BigAnimals Global Expeditions, Pacific Grove, CA (2024)

09/24/2024

Eye to Eye with the King of the Ice

In today's world, where wildlife is more often seen on screens than in its natural habitat, misconceptions about these creatures abound. For many, the wilderness is a far-off notion-a place to visit. But for the animals that live there, it is home. To capture their true essence as a wildlife photographer, I've learned that it requires more than technical skill. It demands immersion-learning to live, survive, and feel at home in their world.

Over the years, I have ventured deep into the high Arctic-Canada, Russia, Svalbard-studying polar bears and their patterns of existence. Each trip revealed something new, but nothing could have prepared me for the moment I found myself crawling across the ice toward a sleeping polar bear. I had envisioned this moment for years-the great King of the Arctic not as the apex predator we always imagine, but in a vulnerable, peaceful state, resting in the midday sun.

In 1992, I was on expedition in Arctic Canada, searching the pack ice to photograph sleeping polar bears, and the the Inuit guides I worked with were instrumental in making this moment possible. Their knowledge of the land, the animals, and the shifting winds was critical to finding the bears. When one of the guides spotted the sleeping bear, we dropped to our knees and crawled together, approaching the bear with the wind blowing toward us, keeping our scent from reaching its hyper-sensitive nose. Eventually, I took the lead and the guide stopped. I moved forward slowly, stopping every few meter to glance back at my guide for reassurance, and then inch forward again. The bear lay roughly 25 meters ahead, completely unaware of my presence. My goal was to get within 5 to 7 meters—a daunting task in the freezing cold with my equipment.

I carried a Nikon N90, equipped with an 80-200mm lens. This meant I had to get dangerously close to capture the shot I had in mind. For 40 minutes, I crawled on my belly, my chest and arms pressed against the ice, each movement deliberate and slow. My hands were nearly frozen to the camera, my breath sharp with each inhalation of the Arctic air. But despite the discomfort, adrenaline kept me focused. I wasn't just there to capture a photograph of a bear-I wanted to humanize this king of the ice, to show a side of it rarely seen: the quiet need for rest, the desire for warmth and shelter, the vulnerability of a creature that dominates its environment.

When I finally got close enough, I paused, marveling at the bear's massive form as it lay peacefully, eyes closed, completely unaware of the intrusion.
I took a few initial shots, ensuring I had something in case I needed to retreat quickly. These were safety shots, but I longed for more-an image that captured the essence of this moment. I glanced back at my guide, who signaled that the wind was still in my favor. Encouraged, I exhaled deeply and braced myself for the next step. My hands were trembling with cold, so I clenched and unclenched them, forcing the blood back into my fingers. Shifting the camera into a vertical position, I captured a few more frames, trying to block out the discomfort and focus on the scene before me.

Then, everything changed in an instant. Just as I began to prepare for my retreat, the bear opened its eye. It was a deep, glowing orb, reflecting the golden light of the Arctic sunset. Our gazes locked, and for what felt like an eternity, time stood still. The bear's eye shimmered with awareness, not of me as a threat, but as a fellow being, both of us existing in that frozen world together. I continued to shoot, mesmerized by the raw beauty of the encounter. This wasn't the fierce predator that the world imagined-it was a creature filled with wisdom, strength, and vulnerability, all at once.

Suddenly, my guide began to wave, reminding me of his earlier instructions.
I knew I had to move slowly and carefully. Any sudden movement could startle the bear, and I didn't want to test its reaction. I kept my head low, avoiding eye contact, and began my retreat. Each movement was painstakingly slow, my heart pounding as I distanced myself from the massive animal. I felt the weight of the experience settling over me, a profound sense of connection to the wild and to this extraordinary creature.

As I crawled back, my body numb from the cold, I couldn't help but reflect on the magnitude of the moment. I had come face to face with one of nature's most majestic animals, and for a few fleeting seconds, we had shared the same space. It wasn't just about capturing a photograph- it was about understanding, about respect, and about the delicate balance of survival in the Arctic wilderness. Those moments, captured in my camera, became more than just an image. They were a testament to the quiet patience required to work with nature, the humility needed to enter an animal's realm, and the profound beauty of simply being a part of that world, if only for a moment.

1992, Borden Peninsula on Baffin Island, Canada. Nikon N90, 80 - 200mm lens. 1/250sec. f-8. Kodachrome 64 ASA pushed one stop 120 ASA.

