Materializing out of the hazy blue, they gracefully glide on eight-foot wingspans. Whenever I’ve encountered a spotted eagle ray, this is how it starts. They seem to have an innate curiosity about snorkelers who reflect their quiet study. The spotted eagle rays will deliberately, peacefully, slowly come closer, making a wide circle around me before disappearing back into the mysterious deep blue. It all feels like slow motion. Never threatening or uncomfortable despite their size and advantage. But here’s the thing – if you wait in that quiet moment after they’ve gone, they usually come back around. I love that sense of curiosity, that shared way of seeing the world.

One of my favorite things about snorkeling is being immediately accepted as a part of the underwater world. As long as I don’t stalk the sealife, I can float among them, as one of them, ebbing and flowing with the rhythm of the waves.

It’s been a process. I used to be wary in the water, afraid of things touching me that I couldn’t see (slimy aquatic plants, nibbling panfish, or any variety of things I might step on in the oceans). I always waited for someone else to jump in first so I wouldn’t be alone in the vast unknown.

Once in the water, I stuck close to my snorkel buddy. If I couldn’t see another person in the water, a flush of panic would send me swimming madly back to the perceived safety of social connection. I always swam around instead of over shallow coral heads – you never know who is lurking in those crevices, ready to strike at my soft belly!

But this trip –

I jumped in first. Alone in the water, I saw my first “real” shark (ie, not a nurse shark), a black-tipped reef shark swimming away from me. I was energized!

I followed my curiosity regardless of where others went. I found myself alone, and it was okay. A fellow snorkeler yelled over, “We’re going back to the boat, and I don’t know where any of the guides are.”  I’m not going to get out until I’m cold or the guide says we’re leaving. My buddy was still in the water somewhere. I’m having the time of my life.

I sucked in my belly and floated closely over the coral, fascinated by all the tiny creatures that inhabit these living “rocks”.

In all my years of escaping the cold and snow to be healed by warm waters and humid air, I have never been blessed with so many days of sunshine for snorkeling. The rays of light make the dramatic colors of sealife illuminate with indescribable intensity. Awe at every turn. This is the reward for waiting out four days of high winds, rain, and clouds.

Reef Squid

Caribbean reef squid tend to hang out in the shallows, close to shore, amidst the seagrasses. They often congregate in flotillas of six or more, changing colors to suit their mood or to camouflage themselves from predators. They are iridescent at rest, but turn bright gold, white, or reddish at times.

The Wall

There’s an undersea wall just south of the atoll where the ocean floor drops abruptly away. It’s a popular scuba diving site. As a snorkler on the surface, it’s dramatic as everything fades into the deep blue. Your imagination can get the better of you, wondering who is lurking just outside the reach of your vision. Don’t let it deter you from this exploration of wonder. Each coral head perched along the edge of the wall was staked out by a barracuda. I quit counting after twenty! Let’s just say they were everywhere.

Invasive Lionfish

The Glover’s Reef Marine Reserve protects part of the atoll for spawning grouper.

It’s a year-round no-take zone, with one exception: invasive lionfish. Lionfish are native to the South Pacific and Indian Oceans. Their presence in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean is detrimental to the health and biodiversity of the reef ecosystems. Adult lionfish are voracious fish-eaters, eating the prey normally consumed by snappers, groupers, and other native species, leaving native fish to go hungry. A single lionfish residing on a coral reef can reduce the numbers of native reef fish on that coral patch by 79 percent! Their neurotoxic venomous spines mean they have few predators in the Caribbean. As such, lionfish may be killed throughout these waters without limitation. Our guide speared one and fed it to a nurse shark.

Giant Eel

The green moray eel is the largest eel in the Caribbean, growing up to eight feet in length. No wonder this one had no hesitation free-swimming among a group of gawking snorkelers. He was a bit intimidating!

A Marine Escort

An immense school of tang floated with me and then escorted me back to the boat where all my fellow snorklers (and guides!) were waiting. I felt part of an underwater parade!

