Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
In polite society, it’s never a good idea to compliment someone on how fat they are. Not only would that be a very rude thing to say, it would also be a foolproof way to find out if they are armed. But for a bear facing winter, fat is a whole different story. Especially in Alaska.
Every October, Fat Bear Week at Brooks River in Katmai National Park gives 12 lucky bears the chance to be crowned the fattest. It’s a head-to-head matchup where fans get to vote their pick for the roly-polyest bear in the single elimination tournament. It’s the Alaska version of March Madness.
In the human world, excess fat means arthritis, diabetes, heart disease and harsh monologues from your internist, but bears are different. They are wired to sleep the entire winter—doing absolutely nothing for months at a clip—yet lose hundreds of pounds doing it. The more they chow down, the healthier they are. Being a bear sounds like a pretty good gig until you learn how hard they work bulking up enough to hibernate without harmful side effects, such as dying.
Between you and me, my body has been equipped to hibernate on several occasions, but bears have to get there without any help from frozen pizza, fast food or an emergency stockpile of Oreos. Hibernation is far less appealing when you realize how many months the bears spend wading in icy water, patiently waiting to catch breakfast, lunch and dinner. And it’s even tougher for mama bears. They have to keep one eye out for evasive fish and the other on curious cubs, who are furry magnets for trouble. (Picture yourself trying to work from home while a trio of hyperactive toddlers uses your desk as a trampoline.) Despite the deplorable childcare situation, Holly, aka Bear 435, beat out all the boys in 2019.
Alaska is no place for wimps. Not bears. Not humans. Not even salmon. Nature didn’t make life easy for those tasty pink fish. When it’s time to mate, they can’t just book a cheap hotel on kayak.com. They’ve got to make it upstream, not only past hundreds of ravenous bears, but also past combat fisherman. Yes, I said combat. It’s an annual Alaskan event (definitely not for the claustrophobic) where hundreds—actually, more like thousands—of eager anglers invade the rivers to catch salmon on their spawning run. It seems you don’t belong in Alaska unless you fish, shoot or trap your own dinner.
This year, my money’s on Bear 747. Aptly named, he’s a massive beast weighing around 1,400 pounds. Park rangers say he was already fat enough to start hibernating two months ago, but he kept right on gorging. Bear 747 appears to be a Goodyear blimp with paws, which any overweight bear would consider a compliment.
My sentimental favorite is still Holly, who is towing yet another cub around this year. She may not be as plump as she was in her prime, but champions never quit. Besides, she inspired my Halloween costume.
If you see a woman trick-or-treating in a brown faux fur coat with a #435 sign on her back, please address me as Holly.
Jan A. Igoe would love to visit Alaska, despite her crippling moose phobia. Most of the creatures in Alaska are equipped to eat the tourists or stomp them to paste. It’s a lot like Jurassic Park there, only colder. Have great socially distant Halloween, and share your costume ideas at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.