How a bear claw became a grisly token of Arctic survival

As large as a human finger and as sharp as a needle—that’s how one descendant of Adolphus Greely describes a claw from the bear that saved his great-great-granddad’s life. In 1881, seven years before Greely became a founding member of the National Geographic Society, the Army lieutenant set out with two dozen men to establish an Arctic research station on the far northern reaches of Canada’s Ellesmere Island.

Greely’s was one of many American and European camps created that year, all tasked with meticulously recording Arctic data—temperature, wind speed, magnetic changes, barometric pressure. The international project’s ambitious goal: to unlock the mystery of Earth’s weather patterns.

Woefully underfunded by Congress and green-lit too late for proper preparation, the expedition got off to a shaky start. Greely himself landed the command not for his expertise so much as his enthusiasm—he had read voraciously about the Arctic but had never set foot there. Once appointed, he hastily assembled a crew and supplies, then raced north in early July to build a camp fewer than 500 miles from the North Pole before winter’s grip tightened.

A steamship deposited Greely and his men, who built their station and survived the long, dark winter. But the ship to retrieve them the next summer never came.

Unknown to Greely, pack ice had choked a crucial channel, blocking resupply efforts. By August 1882, Greely and his men, crestfallen and homesick, braced for another Arctic winter.

The following June, two supply ships tried to fight their way through the ice. One retreated, and the second was crushed. With no relief in sight, Greely made the call in August 1883 to abandon the station and row south in small open boats to search for a supply cache—or a rescue ship.

Portaging heavy boats across ice floes, dodging towering bergs, and rowing with frostbitten fingers, the men at last reached their destination. Instead of abundant supplies, though, they found scraps, barely enough to survive 40 days. The men scraped by on small game, Arctic shrimp, and lichen they clawed from the rocks.

Then, in April 1884, two emaciated men shot a polar bear. That extreme measure kept Greely and six others alive until a rescue ship—equipped with dynamite to blast through the ice—finally arrived in June.

Greely spirited back at least two bear claws. One remains with his descendants. This claw has long been in the National Geographic archives. “Except for this kill,” reads a timeworn label accompanying the trophy, “none of the party would have returned alive.”