There is an endless world of strange, fascinating, dramatic life just below the surface. I encourage you to take a look!

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The post Snorkeling Glover’s Reef Atoll appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

I don’t know what I expected from a sandy spit of coral thirty miles off the coast of Belize, but it wasn’t this! This lush thirteen-and-a-half-acre island is a vibrant, flourishing, diverse patch of nature. What a week!

Atoll: A ring-shaped island, including a coral rim that encircles a lagoon. There may be coral islands or cays on the rim. Most of the approximately 440 atolls in the world are in the Pacific Ocean. Atolls are formed by the sinking of a volcanic island around which a coral fringing reef has formed. Over eons, the volcanic island erodes and subsides completely beneath the ocean. Eventually, the reef and the small coral islets on top of it are all that is left of the original island, and a lagoon has taken the place of the former volcano. 

The western half of the caye is an undeveloped palm forest bisected by nature trails. Every time I walk these paths, I see something new that fascinates me.

Hermit crabs are everywhere, constantly crossing the trails hauling their shells on their backs. At my approach, they recoil into their mobile homes with varying degrees of success.

They outgrow the snail shells that they’ve commandeered and have to make do until they find a bigger, more suitable one. Whenever I notice a large, empty whelk snail shell, I pick it up and carry it with me until I see the right-sized crab in a too-small shell. I place the empty shell next to the crab and step away. The grateful animal will inspect the gift and then quickly make a move.

The locals say that hermit crabs are barometers of the weather; when it’s going to rain, they go up (with a perplexing ability to climb!), and when it’s going to be windy, they dig in and disappear.

I also see lizards on every walk. The anoles live in the trees and understory, basking in every bit of sunlight. Adorable tiny brown anoles, the length of my thumbnail, with adorable teensy feet and a tail equal to the length of their bodies, must’ve hatched yesterday!

The island’s iguanas, mostly spiny-tailed iguanas with a rare green-tailed iguana, are out on the south rock walls, even on gray days. Once I spot one, the others materialize from their camouflage in striking numbers!

When the sun is out, and they’ve charged their batteries, they are along the trails and in the bushes and trees, too.One iguana didn’t flinch as I approached. He was like, “I own this trail, go find your own.” I obliged.

Magnificent frigatebirds flock over the caye, resting on the wind, going nowhere. Great-tailed grackles’ constant chatter fills the air.

A couple of brown pelicans rest on the caye and fish these waters, as do a pair of resident osprey.

Each morning, about twenty minutes before the first rays of sun begin to push back the night, the osprey start calling back and forth in a high-pitched volley reminiscent of raucous gulls. We called them the island roosters for the way they celebrate the start of each new day. Ospreys are adept fish eagles, always announcing their fishing successes and perching on their same favorite branch to pick apart their meal. (Such a courtesy to photographers!).

A green heron hunts a conch pile left by migrant fishermen. Ruddy turnstones walk the sargassum piles, feasting on tiny arthropods. A yellow-crowned night-heron has been regularly spotted in the mangroves near here, but has eluded me all week.

As I’m heading to look for songbirds in the brilliant orange scarlet cordia blooms, a white-crowned pigeon streaks past me, followed instantly by a merlin in hot pursuit. Just a flash and they were gone. Later, I would watch a pair of merlins soaring, dipping, diving, veering like fighter jets they are. 

Years ago, a previous landowner purchased a few gibnuts, large, native, ground-dwelling rodents with dots and stripes on their sides, at a local meat market and set them free on the caye. They’ve since established a breeding population here. I set out to try to find one of these nocturnal, exotic guinea pigs. I noticed what I thought might be gibnut tracks and excitedly went to share my discovery with a fellow traveler. His face fell when I described the track pattern as being similar to a rabbit’s. “There’s a rabbit on the island,” he reluctantly responded, not wanting to stifle my enthusiasm. What?!? Yeah, the same story as the gibnut. Three domestic rabbits from a meat market were neutered and set free here. One remains.