; it was about understanding, respect, and

09/16/2024

The Grieving Orca: A Story of Loss and Environmental Impact

In 1996, I pitched a story to National Geographic that would take us to the remote fjords of Norway. Our mission was to document the return of the orca pods to Tysfjord, a place known for its stunning landscapes and, at that time, an increasingly rare spectacle—the annual migration of herring and the orcas that follow to feast on them.

It was an ambitious project requiring an expert team to pull off. Two of the most skilled professionals in the field joined me: Nick Caloyianis, a master underwater filmmaker, and Paul Atkin, an exceptional topside filmmaker. Both of them had worked with me on many expeditions before. I knew that if anyone could capture the magic of the orca's carousel feeding technique—an intricate and rarely seen hunting behavior—it would be this team. We were also accompanied by marine biologists Ann Bisther and Dag Vongraven, two leading experts on orca behavior who had dedicated their careers to understanding these magnificent creatures.

Our target was Tysfjord, located in the Lofoten Islands, where schools of herring amass every winter, followed closely by orca pods. The orcas engage in a complex feeding strategy called carousel feeding. They work together to herd the herring into tight bait balls, stunning them with powerful tail slaps before picking them off, one by one. This was the spectacle we aimed to capture on film—an intimate look at one of nature's most coordinated and impressive hunting displays.

But our task wasn’t easy. Norway’s fjords are vast, intricate, and cold. The days in November are short, leaving only a narrow window of daylight to work with. We scoured the fjord for two weeks, chasing sightings of orca pods but struggling to witness them feeding underwater. We were freezing, exhausted, and rapidly running out of time and budget. The crew was beginning to feel disheartened, and it seemed like we might have to leave without capturing what we had come for. Despite our efforts, we hadn't yet secured a single frame of carousel feeding. Paul Atkin and I appealed to the National Geographic executives for an extension, assuring them that just one more week would make the difference. Reluctantly, they agreed, granting us the additional time we so desperately needed.

On the third day of our extended week, our luck finally changed. We spotted a massive cloud of seabirds circling and diving into the water—a sure sign of a feeding frenzy beneath the surface. Nick and I geared up and dove in, while Paul stayed topside to capture what he could from above. I had my trusty Nikon RS camera, and Nick was armed with his video rig. As we descended into the frigid, crystal-clear water, we found ourselves in the middle of a breathtaking spectacle. A dozen orcas were working together in perfect synchrony, circling a herring bait ball the size of half a basketball court. The energy in the water was electric—each movement precise, each orca playing its role in this extraordinary display of teamwork. The scene was everything we had hoped to capture, and Nick and I moved quickly to get our shots. But then, something unexpected caught my eye.

I turned away from the feeding frenzy, inexplicably drawn to the right. And there, coming toward us, was a second pod of orcas. That in itself was unusual; I had spent years working with orcas, and rarely had I seen two pods so close together. But there was something else that struck me—one of the females was carrying something in her mouth.

At first, I couldn’t make out what it was. My instincts kicked in, and I immediately raised my camera and fired off two frames before the pod vanished into the depths. As I surfaced, I was buzzing with adrenaline. I had no idea what I had just witnessed, but I knew it was something significant.
On the boat, I turned to Ann and Dag, eager to hear their take on the situation. Ann, who had studied orca behavior for years, was the first to recognize what I had captured. “That was a mother carrying her dead calf,” she explained somberly. Orca mothers are known to grieve deeply for their young, sometimes holding onto their lifeless bodies for days or even weeks, unwilling to let go. In that moment, the weight of what I had photographed hit me—a mother in mourning, carrying her lost calf through the fjords.

Dag and Ann had both documented similar behaviors in other orca populations. This wasn’t just an isolated incident; it was a reminder of the emotional complexity and familial bonds within orca pods. Orcas, like other cetaceans, exhibit signs of grief, mourning their dead much like humans do.
What I didn’t realize at the time was how this image would become a powerful symbol of something far greater than one mother's grief. Ann explained that the mortality rate for young orcas in the wild is shockingly high—around 30%. The culprit? Pollution. Toxic chemicals like PCBs and heavy metals, which accumulate in the bodies of small fish like herring, find their way into the orca's food chain. These toxins are especially harmful to young calves, whose mothers pass on the pollutants through their milk, weakening their immune systems and leading to higher mortality rates. What we had witnessed was not just a moment of sorrow, but a grim reflection of the larger environmental crisis facing marine life around the world.

