Most people think they know walruses. Massive. Tusked. Whiskered. That odd barking sound they make when they're annoyed. But until you've really spent time thinking about what it's like to be a walrus, you're missing out on one of nature's most endearing characters.
Meet Wally. He's a 12-year-old male Atlantic walrus, weighing in at a respectable 1,800 pounds, with tusks that would make any dentist weep with professional admiration. But Wally isn't just another blubbery face in the crowd. He's got personality, problems, and a surprisingly relatable daily routine.
Morning Routines and Social Anxiety
Wally wakes up around 9 AM, which is actually quite late by walrus standards. He's been trying to get better sleep lately—something about the way Gustav keeps flopping onto the haul-out rock at 3 AM really disrupts his REM cycles. As he blinks awake, crusty salt deposits flaking from his whiskers, Wally faces the same dilemma he faces every morning: where exactly should he position himself in the colony?
Too close to Big Helga and he risks getting tusked if she's in a mood. Too far toward the edge and the younger bulls might think he's weak, prime for challenging. It's a delicate social calculus that would stress out even the most extroverted among us. Wally settles for a middle-ground position, squeezing his considerable bulk between two sleeping neighbors who grunt in protest but don't fully wake.
The Commute
By 10 AM, hunger drives Wally into the frigid water. The shock of cold that would kill a human in minutes feels like slipping into a favorite jacket for him. He's got four inches of blubber for a reason, after all. But here's where Wally's day gets genuinely impressive: he's about to dive 300 feet down to the seafloor and hold his breath for up to 10 minutes while he works.
Imagine your job requiring you to descend the height of a 30-story building while holding your breath, feeling around in near-total darkness for your lunch. Wally does this 20 to 30 times a day. His whiskers—those magnificent 400 or so quivering sensors on his snout—feel along the muddy bottom like sensitive fingers, detecting the tiny vibrations of clams buried beneath the sediment. When he finds one, he creates suction with his powerful lips and literally vacuums the soft body right out of the shell, leaving the empty casing behind. It's elegant, efficient, and frankly, a bit gross.
Today's haul includes about 35 clams, which sounds like a lot until you realize Wally needs to eat roughly 100 pounds of food daily. He's going to be down here a while.
Afternoon Drama
Back at the haul-out around 2 PM, Wally witnesses what can only be described as a soap opera unfolding. Two younger males are having a territorial dispute that involves a lot of posturing, tusk-displaying, and aggressive vocalizations. Wally watches with the weary expression of someone who's seen this movie before and knows exactly how it ends: loudly, with everyone involved more tired than when they started, and absolutely nothing resolved.
He's not wrong. Twenty minutes of chest-bumping and bellowing later, both young bulls separate, each claiming victory to anyone who'll listen. Wally closes his eyes and tries to nap, but now Gustav is snoring in a way that sounds like a diesel engine having an existential crisis.
The Vulnerability of Evening
As the Arctic sun begins its lazy descent—though in summer it barely sets at all—Wally becomes more alert. This is when orcas hunt, and despite his size, Wally knows he's on the menu for a coordinated pod. He's seen it happen. His cousin Bertram, three years ago, pulled under in a chaos of black fins and thrashing water.
The fear is real and primal. Wally positions himself where he can quickly reach the safety of ice or shore. His eyes, usually sleepy and philosophical, now scan the water with laser focus. Every shadow could be danger. Every ripple requires investigation.
This is the part of being a walrus that nature documentaries gloss over—the anxiety, the constant low-level terror that you might be someone else's dinner. For all his bulk and weaponry, Wally knows he's vulnerable. It's a humbling reality that keeps him sharp, keeps him careful, keeps him alive.
Night Reflections
By 11 PM, Wally has eaten his fill, avoided predators, navigated complex social dynamics, and found a decent sleeping spot (after Gustav finally shifted to a different rock). As he settles his massive body down, adjusting his position three or four times before he's comfortable, you might wonder what goes through a walrus's mind.
Probably not philosophy. Probably not existential questions about purpose and meaning. But maybe something simpler and more profound: contentment. The satisfaction of another day survived, another belly filled, another night among his colony, irritating as they sometimes are.
Wally's life isn't easy, but it's his. He's not trying to be anything other than exactly what he is—a 1,800-pound gentleman with magnificent tusks, sensitive whiskers, and a remarkably patient disposition given the circumstances.
As he drifts off to sleep, one eye still partially open (you never know with orcas), Wally lets out a long, satisfied sigh. It sounds like contentment. It sounds like home.
And really, isn't that something we all understand?#walrus @Walrus 🦭/acc $WAL
