I was checking the thermometer on the station’s outer wall when I spotted movement at the main entrance out of the corner of my eye. Turning, I froze in place—a few meters from the module’s bright red door stood a huge polar bear, her massive head lowered, her breath billowing in thick clouds of steam into the frosty air. In twenty years of working at polar stations, I’d seen hundreds of bears, but never before had they come so close to the habitat modules, and certainly never stood right at the door, as if waiting to be let in.

The bear raised her head, her black eyes meeting mine, and in that look I saw something utterly incredible—not aggression, not curiosity, but a desperate plea for help. I moved slowly toward the door, keeping my hands visible and trying not to make any sudden movements, even though my heart was pounding like crazy. As I approached, I saw that the bear was in a terrible state—her usually thick white fur was ruffled and covered in ice, her sides were strangely sunken, and her paws were shaking from exhaustion. Most strikingly, her belly was enormous and visibly swollen—she was pregnant, in her final stages, and something had gone catastrophically wrong.

I carefully opened the door and stepped aside, confident that the bear would turn and leave, but instead, she slowly, with visible difficulty, crossed the threshold and literally collapsed on the floor in the warm vestibule of the station. I quickly closed the outer door and turned on the bright yellow heating lamps, pointing them at the bear. She lay on her side, breathing heavily, and as I crouched down next to her, examining her, I suddenly realized—I knew this bear.

We’d been monitoring the local polar bear population for several years, tracking their movements and monitoring their health, and this female was one of the regulars on the island’s northern coast. Three weeks ago, I saw her during a routine patrol—she was also pregnant then, but she looked completely different: healthy, strong, with a shiny, thick coat. That day, she settled into her usual spot on a large, stable ice floe, calmly preparing for the birth, and by all our calculations, she should give birth in about a month, in comfortable conditions. What could have happened in those three weeks to turn a healthy, strong bear into this emaciated, drenched creature lying on the station floor?

A low groan of pain escaped her mouth, her body convulsed, and I realized there was no time to think; the birth had begun right now. Water dripped from her nostrils, and the fur on her belly and paws was wet—she’d clearly been swimming in icy water for a long time, which could be fatal for a pregnant bear in her final stages of pregnancy. I saw her eyes half-closed with weakness, the muscles in her huge paws trembling, and her breathing quickening. Suddenly, her stomach tightened, contracting in a powerful contraction, her hind legs thrashing, and I saw something dark and wet emerge from the birth canal.

My only experience was the first aid training all polar explorers take, but there was no choice—either I helped right now, or she would die here, on the station floor, along with her cub. I grabbed some clean towels from the green medical container and prepared to help.

The cub emerged very slowly. The mother bear tried to push, but she was so exhausted that the process had almost stopped—the cub was stuck halfway, and if I didn’t help right away, it could suffocate. My hands were shaking, but I carefully grabbed the cub’s newly exposed body part and began to gently pull in time with the contractions. The mother bear growled—low, guttural—but didn’t try to bite me, as if she understood I was trying to help. After several agonizing minutes, the cub finally slid into my arms—a tiny bundle the size of a small dog, completely wet, covered in a translucent film, with its eyes closed and tiny ears pressed against its head.

I quickly freed its nose and mouth from the film, expecting the mother bear to start licking it herself, but she simply lay there with her eyes closed, barely breathing, too weak even to turn her head. I was overcome with horror—newborn bear cubs can’t breathe on their own; they need to be stimulated, otherwise they die within the first minutes of life. I grabbed a dry towel and began vigorously rubbing the tiny body, imitating the movements of a mother’s tongue. The cub remained motionless, its small chest unheard of, its tiny paws flailing limply. The seconds dragged on like hours, as I continued to rub and massage, desperately hoping for a miracle. Suddenly, its chest heaved, its tiny pink mouth opened, and a faint, yet long-awaited squeak rang out—high-pitched, plaintive, demanding.

I carefully placed the cub next to the mother bear’s muzzle, hoping the scent and sounds of the cub would give her strength. The baby was covered in sparse, light fur, through which pink skin was visible. Its tiny paws fluttered helplessly, and moisture oozed from its closed eyes. The mother bear opened her eyes slightly, sniffed the cub faintly, but then her body convulsed again—a powerful one, so intense that she let out an almost human groan of pain. I froze in utter bewilderment. The labor was over, the cub was born, but the mother was writhing as if contractions had only just begun. And suddenly it dawned on me—there was another cub inside, a second one, one I hadn’t even suspected.

