asked if there was a psychiatrist in our group. I could have arranged for a house call.

Thanks for listening.