A Day with Bear Rewilders: Following a Team in Arunachal Pradesh Giving Cubs a Second Chance

“Just about 10 more kilometres to go,” someone joked as I paused for breath, peeling off leeches wriggling past my guards. We had started early that morning, accompanying four Asiatic black bear cubs on their journey back to the wild.

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For four months, these orphaned cubs had been hand-raised at the IFAW-WTI Centre for Bear Rehabilitation and Conservation (CBRC). Today marked their final walk into the heart of Pakke Tiger Reserve — to reclaim the life they were born to live.

Since 2002, the CBRC has rehabilitated over 70 bear cubs. For me, though, this trek was less about the animals and more about the people — those who’ve poured their sweat and blood into this mission.

“Now that the forest has taken yours, you’ve truly become part of the team,” chuckled Ajit, one of the animal keepers beside me, stomping on a bloated leech. “It’s a mandatory sacrifice the forest demands.”

Into the wild

After a week of torrential rain, the skies had finally cleared. By 6 am, we packed our rations and reached the cub enclosure. Under Dr Panjit Basumatary’s supervision, the cubs were carefully guided into transport cages and loaded onto the vehicle with practised precision.

Our destination: Doigurung anti-poaching camp, 18 km from Khari base camp. Alongside me were keepers Ajit and Habo, biologist Subhashish, intern Bhaskar, filmmaker Arjun, and forest department staff — all veterans of bear relocations.

As we set off into the forest, I found myself wondering how the journey had brought us — and these cubs — to this point.

The Centre for Bear Rehabilitation and Conservation

Founded in 2002 with the Arunachal Forest Department and the International Fund for Animal Welfare, CBRC was created to tackle a unique challenge — rehabilitating orphaned Asiatic bear cubs.

“In Arunachal Pradesh, bears were heavily hunted for meat and body parts used in illegal wildlife trade,” explains Dr Panjit. “With adult bears hunted, their cubs are often left alone.”

The centre has received cubs as young as a week old. “Rehabilitating such young cubs takes a lot of effort and resources,” he adds.

After being hand-raised for three to four months, the cubs begin 'bear walks', learning to forage for termites, tubers, and wild fruits. Within a few months, they’re moved deeper into Pakke, fitted with radio collars, and monitored for six months. “Since 2002, more than 40 bear cubs have been successfully rewilded,” says Dr Panjit.

Today, it was time for four more cubs to take that step — and for us to begin our long, muddy journey to set them free.

The start of the trek

The rains over the past week had washed away what little road there was. Several times, we had to stop to repair the damage — shifting rocks and clay to fill gaping cracks so the vehicle could somehow be manoeuvred forward. Shovels in hand, everyone took turns levelling the path as best as they could.

With Duluk driving, every turn was risky — one slip, and the vehicle could tumble down the ridge.

By 10 am, we reached Khari anti-poaching camp, where temporary bamboo shelters with tarpaulin sheets had been built for the six-month monitoring period. The bear shelters, a few hundred metres ahead, were also made of bamboo and wire mesh.

The road ended here. Ahead lay several kilometres of dense forest — a trek we’d have to make on foot.

Of dirty shoes and creatures of the forest

Fifteen minutes in, my shoes and leech socks were soaked, the mud adding kilos to my step. More than myself, I worried about the camera gear. Following elephants was no easy task; they moved at their own unhurried pace through Pakke’s shifting soil and steep inclines.

After crossing the first river near Khari camp, a few of us quickened our pace, with Subhashish, our biologist, leading the way. I paused often to photograph white dragontails, punchinello butterflies, and giant swallowtail moths — beautiful distractions on a gruelling trail.

But soon, every muscle protested, and I tucked my camera away, shifting focus from documenting the journey to simply surviving it.

One with the elements

The terrain kept changing — swampy forest floors that sucked at our shoes, grasslands with knife-like blades cutting our skin, and cliffs where every step risked a fall. The rivers, swollen and muddy from rain, were the toughest. We waded chest-deep through strong currents, trying to keep our equipment dry, never sure what surface lay beneath. Step by step, we made it across.

