The jump-yip:
Prairie Dogs (Cynomys ludovicianus) Jump-Yip, Badlands National Park, South Dakota
A coyote trots away with its catch:
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Burrowing Owl (Athene cunicularia) Chicks, Badlands National Park, South Dakota
Here's a sequence of their feeding behavior.
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Hay Butte, Badlands National Park
The colorfully banded escarpments of Badlands National Park in South Dakota reveal a complex history of deposition and erosion of sedimentary rock layers overlying even more ancient igneous and metamorphic bedrock. The different bands testify to changing geologic forces such as the uplift of the Black Hills to the west, which were subsequently eroded, their deposits flowing into the basin to the east that would eventually become the Badlands. Ancient volcanic activity to the west of the Badlands deposited layers of dark ash carried by the wind. As climate and physiography changed, inland seas alternately flooded and exposed the area, creating habitat for the many animals and plants whose fossils can be found in various layers.
While the dramatic formations of the Badlands seem at first glance fixed, erosion continues to wear away the soft rock at a rate of up to one inch per year. Even more changeable are the colors of the landscape. When wet, the red bands stand out. In full sun, contrast among the bands can fade. This photograph was made in twilight as a line of storms approached from the south, the reflected blue of the lowering clouds lending a unique hue to the Badlands.
For a brief overview of Badlands geology, see Geologic Formations; for a more detailed account, see “Geology of Badlands National Park: A Preliminary Report.”
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Pronghorn (Antilocapra americana) and fawn, Custer State Park, South DakotaPronghorn (Antilocapra americana) and fawn, Badlands National Park, South Dakota
The juvenile Pronghorns in Badlands National Park tended to stay close to their mothers, except in one case in which we saw a doe trot across a meadow, leaving behind two fawns in a shallow depression near the road. The young Pronghorn stayed put. According to the Great Plains Nature Center, Pronghorn fawns will "bed down and lie still most of the time," the doe visiting "every 5 hours or so to nurse and check on them" (Pronghorn). Apparently, that behavior can extend into the summer. For more about Pronghorn, see Pronghorn - National Wildlife Federation.
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Trashed Trails - Macedonia Brook State Park
We have uploaded a new gallery entitled "Trashed Trails" to Trailside Photography. During a car-camping and hiking trip through the Mid-Atlantic states and New England in the late summer of 2014, we picked up trash along trails over a period of several weeks. This series of composite images juxtaposes the land and the litter.
Of course, we were appalled at the amount—and kind—of litter we found on some trails, but we wondered whether each bit of trash represented a wanton disregard for these public lands or whether some of the litter might be explained by less sinister circumstances. Perhaps that water bottle fell out of a pack and the hiker didn't notice. Maybe someone simply forgot that pair of socks after cooling his feet in a stream. Someone else, dealing with a fussy infant, might not have noticed that the baby spit out its pacifier. And perhaps the person who left soiled underwear in the woods was simply too embarrassed to carry them out.
Of course, the images in this gallery can't explain how each bit of trash ended up on the trails, but we think they illustrate the cumulative effects of our individual behaviors. Rather than feeling superior to the litterers—we would never throw trash in the woods!—we realized how easy it can be to ignore the impact of individual actions because we can't imagine, and often cannot directly see, the cumulative patterns to which each small act contributes.
Note: We are not currently offering prints of these large composite images for sale through this site, but we welcome inquiries about prints, licensing, or other arrangements for display.
]]>"It is this way with verse and animals
And love, that when you point you lose them all.
Startled or on a signal, what is rare
Is off before you have it anywhere."
And therein lies an ethical problem for photographers: how close, and in what manner, should we approach animals in the wild? Species tolerate different proximity to humans, but wildlife managers often offer this simple guideline: if the animal stops its normal behavior and attends to your presence (e.g., watches you warily, adopts a defensive stance), you are too close. However, all sorts of situations complicate that rule, as I recently discovered when making this photograph of a Trumpeter Swan, taken at the Seney National Wildlife Refuge in Michigan's Upper Peninsula:
Trumpeter Swan, Seney National Wildlife RefugeTrumpeter Swan (Cygnus buccinator), Seney National Wildlife Refuge, Michigan.
I don't own a "wildlife" lens (e.g., 500mm+ focal length), so I rarely am able to fill the frame with a truly wild animal (I know that category is open to interpretation), even one the size of an adult swan. Prior to taking this shot, we had driven around Seney's Marshland Wildlife Drive and observed many Trumpeter Swans and several Common Loons, all of whom kept their distance from shore. Stopping for lunch at a picnic area on the Refuge's eastern edge, we were surprised to find a pair of swans swimming placidly toward us as we walked a trail along the bank of a pond. A short distance from shore, the swans stopped to feed, dabbling for aquatic vegetation, then groomed themselves for several minutes, this one right on the edge of the pond, close to where I stood. After I made the image, I withdrew and the swans swam off to the far shore.
We puzzled over this close encounter until we saw a sign posted further down the shore imploring visitors not to feed the swans. Sadly, I suspect these swans had become accustomed to people doing just that. I was grateful for the opportunity to observe the swans at close quarters, but reminded that we need to keep wildlife wild.
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Storm Clouds Over Lake CarlosStorm clouds over Lake Carlos, Lake Carlos State Park, Minnesota.
Of course the sun ultimately provides the energy that drives heavy weather—and the hydrologic cycle more generally. The storm on July 5 was not one of the "1,000-year storms" that hit southern Minnesota in 2004, 2007, and 2010, but according to a recent story by Minnesota Public Radio, climate change will mean more big storms for the state (Climate Change in Minnesota: More heat, more big storms | Minnesota Public Radio News).
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