Like cats respond to “Here kitty, kitty, kitty” or “pspsspspss”, rabbits respond to a speedy, high-pitched “bunny-bunny-bunny!” And so it was the next day when I saw a black and white rabbit resting under a deck. I called, and out he hopped!

Towards the end of the week, I did find several gibnut tracks, but unfortunately, never the animal itself, despite some nighttime exploring with my headlamp.

On the last day, an early trail walk finally revealed hummingbirds. Green-breasted mango hummingbirds! A male feeding at the scarlet cordia and a female with a dramatic white belly cut by a stark black stripe flitting around the buttonwood. I’ve never seen these birds before. Black and white on a hummingbird is so exotic!

The yellow-crowned night heron eluded me on the caye all week. Serendipitously, when we docked back on the mainland, there in the marina, perched out on a palm branch, sat a yellow-crowned night heron!

Other scenes from around Long Caye.

If you’re interested in purchasing or licensing any images you see here, please email me at SNewenham at exploringnaturephotos.com, and I’ll make it happen.

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The post A Week on Glover’s Reef Atoll appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

A Glimpse into the Life of Caribbean Reef Octopus

With headlamps and flashlights, we slowly step across sharp rocks along the edge of the eastern shoreline. It’s 7:30 pm, and the tide is out on Long Caye on Belize’s Glover’s Reef Atoll. Our guide shines his light on a blurry turquoise blob distorted by the waves on the beige sea floor. “Caribbean reef octopus,” he says. “If you say so,” I think to myself.

We move on. Tidal Splash crabs scatter sideways at our approach. There’s another octopus! This one is in calmer seas, her characteristic shape more easily evident undersea.

She slides in our direction, out of the waves and into the still edge of the ocean where her full brilliance is revealed. Iridescent turquoise-blue and green, spotted with reddish-brown. Slithering, reaching, feeling – hunting! A few more steps and there’s another! This one is already at the water’s edge. He’s after the Tidal Spray crabs at our feet! He strikes with his long arms and misses. But he knows where they went and slinks around a rock to head them off on the other side. He strikes again in a flash and pulls one into his mantle.

At the end of the video, one crab escapes, and one does not. You can see the crab leg in the crevice on the left before the octopus pulls him down.

We watch him for a minute and then leave him with his meal.

A bright red fiddler crab pokes out of her hiding spot to shoo off a Tidal Spray crab and instantly disappears back into the shadows.

Another octopus! This one is also close to shore. She is hunting using a common octopus technique; she spreads her skirt over the bottom to siphon her prey out of the crevices where they hide. We watch her deftly catch something and begin to eat. It’s a sizable meal for her.

 Caribbean reef octopuses are a medium-sized octopus, growing up to twenty inches in diameter. They are short-lived, like most octopus, with a lifespan of just ten to twelve months. In all, along a hundred yards and forty-five minutes, we saw twelve (TWELVE!!) Caribbean reef octopuses on this walk.

Other Exotic Night Life

Also venturing out after dark in the ocean, giant sea slugs called spotted seahares creep along the sea floor. The way they move and explore their environment with their mouth and tentacles, just like a shell-less snail, identifies them as gastropods. Ruffled parapodia on their backs cover their mantle.

They secrete foul-tasting purple ink to cloud the water and deter would-be predators. I’d heard of these animals before, but never expected to see one here!

A gorgeous King Helmet conch (also a gastropod) feasting on a spiny urchin was within reach.

This is a big conch – more than a handful – with a striped, domed shell featuring a flare at one end.

Endlessly fascinating!

Lastly, a young morey eel is tucked into the safety of the coral, part of his striped body visible through a hole. He cautiously peeks his head out from the end of the coral, sees me still there, and retreats into hiding. He’s less than twelve inches long and the diameter of my thumb. A far cry from the six-foot-long green eel I saw snorkeling yesterday!

The sea is full of exotic-looking life at every turn. It never ceases to amaze. I am blessed that so many creatures reveal themselves to me. Even so, this was an exceptional shore walk.