The photograph I took that day—of a grieving orca mother holding her dead calf—became one of the most poignant images of my career. It served as a reminder of the devastating impact of human activities on marine ecosystems. Orcas are apex predators, but even they are not immune to the poisons we’ve introduced into their environment.

This experience stayed with me, reshaping how I approached my work. Each dive, each photograph, is an opportunity not just to capture the beauty of the natural world, but to tell a deeper story—a story of survival, struggle, and the interconnectedness of life on this planet. The image of that orca and her calf became more than just a photograph; it became a call to action, a reminder of what we stand to lose if we don’t act to protect our oceans.

In the years since that expedition, Ann and Dag have continued their research into orca behavior, delving deeper into the social structures of these animals and the impact of pollution on their populations. Their work, along with images like the one I captured that day, has helped drive awareness and action toward orca conservation. Their paper, Killer Whale (Orcinus orca) Male Carrying a Dead Calf is freely available to read online

Looking back, that expedition to Norway was more than just a mission to document the orca's feeding behavior. It became a journey into the emotional lives of these animals and a stark lesson in the far-reaching consequences of environmental degradation. The orca’s grief is a reminder that every action we take as humans ripples through the natural world in ways we may not always see, but that affect every living creature.

Captured in the Tysfjord, Norway, 1996. Nikon RS, 20–35mm adopted lens, 1/125 sec, f-8, Provia 400 pushed to 1600 ISO.

09/12/2024

This early morning after espresso and before breakfast in the Galapagos, off Cabo Marshal...accompany by scholl of Pacific Baracuda

09/08/2024

After 5 days of none stop diving at world premiere for BigAnimals, leaving for Wolf and the Western Island of the Galapagos, Isabella and Fernandina for the second week, because one week in Galapagos is not enough.

09/03/2024

In a conversation in the Galapagos with Blue-footed B***y but all about conservation 🤗over the view of the iconic Darwin pillars - the bird was not interested in Politics 🤭 business or photography 🤪

09/01/2024

In 2015, with U.S. travel restrictions to Cuba easing, I saw an opportunity to create a unique image that would highlight Cuba's underwater beauty and contribute to shark conservation. My goal was to capture a photograph that resonated with both divers and photographers, showcasing the grace and power of sharks in their natural habitat.

The project posed challenges from the start. Communicating with the local crew in my limited Spanish was the first hurdle. Using a mix of broken language and hand signals, I outlined my plan: I would descend below the boat and, once in position, signal the crew to begin feeding the sharks from the surface. The objective was to position myself directly beneath the sharks—an angle difficult to achieve since sharks rarely allow divers to be below them unless bait is particularly enticing.

Underwater, the real challenge began. To prevent exhalation bubbles from disrupting the shot, I used skip-breathing, holding my breath for extended periods—a delicate balance of control and calm. Another challenge was keeping the scene clean, with minimal bait visible and only the sharks in frame. This required careful coordination with the shark feeder, who used just enough bait to attract a few sharks without overwhelming the scene.

I chose to shoot at midday when the sun was directly overhead, aiming to capture the sharp, penetrating rays of light. After signaling the crew, they exhausted the bait and dropped a heavy stone into the water—my cue that feeding was over. Then it was just me, the sharks, and the light, waiting for the perfect alignment.

After several attempts—four or five dives, as I recall—I finally captured the scene as I envisioned it. It was far from easy; each time I thought I had the shot, the ocean would shift, the boat would sway, or the sun would glare directly into my lens. But that's the nature of underwater photography—a mix of patience, persistence, and a bit of luck. For those who dive and photograph, you understand that the best images are earned, frame by frame, breath by breath.

Nikon 4Ds, 14-24mm lens, 1/1600 sec, F-4, ISO 100.

08/31/2024

Raising the awareness of the joy on one hand of diving and seeing whale sharks in their natural environment - in what we humans call aquatic wilderness.

On the other hand, it is an alarm by researchers that the Whale shark population is diminishing due to poaching.

Call environmental organizations and ask for more details and the latest research. Volunteer in time, support research, and raise funds for protection.