Abandoned anti-poaching camps dotted the way — some destroyed by elephants, others left deserted in the monsoon when roads turned impassable. Only a few larger camps remained active, surviving on rationed supplies.

Our first halt, Upper Dekorai, sat on a cliff overlooking the riverbed, 10 kilometres from Khari. The last 100 metres uphill felt endless. Elephants carrying our cargo had reached below just as we stopped for a brief rest. A meal of rice and wild vegetables revived us, while the elephants fed nearby.

“We’ve only managed half the distance,” exclaimed Subhashish. That jolted everyone — daylight was fading fast. By three in the afternoon, we were back on the trail, trudging through gentler slopes, exhaustion setting in.

“Just a few more kilometres to go!” someone called out, half-teasing, half-encouraging.

When the earth shook

By the time Doigurung camp came into view, the sky had turned dark. We paused by the last river, waiting for the elephants to catch up — the trek’s goal was to move the bear cubs safely to their temporary enclosure.

As we rested on the riverbank, the ground suddenly trembled. At first, I thought it was a cramp, but everyone looked up in alarm. The tremor lasted half a minute. Later, we learned it was a 3.2-magnitude quake in Upper Siang, not far from us.

Once the elephants arrived, we hurried on, racing against fading light. The cubs were soon secured, but another crisis struck — heavy rain had drenched our fuelwood, leaving us without dinner.

So, guided by the elephants and the glow of our phones, we began the trek to Doigurung in the dark. The shortcut Juli suggested turned treacherous — trenches, quicksand, a lost shoe, a twisted ankle. I trailed behind, following the faint lights ahead.

Rest at last

Before entering camp, I rinsed off in the river and put my clothes back on — cleaner but still dripping. The Doigurung facilities were much as before: the stream connection broken again by elephants, leaving us with limited drinking water. Food was cooked with stored river water, but the simple meal of rice and a stew of potatoes and spiny gourd felt like heaven.

After changing into dry clothes, we gathered by the fire, surrounded by moths, drying what we could before turning in.

The rain continued through the night, drumming on the tarpaulin roof as we huddled close to the fire. By morning, it was clear we had to leave sooner than planned — waiting risked getting stranded as the river rose. With the elephants set to leave, we packed for the long ride home.

Riding on elephant's back

I’ve travelled on elephants before, but this was by far the most epic ride. Riding one may sound comfortable — it isn’t.

Four of us perched atop Bahadur, while Vijaya carried the empty bear cages back to the centre. Our only job was to hold on tight as Bahadur navigated gurgling rivers, steep climbs, and narrow creeks.

Each elephant had a personality. Bahadur refused to cross culverts, always choosing the longer, harder route, while Vijaya was more agile, walking across fallen trees and loose soil with ease. Even these giants were exhausted — I could feel Bahadur’s legs tremble after a climb, just as mine had. Step by step, we reached Khari Base Camp, where the elephants rested.

Five more kilometres lay ahead. Night had fallen, and wild herds often moved along the trail. With no network and dying phone batteries, we rationed our power. Juli led the way, alert to every sound. We slipped and stumbled through the dark, following his footsteps.

After a brief halt at Laling, we pushed on, worried the vehicle might be stuck in Sukha Nalla, now swollen with rain. Another kilometre later, the faint glow of headlights appeared — and we finally exhaled in relief. We had made it back.

The journey’s end

For me, this trek was one of the most eventful journeys I’ve ever undertaken. For the CBRC team, it’s just another day’s work — another chance to give orphaned bear cubs a life back in the wild.

“Since 2002, we’ve received at least one orphaned cub every year,” says Dr Panjit. “I hope that changes soon.”

Today, CBRC’s mission goes beyond rescue — working with local communities, raising awareness, and helping curb illegal hunting.

“At the end of the day,” says Duluk, wiping his forehead, “we just want the cubs to get back the life they were meant for.”

And I’m simply grateful to have witnessed their extraordinary effort up close.