la rutina diaria

Mental marathon: Liuwa to Lusaka

2011-10-20T10:27:00.001-07:00

December 2, 2010

I swear, the days in Zambia seem to get crazier and crazier. You can’t reach a point in this country where you’d think, “hmmm, things couldn’t possibly get any more interesting. I’ve seen it all.” Working in Zambia is like facing a junkball pitcher with a 95 mile an hour fastball to boot. Curveballs, sliders, screwballs, change ups, knuckleballs, and an occasional fastball to keep things interesting, as if they weren’t interesting enough already. You could compose a highly descriptive novel about any forty eight hour span of events in Western Province if you so desired. Perhaps I will some day, when I have the time to think some thoughts and spin a few hundred pages of African tales…

The most recent forty eight hours in Zambia have been incredible and ridiculous. Exciting, exasperating, exhausting. Hilarious and slap happy, anxious and surreal. And occasionally sad. I’ll try to organize these past few days chronologically, beginning with some humbling anecdotes from Kalabo town, followed by an adorable wild dog and hyaena interaction in the eye of a fantastic lightning storm, a 14 hour drive in a derelict rental SUV and an interesting pair of black market petrol pushers, culminating at the fanciest hotel in Zambia and Monday Night Football. If you really are interested in reading this email, I’d allow at least twenty or thirty minutes for it. It’s a long one…

It started at the copy machine in the Kalabo African Parks office. Organizing a few hyena sighting and carcass identification forms to send through the copier, I overheard a young African Parks intern describing her recent conversation with an eleven year old girl she knows in town. An eleven year old girl, proudly married to a man in his thirties, with whom she shares her two children… Standing at the copier, I couldn’t have felt more like an out of place white boy sheltered from these sorts of realities. A few minutes later, one of the African Parks laborers, a local man born and raised in Kalabo, rushes in with a tired face and sad, red eyes. He asks me how I am doing and I tell him I am doing well. “How are you? I am not okay. My child. She is dead. She was very sick last night and died at 17 hours. She is dead.” Then he moved on to the park manager, asking for a vehicle arrangement for his relatives in a neighboring village to attend the funeral. And I continued to stand at the copy machine, realizing that making duplicates of hyena sighting forms felt a solid zero on the importance scale. This is the second malarial death I’ve heard about in six days in Kalabo. Both victims were adolescent girls between the ages of 10 and 12. And I only heard about them because they affected African Parks employees. Who knows how many others there have been in the past week, month, year. And somehow I’m the fortunate one carrying months’ worth of malaria pills… Humbling indeed.

Later that afternoon, I returned to our camp in the park in a borrowed African Parks Land Cruiser, complete with a closed cabin to shelter us from the driving rain that has hounded Zambia for the past week (the heavy rains have quite officially arrived). With a break in the rain and some rays of sunshine piercing their way through the thunderheads, we raced out to the floodplains to follow the wild dogs in hopes of documenting another successful hunt. We found the dogs in twenty minutes, which is fortuitous and extremely quick, and sat with them for half an hour. As we sat, reminiscing of stormy ferry trips through the Dixon Entrance at the southernmost reach of Southeast Alaska, the sun started its descent into Angola. In unison with the sunset, the dogs sprang up, greeted each other in their playful manner, and set off on a hunt underneath the thunderstorm’s huge sucker hole. The hunt lasted 1.7 kilometers (we document these things), ending with the death of another wildebeest calf. The alpha pair hoarded down a few pounds of raw flesh immediately, and then the carcass sat for fifteen minutes untouched. With wild dogs, the pups eat first, and with this hunt, the pups elected to remain behind, 1.7 kilometers away, unsupervised. The adults and yearlings crowded around the carcass, licking their lips and whining, wishing they could tear into the wildebeest but understanding they couldn’t until the pups arrived. Finally one of the yearlings took off in a sprint and retrieved the pups, who arrived like a troop of circus clowns spilling out of their clown car, one collective mass of bodies twisting, twittering, and wrestling like a bunch of agile drunks toward the carcass. With already gluttonously full stomachs, they attacked the dead carcass, feasted, and left the hide and bones for those who had actually made the kill. After a while, a clan of nine hyenas arrived, hooping and hollering, laughing the hyena laugh. Hyenas are nearly indestructible and can be twice the size of wild dogs. Yet with only three adults, five yearlings, and nine pups, the wild dogs sent the brute-sized hyenas running for their lives into the dusk. These dogs are hard not to love. Playfully goofy yet tough as nails. Pleasant badasses, you could say.

During this whole interaction, we were surrounded by black walls of rain and incessant lightning. 360 degrees of brutal rains and ground shaking thunder. I’m sure you could find comparable storms in west Texas or Nebraska during tornado season, and somehow we found ourselves sitting in the only dry spot. The eye, of sorts. (Maybe the dogs know a thing or two about weather?) As darkness finally set in, we followed two safari vehicles that had joined us at the wild dog scene back toward camp. Two open-topped Land Cruisers, completely exposed to the rains they were soon to be driving in. And as we finally reached the rains and were pounded and pounded by winds and violent precipitation, Matt and I laughed like a couple of idiots. We were dry as a bone sitting in our closed-cabin cruiser. We were the ones that usually got pummeled by the rain.