I am on my way today to the Galapagos, eight days under permit at Darwin and Wolf, to bring you more new images like this one taken of Darwin Island 15 years ago...

Nikon RS. 18mm lens, 1/250sec F-8, Kodackchrome film 64ASA pushed one-stop.

08/28/2024

Once in a while, I come across a book that is pure inspiration, adventure, personal, and colorful. This is the book of a dear friend of mine, Howard Rosenstein.

I was so captivated I read the ebook in one night. While reading it, I could not resist the vision of Howard transforming the Sinai Desert Red Sea and Lawrence of Arabia in capturing the imagination of World War I and transforming the Middle East.

Howard and his beloved wife Sharon transformed the Red Sea into the Meca of coral reef diving.

The book Treasures, Shipwrecks & the Dawn of Red Sea Diving is entertaining and insightful about the lives of pioneers Howard and Sharon Rosenstein.

https://www.divedup.com/2024/06/28/reviews-treasures-shipwrecks-dawn-red-sea-diving/

08/26/2024

Love❤️on the Rocks: A Snow Leopard Encounter🌎

In 2013, when snow leopard sightings were scarce, these elusive creatures were often called "Ghost Cats." Around the release of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, I embarked on a mission to capture these magnificent animals on film—a mission that would challenge both my endurance and resolve.

Years of research and consultations with experts who had explored Ladakh in the early 2010s yielded discouraging advice. Many cited the harsh conditions and slim chances of success. But rather than deter me, their skepticism fueled my determination. I discovered that the snow leopard's mating season occurs from late February to mid-March. Despite the high costs, extended time commitment, and low probability of success, I set out on a three-week expedition.

This journey was made possible by the expertise of Gyalson Tsewang and his dedicated team of guides. Gyalson and his team are refugees from Tibet, devoted followers of the Dalai Lama who have found a home in Ladakh. Their deep connection to the land, combined with their intimate knowledge of the mountains, was invaluable. In superb physical condition and well-adapted to the 15,000-foot altitude, they navigated the harsh terrain and helped carry the heavy tripods and lenses for my guests.

After 11 days of braving extreme cold and trekking 20 to 25 miles daily in thin air, the guides spotted a snow leopard resting on a peak 1,000 feet away. Unfortunately, a deep chasm between our position and the cat's location made it impossible to get closer. We set up our cameras at 8 a.m. and began the long wait. The day was marked by shifting weather—wind, sun, and light snow. The cat moved once, then settled again.

By 4 p.m., after eight hours of waiting in the freezing cold, most of the team began to leave. By 5 p.m., everyone had abandoned the mountain except for me. I remained, driven by a deep belief that something would change. There was little to return to at the camp—no comforts or distractions—and I knew that wild cats often become active as darkness falls.

A few minutes after 6 p.m., as the light began to fade, I heard a deep, resonant call. The snow leopard I had been watching for 10 hours stood and moved toward the sound. I adjusted my camera, tracking the cat’s movement, when suddenly another snow leopard appeared just above her. The first cat, which had been resting all day, called out again, and the two leopards came together, rubbing their heads in a rare and tender display of affection. Witnessing this intimate moment in the wild was beyond anything any of us—including the experienced local guides and my guests—had anticipated.

I titled the image "Love on the Rocks." As the photograph gained recognition, it not only captivated viewers but also inspired deeper conservation efforts. Local researchers, prompted by the image, identified the snow leopards as a mother and her 3-year-old cub. This kind of authentic wildlife reporting—capturing rare moments of animal behavior—serves a greater purpose. Images like this help foster compassion between the viewer and the subject, driving awareness and propelling researchers to expand their work and secure funding for conservation efforts.

Captured in the remote wilderness of Hemis National Park in Ladakh, India, this moment remains one of the most extraordinary experiences of my career, underscoring the profound connection between photography and the vital work of preserving our planet’s most vulnerable species.

Canon 1D C. 500mm lens plus X 2 II convertor. Tripod. 1/1600sec, F – 8, 6400 ISO.

08/25/2024

Love on the Rocks: A Rare Snow Leopard Encounter

In 2013, when snow leopard sightings were exceptionally rare, these elusive creatures were often referred to as "Ghost Cats." During this time, around the release of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, I embarked on a mission to capture these magnificent animals on film—a mission that would challenge both my endurance and resolve.

