Churchill - Where the Arctic Begins

Churchill is a remote town on the northern rim of Hudson Bay in Manitoba, home to fewer than 900 residents (Statistics Canada, Census 2021). Despite its small size, it is known worldwide as the “Polar Bear Capital of the World.”

The reason lies in its unique location: where the Churchill River flows into Hudson Bay, the water freezes earlier than elsewhere. The influx of freshwater accelerates ice formation—and the bears know it. As autumn approaches and their long fasting period ends, they gather here. At the first leads and new ice holes, they can once again hunt seals, their primary prey (WWF Arctic; The Narwhal).

When we arrived in Churchill in the evening, there was barely time to settle in. We went straight out onto the water—in a small boat, into the bay where belugas and polar bears first came into view. A beginning that made one thing immediately clear: in Churchill, the Arctic begins at once.

From the very first minutes, it was clear why this place is unique: everywhere, the white backs of belugas surfaced. Not just a few, but in overwhelming density. They swam beneath us, escorted the boat, and came so close we could almost touch them. Their curiosity was palpable, almost playful—a first moment of awe for these animals, so vivid and present.

And as if that weren’t extraordinary enough, within the first two hours we also spotted the first polar bears. One was lying on the rocks along the shoreline, while another swam in the sea, chewing on algae—a behavior biologists have documented for years and continue to study: possibly as a dietary supplement in lean times, or perhaps simply out of curiosity (BMC Ecology, National Geographic).

The next morning, just the two of us were out on the water—no one else in sight. Belugas surrounded us, surfacing beside the boat and gliding beneath it. I lowered my camera into the water, and later, reviewing the footage, I realized what was happening below the surface: a many-voiced concert of whistles, clicks, and clacks. In that moment, I got goosebumps—it became clear how numerous they must have been, and how far their voices carried through the water.

Belugas are often called the “canaries of the sea” for good reason: their vocalizations are remarkably diverse, vary by region, and reflect the complexity of their social structures (Raincoast Conservation Foundation).

Those first hours in Churchill—with Belugas in overwhelming numbers, polar bears along Hudson Bay, and a bay alive with voices beneath the water—were more than just observations. They were an immersion into the Arctic: immediate, unfiltered, and profound.