I returned to my tent in anticipation of reflecting on the day’s events. The conversation at the office in Kalabo, the humbling malarial realization, the adorable dogs, the storm. But I was too drained to reflect, and within minutes I was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.

Waking up at three in the morning, I laid in my tent wondering how in the world we were going to drive from Kalabo to Mongu after such heavy rains. The road to Mongu crosses the Zambezi River floodplain, and is accessible only by boat from January to August. From September through November, the road is open for vehicles, and December lies in somewhat of a transition period. Sometimes the road is under water, other times it’s not. Most days it’s a little bit of both. For a Land Cruiser outfitted with appropriate suspension and a snorkel kit, the road is no big deal. But for us, with a rental SUV from Lusaka that came in with a biologist from Bozeman a week before, the road was a questionable proposition at best. But the car had to get back to Lusaka, so we woke up early and set off for Mongu. Kalabo is remote and inaccessible for most of its residents. So whenever any vehicle is headed toward Mongu, most of the town knows about it, and soon you are hit with multiple requests for a ride. We accepted three strangers, all teachers who needed to get to Mongu to collect their paychecks (Kalabo has no bank, and for anyone with a government-paid position, the only way to collect a paycheck is to figure out how to get to Mongu and back). We figured we could use the additional hands in the event of burying the suspensionless SUV in the mud somewhere along the way. The ride started out with a few laughs, as the first fifteen minutes were fun as we rocked helter skelter down the quickly deteriorating mud road. We traveled through standing water, divots and holes, up and down angulated ravines. I felt like there should have been ESPN cameras, girls in bikinis, and sensationally-voiced commentators announcing our performance scores in the four-wheel drive championships. I’m not kidding. The road was in nearly undrivable condition, and to my knowledge, has all but officially closed until August of 2011. Over the next three and a half hours, the laughter faded, replaced by increasingly irritated one-liners. I’m interested to see how the expedition back to Kalabo will look in a few days. It will likely include a dug-out canoe, a tent, hopefully an operable rain fly, and a few days paddling upstream through a combination of intense heat and intense rain. And that’s if it all goes smoothly…

Finally back on the paved road in Mongu, we celebrated with a couple cold Cokes, whose bottle necks of course shattered when we opened them with a bottle opener. Then it was off for Lusaka in hopes of arriving before dark, considering the rental car had but one functioning bright headlight. Along the way, we passed over the Kafue River, where I spotted my first wild hippos surfacing somewhat like whales in the muddy river below the bridge. A few minutes later, we encountered my first wild elephant browsing the vegetation near the roadside (Liuwa has a very low density of elephants, and I haven’t seen any in the park as of yet). Making good time toward Lusaka, we were all laughs, yet there was the feeling that everything had gone too smoothly, and a curveball was just around the corner. Not surprisingly, that curveball arrived when we stopped for gas. As mentioned in previous emails, nothing here goes to plan, so I’m not sure why we assumed that the gas station would have actually been open in Myumba. Realizing it was closed, we drove around town, asking anybody if they knew where we could buy some petrol. Nobody knew, and we sat in the car temporarily defeated, until a local street entrepreneur appeared out of thin air, approached the car, and asked if we were looking for petrol, oblivious to the fact that we’d been searching for it for the last thirty minutes. We told him yes, and he got in our car and directed us to a sidestreet that was sufficiently grimy, but not really any grimier than any other roads in town, including the main one. When we arrived at our curious back alley location, he took off on a sprint into the darkness and left us waiting for about ten minutes. Everything is more curious when it’s dark, and the building facades on the street and the characters moving about in the shadows gave me the feeling that we were here to buy drugs or women. Or both. Finally, our man with the gas arrived with his friend from an entirely different direction than the one he disappeared into. After haggling over the price per liter, assuring us that it wasn’t diluted with water or kerosene, they gave us about four gallons, assuming that would bring us all the way to Lusaka with fuel to spare…

Forty km from Lusaka, the gas light illuminated. With no idea how much fuel the vehicle had once the gas light went on, the next half hour was spent wondering if we were going to spend the night sleeping in this derelict old vehicle on the side of the road. And with each passing mile without any sign of a gas station, we assumed we would be. Yet somehow we coasted into a gas station that amazingly was both open and had staff on hand available to make the monetary transaction for gas (gas pumps here are only open when staff is present; there are no credit card operated machines). As we grabbed a few more gallons, Matt received a phone call from a friend who happens to manage the nicest hotel in Lusaka, and despite the international banking conference being held there, he had an available room for us for free if we were interested. Letting out a few joyous screams and bursts of the car horn, we were on our way toward featherbeds, hot showers, ground coffee, pizza, beer, and complimentary breakfast. And Monday Night Football on the large, flat screen tv in our air conditioned room.