Stay tuned for more Belize wild tales!

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The post Tidepooling at Night appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

The Black Skimmer’s Latin name is Rynchops niger

Ryn = Nose or Beak              Chops = Cut off 

They leave a lasting impression – these comical, gregarious shorebirds.

Black skimmers gather in large social colonies on flat, sandy Atlantic beaches. Lined up, each one facing into the wind. As I sit and watch, I’m struck by the effort in scattering, the whole flock taking to the air, swerving, banking, veering on long wings each time beach walkers pass through. It wouldn’t take a significant arc in a person’s path to avoid them and allow them to rest, to conserve their precious energy.

Their brilliantly colored orange and black bills, with the top abruptly shorter than the bottom, are their hallmark.

With this feature, they are uniquely equipped for “tactile foraging.” They skim the surface of the ocean with their lower bill stuck straight down into the water.

When they feel a fish hit their bill, they snap their mouth shut with such speed as to catch the minnow without slowing their flight. Just a quick nod of their head as they grab their prey. Have you ever tried to catch a minnow in your hands? Then you can appreciate their extraordinary feats.

Black skimmers’ long, forked wings allow for efficient gliding. Their cat-like, vertical pupils enable them to see through the glare of the sun and in the dark of night. If you ever have the opportunity to watch a skimmer, take the time to be awe-struck.

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The post Black Skimmers appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

I’d half expected the falls to be dry. It’s hardly rained in northwest Georgia this autumn. But nature always delights as she often reminds me. The tiered unnamed falls cascade in a soft veil to join the creek and meander among the fallen leaves. The low water level made for easy scrambling across narrow streams, allowing me to fully explore this beautiful gorge in solitude.

I’d parked at the north end of Sitton’s Gulch Trail in a quiet residential neighborhood instead of the busy Cloudland Canyon State Park lot. It’s a rolling uphill hike from here to the steps above the falls and an easy hike back. It turns out that was a blessing, as I’d lingered at the falls and dusk was quickly approaching as I tried to ignore scores of puffball mushrooms and striking leaves along my way to get to the car before the last of the light, which disappears earlier in the canyon bottoms.

It’s mid-November, and most of the leaves have fallen. Those still in the treetops twirl in the breeze, mimicking the gentle patter of a spring rain. I’m a half-mile from the parking lot when the full aroma of decaying leaves envelopes me and stops me in my tracks. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, savoring the nostalgia and peace of an eastern hardwood forest. My shoulders fall, and I’m instantly relaxed. It brings me back to barefoot summers full of exploration.

A couple of weeks ago, the falls were reportedly dry. Since then, there’s been some rain. And the snow flurries two days ago. I glimpsed a pool of water as I rounded a bend in the trail. What I’d thought was the sounds of rustling leaves was actually the gentle sound of water splashing down the boulder-strewn gulch! I’m elated!

I had an image in my head of the red maples in full color with the motion-blurred water falling behind them. It’s an image I missed on my last trip here, because I didn’t have my tripod. I had to hand-hold a long exposure, and all of the images turned out blurry.

I wanted a do-over, even though I know we can never visit the same river twice. Today, most of the red leaves are on the ground, leaving the ochres and golds aloft to sing the song of the season.

The creek widens as I move up the path; small cascades roll over rocks in miniature torrents. Just before the unnamed falls, the Sitton’s Gulch Creek is only a few feet wide, carrying leaves, eddying in pools, and spilling down the canyon.

I lingered at the base of these falls for an hour, enthralled with the way the water moves and all of the leaf mosaics plastered on the rocks.

Climbing the wooden steps, I crossed the creek on a boardwalk at the lip of the falls. I took the short spur to Hemlock Falls. A viewing platform overlooks the ninety-foot waterfall.

Social trails descend steeply to the base of the falls, an area that would be pooled with water when the creek runs full. Today, it would be a safe scamper down. But. I’m three miles from my car and one-and-a-half hours from sunset. Next time. This canyon keeps calling me.

