“I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people: that each protects the solitude of the other.
” —Rainer Maria Rilke

A polar bear paces a piece of floating sea ice. Carrying the carcass of a hooded seal in his jaws, he stains the snow with crimson in his wake. Around him—around us—there is nothing for nautical miles but ocean and ice. At 82 degrees latitude, we are adrift in the Arctic Circle north of Svalbard. To stumble upon a lone polar bear here in the pack ice, his ghostly fur close to camouflage, feels as if we are bearing witness to solitude itself, or at least the specter of it.

Ursus maritimus translates not to polar bear, but sea bear. Despite possessing the capacity to walk on land, they are considered marine mammals. Every aspect of their existence is tethered to the ocean. They spend their days on sea ice that is continuously driven by wind and ocean currents. As if on a treadmill, they will even walk in the opposite direction of the moving ice to stay in the same region. Change is the terrain on which they live their lives.

How does a polar bear survive such conditions? Their unpigmented, translucent fur—scattering light to appear white—is coated in oil that reduces water and ice adhesion, letting them dry off with a few shakes. Underneath is a dense layer of fur that traps insulating air. Below that is black skin rich in melanin, followed by a layer of body fat that can exceed 4 inches for warmth. They are exceptionally suited for life in a place that appears barren, only to untrained senses.

The ice affords polar bears access to their most beloved prey: seals. They are not adept at aquatic hunting the way other marine mammals are, but on the ice, polar bears can reach breathing holes, haul-out sites, and breeding grounds. They accomplish this with their extraordinary sense of smell. Enlarged olfactory turbinals allow them to sniff seals miles away, even below snow and ice. They raise their snouts to catch scents on the breeze, reading maps of unseen windscapes. 

This same sense of smell helps polar bears locate mates in a frozen world, though they don’t form lasting bonds. Males spend much of their adult lives alone, save the days or weeks they attend mates during breeding season. Meanwhile, females rear their cubs for about two and a half years, after which they may mate again. To say the life of a polar bear is lonely is to flatten the complexity of fleeting companionship—shimmers of connection in a sea of solitude. 

Polar bears traverse vast distances to find meals and mates. One GPS study documented two females who traveled the equivalent of 3,166 and 2,553 miles in a year, respectively. Some populations are declining while some seem stable; others lack sufficient data given the wide breadth of their lives. What is clear is that global heating affects the sea ice they depend on, which can impact their health, reproduction, and survival. If warming continues, models predict dire consequences.

There is a difference between solitude and loneliness. Our lives are our own, and yet they are anything but. Even a life in the Arctic is bound up in a web of interdependence. I don’t want to live on a lonely planet. Perhaps Rilke was right, and the highest task of a bond is to stand guard over the solitude of another. Even a polar bear, an unexpected apparition in the pack ice, eyes offering a reminder: If you feel alone, lift your head, for life is never far.