The second cub began to emerge faster than the first, the mother bear straining with all her might, and after a few minutes, it slid into my hands. Just as tiny, with the same sparse light fur and pink skin, with tiny black claws on its paws. But unlike the first, this cub was completely motionless—its chest didn’t rise, not a sound came from its mouth, its tiny body simply lay limp in my palms. I quickly cleared its airway, began to rub it with a towel, massaging its small chest with two fingers, but nothing helped. The cub wasn’t breathing, its pink skin was starting to take on a bluish tint, and with every passing second, its chances of survival were rapidly diminishing.

In desperation, I carefully placed the lifeless cub right next to the mother bear’s muzzle, hoping for a miracle, for maternal instinct to prevail over exhaustion. The mother bear weakly opened her eyes, looked at the motionless cub, and I saw something change in her gaze—as if maternal love had triumphed over mortal exhaustion. Slowly, with great effort, she raised her massive head and began licking the cub. Her large, rough tongue moved methodically and persistently over the tiny body—from head to tail, over and over, without stopping for a second. I sat nearby, holding my breath, not daring to move. Ten seconds passed, twenty, thirty—the cub remained motionless, and I felt hope begin to leave me. Perhaps he was stillborn, perhaps the premature birth had been too much for him. But the mother bear continued to lick him, her tongue moving ever more insistently, ever more energetically, as if she refused to believe that her cub was lost.

A minute, a minute and a half passed, and I was about to gently push the cub away, to rid the mother of this agonizing hope, but suddenly the tiny chest trembled. It was a barely noticeable movement, so weak that at first I thought I was imagining it. But the mother bear sensed it and began licking him even more vigorously, her tongue literally massaging his tiny body. And then the cub shuddered more intensely, his small mouth opened slightly, and a weak, intermittent squeak was heard, then another, a little louder, then another. The tiny paws twitched, the head turned, seeking the mother’s warmth, and a confident, demanding yelp erupted from its tiny mouth. It was breathing; the second cub was alive; its mother’s love had literally brought it back from the brink of death.

The mother continued to lick both cubs, her movements weak, but incredibly tender. The cubs squealed—high-pitched, demanding, instinctively crawling toward their mother’s belly, their tiny noses poking at the fur, searching for nipples. The first cub was already moving its paws with considerable confidence, but the second was still moving awkwardly, as if its body hadn’t yet fully returned to life.

For the next few hours, I simply sat nearby, watching the bear family and periodically checking on their condition. The mother bear lay motionless, only occasionally licking the cubs, who crawled about her belly, their tiny paws helplessly moving. They found her nipples and began sucking, making contented snoring sounds, but the mother bear was so exhausted that I doubted she had any milk at all. Her sides had sunk in even more, her ribs were visible under her wet fur, and her eyes were half-closed. I knew that if she didn’t eat and drink in the next few hours, she would simply die of dehydration and exhaustion, and the cubs, who were completely dependent on their mother’s milk, would die along with her.

The problem was that I was alone at the station. The previous shift had left a week ago, and the new one was supposed to arrive three days ago, but their boat had broken down at sea, and now they were delayed indefinitely. This meant that my own food supplies were running low—a few cans of food, some crackers, and three frozen fish that I was saving for the most extreme case. I looked at the mother bear, at her trembling paws and sunken sides, then at the tiny cubs, who were squealing pitifully, trying to suck milk from their empty nipples. If the shift was delayed another week, which was entirely possible if the vessel suffered a serious breakdown, then without these three fish, I would be on the brink of survival. But the bear would die today or tomorrow if she didn’t get food, and along with her would die the two tiny cubs who had just miraculously survived.

I made a decision: I took all three fish out of the bright blue refrigeration module, defrosted them in warm water, and placed them right in front of the bear, leaving only one can of food and a handful of crackers for myself. I might be risking myself, but these three lives were worth it. At first, the bear didn’t even react to the fish, but then her nostrils finally caught the scent. She slowly opened her mouth and began to eat—very slowly, chewing with difficulty, but she ate, and that gave me hope. By evening, she’d eaten all the fish and drunk the bowl of water I’d placed nearby. The cubs continued suckling, and now they seemed to be getting at least some milk, because their squeals had become less frantic. I moved to the adjacent habitat, leaving the door ajar so I could hear if anything happened. All night long, I was awakened by the cubs’ squeals and the quiet purring of the mother bear, who was apparently slowly coming to her senses.

The next morning, our water supplies were running low and our food supplies were critically low, forcing me to leave the station to gather snow for melting and check the nets I’d set up a week ago. It was a risk, leaving a hungry mother bear alone in the habitat, but without water and food, we would all die. I pulled on a bright orange insulated jacket, grabbed a red backpack with ropes, and stepped out into the icy Arctic air, where the temperature had dropped to minus thirty.