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The first snow of the season was a few days ago. Just a couple of inches, not enough to bury the last of fall’s glory yet. Today will probably be the last of the frosty fall mushrooms and leaves. It’s been a prolific fungi season. The sheer numbers of fruiting bodies have left me standing with my mouth agape in awe more than once.

I headed out to nearby English Point State Park. It was spectacular! One and three-quarters miles in three hours. That’s a good wander!

All of the wonderful distractions are tiny. Without a closer inspection, they look ordinary. But get in tight, and they are everything extraordinary! I bought a macro lens just for this time of year (a specific lens for extreme close-ups of tiny things). Now, I just need lighting for the dark forest floor and a short tripod to stabilize my lens… With every hobby or creative endeavor, there’s always just one more thing you need.

I cast my eyes down, scanning the leaf litter, duff and deadfall for interesting mushrooms, lichens, leaves and other tiny treasures.

Frost crystals coat the shaded twigs, fungi and leaves. The mushrooms are frozen solid, yet retain all the appearance of life. This presents the unique opportunity to pick them up whole and place them in a more photogenic location!

The low-angled winter sun peeks through the woods in focal streaks and rays. While the light is a dramatic addition for photography, in this instance, its energy immediately begins to melt the subjects. Frozen mushrooms wilt before my eyes, stems curling under the weight of the saturated caps diving toward the ground.

The frost coats the leaves and mushrooms like coarse grains of sugar. I am endlessly fascinated. I came home with a couple hundred images, about one hundred of which I kept! Clearly, these are some of my favorite things!

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The post A Frosty Fall Day appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

When I set out for Waterton National Park in Alberta, Canada, I imagined fall forests resplendent in golds, accented by oranges and reds. The smell of leaves composting into the earth and the peace of the earth quieting into winter. What I found was a blackened landscape, still deeply scarred by the 2017 Kenow Fire eight years ago.

When the foliage is gone, the structure lies bare. Undulations ripple along the mountainsides; seeps and drainages stand out. 

The rhythms of the forest are speaking in structure, not color. This gift in this landscape of open vistas is long sightlines – a dream for wildlife spotting.

The Kenow Fire ignited with a lightning strike and burned slowly until September 11, 2017, when it blew up in critically dry conditions, surging from 30,000 to 104,000 acres overnight, overtaking Waterton National Park. The Kenow Wildfire was a fire of exceptional severity exceeding every fire since the Park’s records began in 1700. In the end, half of the vegetated land and 80% of the hiking trails in the Park were burnt. 

In almost all of this burn area, most or all of the organic matter was seared away by the fire. The topsoil burned away to a depth of three feet.

Dense conifer forests are being replaced by young aspens and shrubs such as Saskatoon berry, thimbleberry, and huckleberry. It’s a bear’s delight! The conifers will come back, too. They grow relatively slowly.

Fire is necessary, natural, “normal” for these forests. Our human misunderstanding and resulting meddling have given rise to an increase in these large, catastrophic (by human standards) fires. This was a dramatic fire. The recovery is being documented and studied, providing insights into the land’s history and the resilience of nature.It’s often not what I expected, but it’s always an adventure.

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I’ve only ever been charged by two species. The bear took only a few quick steps before stopping.

The snowshoe hare, on the other hand, well, I was reminded of the killer bunny scene in Monty Python’s The Holy Grail.

In 2014, on a trail in Rocky Mountain National Park, a showshoe hare charged toward me. I wondered with confusion how this was going to play out when he stopped, regarded me for a moment, and then ran off into the woods just over a yard away from me.

I had a similar experience this summer while hiking the Sherman Peak Loop Trail in eastern Washington. As the trail snaked up the mountain, I rounded a curve to see a snowshoe hare sitting on the trail. I stopped. The hare didn’t move. Suddenly, he bolted in my direction. I wasn’t sure what his intention was when he slowed and came right at me. Initially, I thought he was going to blow past me. I was simply between him and a preferred hiding spot, a warren or a family. I stomped my foot as he stopped next to me, and he startled, disappearing into the brush. I’m not quite sure whether he touched my pant leg or not. It all happened so fast!