Years of research and consultations with experts who had explored Ladakh in the early 2010s yielded discouraging advice. Many cited the harsh conditions and slim chances of success. But rather than deter me, their skepticism fueled my determination. I discovered that the snow leopard's mating season occurs from late February to mid-March. Despite the high costs, extended time commitment, and low probability of success, I set out on a three-week expedition.

This journey was made possible by the expertise of Gyalson Tsewang and his dedicated team of guides. Gyalson, along with his team, are refugees from Tibet, devoted followers of the Dalai Lama who have found a home in Ladakh. Their deep connection to the land, combined with their intimate knowledge of the mountains, was invaluable. In superb physical condition and well-adapted to the 15,000-foot altitude, they not only navigated the harsh terrain but also helped carry the heavy tripods and lenses for my guests.

After 11 days of braving extreme cold and trekking 20 to 25 miles daily in thin air, the guides spotted a snow leopard resting on a peak 1,000 feet away. Unfortunately, a deep chasm between our position and the cat's location made it impossible to get closer. We set up our cameras at 8 a.m. and began the long wait. The day was marked by shifting weather—wind, sun, and light snow. The cat moved once, then settled again.

By 4 p.m., after eight hours of waiting in the freezing cold, most of the team began to leave. By 5 p.m., everyone had abandoned the mountain except for me. I remained, driven by a deep belief that something would change. There was little to return to at the camp—no comforts or distractions—and I knew that wild cats often become active as darkness falls.

A few minutes after 6 p.m., as the light began to fade, I heard a deep, resonant call. The snow leopard I had been watching for 10 hours stood and moved toward the sound. I adjusted my camera, tracking the cat’s movement, when suddenly another snow leopard appeared just above her. The first cat, which had been resting all day, called out again, and the two leopards came together, rubbing their heads in a rare and tender display of affection. Witnessing this intimate moment in the wild was beyond anything any of us—including the experienced local guides and my guests—had anticipated.

I titled the image "Love on the Rocks." As the photograph gained recognition, it not only captivated viewers but also inspired deeper conservation efforts. Local researchers, prompted by the image, identified the snow leopards as a mother and her 3-year-old cub. This kind of authentic wildlife reporting—capturing rare moments of animal behavior—serves a greater purpose. Images like this help foster compassion between the viewer and the subject, driving awareness and propelling researchers to expand their work and secure funding for conservation efforts.

Captured in the remote wilderness of Hemis National Park in Ladakh, India, this moment remains one of the most extraordinary experiences of my career, underscoring the profound connection between photography and the vital work of preserving our planet’s most vulnerable species.

Canon 1D C. 500mm lens plus X 2 II convertor. Tripod. 1/1600sec, F – 8, 6400 ISO.

08/25/2024

Love on the Rocks — Snow Leoparda https://mailchi.mp/biganimals.com/btp-8-25-24r3

In 2013, I set out to capture the elusive snow leopards of Ladakh. Supported by Gyalson Tsewang and his team of Tibetan refugee guides, we braved extreme cold and high altitudes for 11 days. Finally, after hours of waiting, I captured a mother snow leopard and her cub affectionately rubbing heads. This image, "Love on the Rocks," documents a precious wildlife encounter and supports conservation efforts by fostering compassion and funding for research.

08/23/2024

Wishing you all - make it a good weekend...

08/21/2024

One of the most beautiful "star" in our immense galaxy, the Blue moon rising over the Big Sur, California

Nikon Z9, 800 mm lens, f-9, 1/60 at 12,600 ISO, on a tripod and remote control.

08/18/2024

THE STORY BEHIND THE PICTURE

In July 1995, I embarked on an expedition to photograph the elusive and majestic Great White sharks in South Africa. My research revealed that these apex predators often hunt seals during the early morning and late afternoon.
With this knowledge, I led a team to document Great White behavior both underwater and above the surface.

Each morning, before the first light of dawn, we set out to sea, cruising slowly at three knots around Seal Island. Our mission was to observe these magnificent creatures in their natural habitat. This time of year saw a boom in the seal population on the island, as many young were born. The adult seals would venture into the ocean at dawn, feeding to sustain their offspring. However, they did so with great caution, knowing that sharks lurked beneath the surface.

