Polar bears were thoughtful giants, offering us careful sniff tests and long, penetrating stares as if weighing our presence and intentions. Once they seemed satisfied that neither human nor zodiac posed a threat, they returned to their own agendas with quiet confidence. We watched as they napped without concern, moved with purpose while hunting, and paused in moments that felt unmistakably contemplative. There was a sense that they were always thinking, always aware, carrying a calm authority that made every encounter feel like a privilege rather than a spectacle.

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Walruses were an entirely different kind of presence. In the water they were lightning fast and surprisingly graceful, moving with ease and curiosity. They rarely passed up an opportunity to send greeting parties toward the zodiac, surfacing close by with an energy that was both playful and commanding. On land they appeared less nimble, but any illusion of clumsiness disappeared when faced with their sheer size and magnificent tusks. It was immediately clear that an encounter with an angry walrus could go very badly, for human or beast alike, and that respect was not optional but instinctive.