The nets were located about a kilometer from the station, on the edge of the island where we were monitoring the ecosystem and the impact of melting ice on polar bears. As I walked through the packed snow, illuminating the way with a yellow flashlight, one question swirled in my head: what had happened to the bear? Three weeks ago, she had been healthy and strong, settled in a safe place, preparing to give birth. What could have happened that turned a healthy bear into this emaciated, barely alive creature, soaking wet, as if after a long swim in icy water? And why had the birth begun prematurely, several weeks ahead of schedule?

When I reached the place where the nets should have been, I initially thought I had lost my way in the dark. Instead of the familiar icy shore with ropes sticking out of holes in the ice, open black water stretched out before me, slightly hovering in the frosty air. I stopped dead in my tracks and aimed the beam of the flashlight along the shoreline. A huge ice floe the size of a football field, the site of a permanent bear rookery and the one that had stood there undisturbed for all my years of work, had simply vanished. It had broken away from the shore and floated out to sea, taking everything with it—my nets, my observation equipment, and the mother bear’s den where she was preparing to give birth.

A chill ran down my spine, and it wasn’t the Arctic cold at all. I tried to imagine what had happened, and the picture was terrifying. Most likely, the mother bear was sleeping in her den when the floe began to break away. It could have happened at night—a crack in the warming ice suddenly widened under the force of the current, the split occurred almost silently, and the floe drifted away without even waking the bear. She woke up in the open ocean, surrounded by only black, icy water and endless sky. There’s no shore in sight, only a drifting ice floe beneath her paws and the ocean, which carries her further and further from the island. Pregnant, on her last legs She was pregnant, about to give birth. The panic must have been incredible—her maternal instinct screamed that the pups would not survive here, in the open ocean. Remaining on the ice floe meant certain death—when labor began, she would be helpless, and the ice floe could be carried hundreds of kilometers.

She had only one option—jump into the water and swim back. The icy water hit the large animal’s body, and the cold took her breath away. The ocean temperature was around zero degrees, but she had to swim, swim while she still had the strength. Her powerful paws cut through the water, but her body was so heavy from pregnancy, the pups inside her were moving, as if sensing danger. Kilometer after kilometer, fighting the current that was trying to carry her back to the open ocean. Waves washed over her head, salt water poured into her nose and mouth, burning her eyes. Her paws are starting to go numb from the cold, her lungs are burning, her muscles are burning from the strain, but she can’t stop—to stop means drowning, to kill the pups who haven’t even been born yet. And something starts to happen inside—premature contractions, brought on by stress and hypothermia. Pain pierces her stomach in waves, making it harder to breathe, harder to paddle, but she must swim on, endure, fight.

Finally, the silhouette of an island appears ahead, but she has almost no strength left. Each stroke becomes more and more difficult, her paws barely obey, but the shore is getting closer, just a little more, just a little more. With one last desperate lunge, her paws finally scrape along the rocks and ice, she crawls ashore and simply lies there, unable to move, every breath a pain in her chest. The contractions intensify—the birth is beginning right here, on the cold shore, but the pups will not survive here without help. And then instinct tells me the only solution: the station, the people, the last chance for salvation.

I returned to the present moment, standing on the shore and looking at the black water. It explained everything—her exhaustion, her wet fur, the premature birth, the despair in her eyes as she stood at the station door. She had swum—a miracle in itself, because many bears die trying to cover such distances, especially pregnant ones. But that voyage nearly killed the mother bear. If I hadn’t let her in, hadn’t helped her give birth, she would have died at the door along with her cubs. I clenched my fists in impotent rage, looking at the spot where, just a week ago, there had been a stable floe. This floe had stood there for decades, part of a permanent shoreline. But global warming, caused by human actions, had melted the ice so much that ancient ice masses began to break off and drift. People are emitting carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, burning fuel, cutting down forests – somewhere far away, thousands of kilometers from here, and here in the Arctic, polar bears are paying the price. Their homes are literally melting under their paws, and they can’t do anything about it.

I checked the backup nets in another ice hole, which, fortunately, was still there. They contained two small fish – I kept one for myself, and decided to give the larger one to the bear. When I returned to the station and carefully entered through the service entrance, I saw the bear lying in the same spot, her cubs snoring against her belly, their tiny bodies rising and falling with her breathing. She didn’t even raise her head when I appeared. I placed the fish next to her muzzle, and she slowly began to eat, her movements slightly more energetic than in the morning. The cubs continued to nurse, and I noticed their bellies had become slightly rounder—meaning there was milk, and the mother was slowly recovering.