What is it with the snowshoe hare?!? I’m reminded of an exotic animal veterinarian who remarked, “If rabbits had canine teeth, they would rule the world.”

Starting up the connector trail, I thought, “This must be the bobcat’s favorite trail,” because of the frequency of feline scat along the route. Joining the loop on the east side, the habitat is dark and wet with a few mosquitoes. Small rivulets trickle across my path.

The forest opens up to a rock slide dotted with dense stands of willows, where I talk aloud as I hike so as not to surprise wildlife – snowshoe hare or otherwise.

Elk sign becomes prevalent along the way, and the mountainside is covered with huckleberry bushes. Two people on muleback, going downhill, pass me. Mules are perfect for this rugged terrain. As I continued to climb, rounding along the south side, wildflowers began to flank the trail. Although it’s called the Sherman Peak Loop, I expected it to loop around the peak. But with all of this elevation gain, I’m beginning to wonder if the peak isn’t part of the loop!

The route levelled out at 1150 feet from where I started, 6400 feet above sea level, in an area of meadows, with lupine and pine trees. There’s mountain lion scat on the trail. I stop to look for any other signs of this beauty. I find that I’m more at ease where the trail traverses treed slopes thick with windfall. It seems like animals are less likely to hang out there, but these broad, park-like flat areas are easy-going for all of the animals that call this mountain home. It makes me a little uneasy.

From this side of the mountain, there are views southward for days. I can almost see my house from here!

Passing the Kettle Crest trail junction, I round onto the west side. I leave the forest and stop in awe at the expansive fields of wildflowers – lupine, buckwheat, paintbrush.

The ground squirrels are chastising me, chattering from their lookouts downslope. I keep stopping to marvel at the beauty.

The carpets of flowers get more dramatic with each step. I can’t afford to linger as much as I’d like because I got a late start today.

Leaving the meadows, I enter a dense stand of young trees crowding the trail. Again, I’m talking to myself, nature, no one, and everyone. My bear spray is at hand, but it’s best that I don’t need it. I’m curving around to the north side on a gentle descent, again seeing the bobcat-sized feline scat that was so common at the outset. There’s another snowshoe hare just off the path. It’s not until this moment, when I see the scat and the hare together, that it clicks.

Snowshoe hares are lynx’s favorite prey. This could be lynx scat!!

When I get back to civilization, I learn that I was hiking in the Colville National Forest Lynx Recovery Zone! My first lynx (scat) encounter!!

This loop has been a wonderful trip through a diversity of habitats. Over three hours and five-and-a-half miles, every step was a delight.

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With varying degrees of hope, I commonly say that I’m going to find wild cats when I head into the wild with my camera. And so it was that I excitedly shared this cougar alert post from Waterton National Park just a few days before my arrival there. I never expected what happened next.

Here, Kitty, Kitty. Psspsspss.

On the eve of my first day in the park, during a wildlife drive, I lamented the lack of wildlife sightings. All of the park’s communications warn visitors to be prepared for encountering wildlife while hiking. One hundred yards into any trail is this warning sign.The massive 2017 Kenow Fire razed the dense forests, resulting in extensive sightlines. And yet.

Stuck in My Head

I passed by a small gathering of photographers with their big lenses pointed at a black bear high up on a slope. He was too far away, and, honestly, I’m beyond fortunate to be spoiled by previous, intimate bear encounters.

I’d come here to help reset my head. It’d been way too long since I’d been able to wander the wilderness in this way that feeds my soul, and there’s a lot of stress at home. I craved some forest bathing!

Here’s Your Sign

I was having a hard time shedding the stress. “I’ve lost my wildlife mojo,” I said to myself. The wild is responding to my negative energy, I thought as I rounded a bend to see the unmistakable long tail of a mountain lion crossing the road. A wild, North American mountain lion!!