One morning, as we watched a group of seals hesitating at the water's edge, it became clear that they were aware of the predators below. The seals couldn't see the sharks in the pre-dawn darkness, but the sharks could easily spot the seals' silhouettes above. Finally, one brave seal made the first leap into the water, and the others followed quickly, swimming fast into the deeper waters. Suddenly, there was a splash to our left, followed by another-sharks were already on the hunt, and it was only 6:20 a.m.

Over the next three days, my guests and I spent the early hours hoping to capture the spectacular sight of a full breach on film. But predicting when and where a shark would breach proved to be nearly impossible. The unpredictability of these powerful creatures made it a daunting challenge.

Our skipper, however, devised a clever plan to increase our chances. He fashioned a dummy seal from rubber and towed it behind the vessel, 20 feet out, on a thin fishing line. The idea was simple: lure a shark to take the bait, breach after the decoy, without causing harm to the shark jaws and hopefully catch the moment mid-air on camera.

For hours, we sat on the vessel's platform, scanning the water and focusing intently on the dummy seal being towed behind us. We repeated this process for two hours each morning and two hours each afternoon-the prime times when shark predation occurred. The sun's shallow angle over the water during these hours allowed sharks to spot seals above while keeping themselves hidden below.

I must admit, I missed several spectacular breaches during those days. Each missed opportunity only fueled my determination. By the third day, I began thinking about how I could capture a different shot, something unique. I realized that most photographs of breaching sharks were taken with the camera held horizontally. But sharks don't breach horizontally-they breach vertically. So, I decided to focus on capturing the action in a vertical format.

This decision added a new layer of difficulty. Shooting vertically meant I had only 24mm of frame space compared to 35mm in the horizontal format. I had to be extremely precise and fast. Consider this: a Great White Shark can breach the water at speeds of up to 40 km/h (25 mph), launching several meters into the air. Now, imagine trying to capture that from a moving, shaking vessel, while holding the camera vertically. It was demanding, to say the least. I had to block out all discomfort-the pain in my muscles, the fumes, the ocean spray-and focus entirely on the viewfinder.

There were no tools, no tricks, to tell me when the shark would breach. It required only stamina, concentration, passion, patience, and a willingness to take risks.

In the end, this approach paid off, and I managed to capture that elusive, powerful moment: a Great White Shark leaping out of the water in a stunning vertical breach, perfectly framed within the narrow confines of the shot. It was an image that reflected not only the raw power of the shark but also the intense effort and commitment it took to document such a fleeting, magnificent sight.

Nikon F4, 70 - 200mm. Provia film puhed to 200 ISO, f- 8.0 at 1/400 sec

08/18/2024

Great White High Jump — Behind the Picture - https://mailchi.mp/biganimals.com/leapinggws-8-18-24r3

In July 1995, I led an expedition to photograph Great White sharks in South Africa, targeting their early morning and late afternoon hunts. After days of observing their behavior, we used a dummy seal as bait to capture a breaching shark. Despite the many challenges, I managed to photograph a Great White leaping vertically from the water—a powerful image reflecting both the shark’s majesty and the effort it took to capture it.

08/13/2024

Rodney Fox Shark Museum and Learning Centre
May 27 ·
Exciting News!
We are thrilled to announce an extraordinary event on Friday, October 18th, 2024! We will be hosting Amos Nachoum, an internationally acclaimed wildlife and underwater photographer and explorer. This is a unique opportunity to hear from one of the world's most respected wildlife photographers.
With a career over four decades, Amos has dedicated his life to capturing stunning images of elusive aquatic and land animals. His work has won numerous awards, including being a two-time winner of the prestigious BBC Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition. His breathtaking photographs have graced the pages of National Geographic Magazine, Time, Life, The New York Times, and many more.
In 1990, Amos founded Big Animals Global Expeditions, offering adventurous souls the chance to explore and photograph some of the world's most remarkable marine species. His expeditions are known for intimate and safe encounters with creatures like the great white shark, orca, leopard seal, and polar bear.
As an expedition guide, Amos is renowned for his meticulous planning, vast experience, and above all, his dedication to safety and respect for the natural world. His 2019 documentary, “Picture of His Life,” showcases his courage and tenacity following his journey to the Canadian Arctic to photograph a swimming polar bear up close.
Tickets will be $25.00
Stay tuned for when we put the tickets up for sale!
Don't miss this unique opportunity to be inspired by one of the world's most respected wildlife photographers.