The next two days were spent constantly caring for the bear family. I shared my meager food with the mother, taking a risk every time I approached her with another helping of fish or water, but she never showed aggression. She simply looked at me with her dark eyes, an incredible understanding. The cubs grew stronger with each passing hour—they began to open their eyes, tiny black slits from which a surprised and slightly clouded gaze peered out. Their fur became thicker and whiter, covering their pink skin, and their squeaks turned into demanding whines when they wanted to eat. They weren’t just crawling anymore, but were trying to waddle on their chubby little paws, constantly falling over and bumping noses into each other, which was incredibly touching.

Finally, on the third morning, the long-awaited crackle came over the radio, and a familiar voice announced, “The ship was repaired and a new shift of polar explorers would be arriving at the island in a few hours.” When I saw the ship’s silhouette in the distance, I felt such relief that I almost fell over. The new shift had arrived in full force—six people, including a veterinarian who specialized in Arctic fauna. I quickly told him about the bear, and the veterinarian immediately went to examine her, grabbing professional equipment from a green case. He performed a thorough examination, checked the cubs, who squealed indignantly when handled, and ran several tests. Half an hour later, he delivered his verdict: the bear was recovering, her exhaustion was receding, and the cubs were completely healthy. They could be released into the wild in a day or two.

But the problem was that the place where she lived no longer existed—the ice floe had drifted away, and the remaining ice had become unstable and could break away at any moment. We gathered around the table in the living quarters and began studying maps of the island, searching for a suitable location for the bear family. One of the new polar explorers, a young man with a good knowledge of the area, suggested the southern bay—the coastline there was more protected from currents and winds, the ice was thicker and more stable, and, most importantly, it was where most of the seals had migrated after the ice conditions changed, providing a good food source for the mother bear. This bay offered natural shelter among the coastal rocks, suitable for building a den protected from the elements, and plenty of ice openings for hunting. This location was about twenty kilometers from the station—far enough for the mother bear to feel safe from people, but close enough for us to periodically check on them.

The next morning, we began preparing for the transport. The veterinarian gave the mother a mild sedative, just enough to prevent her from panicking but to remain conscious and able to monitor her cubs. We constructed a comfortable sled from sturdy canvas and planks, lined it with thick, warm blankets of bright red and blue, and carefully carried the mother bear and her cubs into it. The cubs squealed indignantly, scrabbling for their mother, while the mother growled faintly but offered no resistance, as if understanding our intentions. We hitched the sled to a powerful yellow snowmobile, and our caravan set off.

The journey to the southern bay took about three hours. We drove slowly, avoiding dangerous patches of thin ice and stopping every half hour to check on the mother bear. The cubs slept most of the time, curled up in their warm blankets, occasionally squealing and nuzzling each other. The bear lay alert but calm, her breathing even, and her eyes no longer held the desperate plea I’d seen at the station door.

When we reached the southern bay, we found a truly ideal spot. The coastline, protected by high cliffs, created a natural barrier from strong winds, and thick, stable ice extended far out to sea, creating a reliable hunting platform. Numerous polynyas—open areas of water amid the ice—meant that seals regularly emerged here to breathe, and the bear could hunt without expending too much energy. Several natural depressions were visible among the coastal rocks, ideal for making a den, and snow drifts provided additional protection from the elements. This was precisely the place where the bear family could live safely.

We unhooked the sleds and retreated to a safe distance, watching to see what would happen next. The bear lay motionless for several minutes, as if unable to believe it was over. Then she slowly rose to her paws, shook herself, and looked around, her nose sniffing the air, analyzing the new location. The cubs immediately began squealing indignantly and clambering toward her, their tiny paws sliding across the blanket, their noses poking the air, trying to find their mother. The mother bear lowered her head, sniffed them both, made sure they were okay, and looked in our direction. For a few seconds, our gazes met, and in her eyes there was something akin to gratitude—not human gratitude, but some deep understanding that we had helped her survive.

Then she turned, carefully took one cub by the scruff of the neck in her mouth—it immediately went quiet, instinctively tucking its paws—and slowly moved toward the nearest group of rocks where it could make a den. The second cub squealed piteously, remaining on the blankets, its tiny paws helplessly flailing in the air, its head twisting, trying to figure out where its mother and brother had gone. The mother carefully placed the first cub by the rocks, then returned and picked up the second, which immediately fell silent, safe in its mother’s mouth. A minute later, the entire family disappeared behind the snowdrifts, leaving only a trail of footprints in the white snow.

We stood and silently stared at those tracks. I thought about how humans, through their actions, had nearly destroyed this bear family—melting their home, forcing the pregnant mother to swim, on the brink of death, across an icy ocean. But this family was lucky—the mother bear instinctively sought help where there was a person willing to risk everything to save them. Perhaps, with more such people, polar bears might yet have a future in this melting Arctic.