I stopped in the road and activated my flashers while simultaneously grabbing my binoculars. I didn’t expect to locate the ghost cat, master of camouflage, in the low aspens and serviceberry bushes. But there he was. Standing broadside. This magnificent, muscular tomcat looking back at me.

I’ve spent a lot of time in mountain lion territory. I’ve seen tracks, scat, and sign. One delightful winter day, I heard a cougar calling to her kittens. I’m sure plenty of wild cats have seen me. But, until now, I’d never seen one in North America. Ghost cats!

I quickly exchanged the binoculars for my camera. The puma made some assessment of me and turned to pad up the burnt hillside. He moseyed, moving at a relaxed walk, stopping to look around, gently wagging the tip of that long feline tail, doing all the cat things. I reveled in this magical, solitary moment. 

As I watched him disappear and reappear through trees and brush, he crouched below a boulder and scrunched his ears out to the side. The stealthy cat pose. I thought he might be stalking a hare.

It was at this moment that I heard a car approaching. I am stopped in the lane of traffic below a blind curve. I started the car and crept forward with my eyes on the rear-view mirror. In the car behind me, one of the photographers I’d passed activated her flashers, and we both stopped.

I glassed and glassed the hillside but could not find the cougar. The person behind me had their big lens out the window, focused on the slope. I scanned the area where she was looking, astonished that she had found this elusive cat so quickly, when I’d been watching him and can’t find him. Only then do I realize that she’s photographing a black bear higher up the hillside to the left. To the right, a cinnamon-phase black bear is ambling along the hillside toward the other bear. This must be what caught the mountain lion’s attention, causing him to crouch. Bears and cats don’t play well together. I’m sure “my” cat is long gone now.

Still in Awe

When I got home, I checked the time stamps on my images. I spent almost five minutes with this elegant, wild cougar. FIVE MINUTES! A glimpse is a gift. I don’t even know what to call this—unreal, unbelievable, blessed, connection, becoming.

The image of that lion crossing the road when I first saw him is seared in my mind. Today, I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

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The post Ghost Cat Revealed appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

If he’s wooing, he could use some pointers.It’s dusky at the end of the day as I’m driving to my home for the night. When the mountains meet the prairie, cattle ranches and fields artfully adorned with round bales of hay become the backdrop. So, when I see a dark shape in the distance, I immediately think cow. But as I draw closer, the shape isn’t quite right for a cow. She turned broadside as I stopped at a pullout to look closer. Moose!This cow moose is slowly making her way from the distant willows, over the marshy ground, to a flowing stream. It’s dark enough that getting usable/decent images with her at this distance is questionable. I pick up my camera anyway. 

She steps down into the cut of the creek, a look of relaxed relief passes over her, and she stands there for a few moments, seeming to revel in it, before lowering her head to drink. It’s unseasonably hot.

A bull moose appears at the edge of the meadow, materializing out of a different cluster of willows. He stares at the cow moose. 

She climbs up out of the water and turns to leave. The bull moves forward, first at a walk, then the two of them begin to trot. She’s fleeing, and the chase becomes a full-on gallop, hooves slicing through the air, two tall, awkward-looking animals floating gracefully at racetrack speeds.

The distance between them is relatively constant, separated by a few lengths.

The cow moose crosses the creek, and they both stop. An impasse?

The pause is short-lived. The moment she takes a step, he’s after her again. First, trotting, keeping pace, then back at a full gallop.

Serious speed across the prairie. It’s dark, my shutter speed is slow, and my ISO is maxxed out at 20,000. I think maybe I can capture some artsy, motion-blur images of the chase, so I keep shooting.

This time, she stops behind some bushes. He does not continue the pursuit. I watched them a little longer while they casually browsed in separate directions, as if there had never been any issue.

I’m unsure what to make of it. It’s early for the moose rut, but someone has to go first. It was a glimpse into another world, with its own distinct customs and norms. I’m grateful for this moment of wild connection on the plains of Alberta, Canada.

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The post Wooing or Shooing? A Moose Encounter appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.