So here I sit, in Lusaka, finally with time to sit and think about all that has happened in the past few days. A delicious cup of coffee to my left, a hot shower nearby, and a storm of approaching contemplations and reflections headed my way…

Christmas is definitely in the air here, and I’ve seen plenty of decorated Christmas trees and Christmas lights in the neighborhood. I’m considering a movie at the cinema tonight, and perhaps a robust dinner at a place I never thought I’d be caught dead in: the local expatriate hangout. The Rhapsody Café. It feels good to be back in Lusaka, if only for a few days. I hope everyone is doing well, and thanks for all the emails! It’s great to hear from everyone so regularly; it makes Zambia feel rather close to everyone back home! In my sixth week here, I feel like I’m finally acclimating. Transitioning into an acceptance of the pace of life here and the constant onslaught of unforeseen delays. Curveballs, fastballs, and change ups. I’m realizing that although the next few months are going to be a challenge, a test of mental and physical endurance, my time here is indeed short and I’d better make the most of it. If only I knew how to put my thoughts together coherently, and if I had the time to try, my experiences here sure would make for an interesting book… I’ll end this email with a short list of “There’s nothing likes…”

There’s nothing like:

Getting blasted in the open eyeball by several flying dung beetles the size of fun-sized Snickers bars while driving in our open-aired four wheeler at forty miles an hour.

Sitting with a pack of endangered African wild dogs with no sounds other than croaking frogs, crickets, cranes, storks, Egyptian geese, songbirds, and approaching hyena laughter. And thunder.

Keeping your eyes peeled for roadside wildlife to avoid an accident, except the roadside wildlife aren’t deer, they’re elephants.

Walking to your tent at night on the vigilant lookout for lions, armies of red ants, and snakes. You want to walk as quickly as possible but you can’t, because you must first scan the ground at your feet, the ground in front of you, and the woodland surrounding you after every other step. (Don’t worry, the only thing to really worry about are the ants, but your mind can easily sensationalize your surroundings when it gets dark)…

Passing through a roadless, subsistence-dependent village in southwest Africa in which the residents have likely never seen a four wheel drive machine like ours, let alone a man with white skin driving one.

Leaving a malarial town of absolute poverty only to arrive in the capitol city to spend a night in an opulently luxurious hotel, knowing that nearly everyone you left behind in Kalabo will likely never dream of such an opportunity...

Enjoy the snow, the wind, your dogs (or cats, I suppose), friends, family, and the warm, cozy places you all call home this December, and be sure to appreciate the warmth that the wintry Christmas season often ushers in. I wish you all well and I can’t wait to see you all again!

Cheers,

Daven

Heavy rains approaching a lone wildebeest from the south. The dark area beneath the cloud is a sheer wall of rain...

Looking to the north, a hungry wild dog from the Sausage Tree pack looks longingly back toward the pups. A different storm cell approached us from this direction, funneling us into the eye of multiple descending storms.

The pups feeding on another wildebeest calf.

This muddy situation was from a different Kalabo-to-Mongu excursion, but it gives you an idea of the Mongu Road terrain. This truck was much more equipped with four wheel drive essentials, including a winch, good tires, shocks and suspension (which our rental didn't have), and a snorkel kit. Despite this, we managed to bury it in the mud. It might look absurd that we even tried to drive through this. But this is the road; you have no other options. Thankfully we winched ourselves out using a second Land Cruiser that caravanned with us.

It was always nice to pause for a moment or two and absorb the enormous African skies and the sun descending into Angola. The sunsets were regularly spectacular, but with them they brought darkness. And darkness in Liuwa is an exciting experience, to put it lightly...

Lady Liuwa, Queen of Beasts (and her fellow kings)

2011-09-05T15:39:00.000-07:00

"With only 23,000 to 40,000 lions remaining, the African lion population is half of what it was in the early 1950's."
-Wildlife Conservation Network

"World peace is threatened not only by regional conflicts and by injustices between peoples and nations but also by the lack of necessary respect for nature, by the disordered exploitation of her resources, and by the progressive deterioration of the quality of life. The ecological crisis has assumed such proportion as to be everyone's responsibility... greed and selfishness, individual and collective, have gone against the order of creation."
-Pope John Paul II

"Sustaining people, sustaining nature--it is one cause, inseperable."
-James Gustave Speth

"In 1908, [Teddy Roosevelt] called the governors of all the states to a White House Conference on Conservation, now often regarded as the beginning of a true national conservation movement. One breakthrough of that historic conference was to establish the protection of human health as a legitimate goal of conservation."
-Philip Shabecoff

"I am myself and what is around me,
and if I do not save it, it shall not save me."
-Jose Ortega y Gasset

"Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself."
-Chief Seattle

"We have traded the idiosyncratic story of our land and people for the sake of a financial transaction. This trade leads us away from quirky human history and toward the extinction of human experience."
-Peter Forbes

Lady Liuwa, a National Geographic celebrity. National Geographic has published two documentaries featuring this lioness and the history behind her isolation in Liuwa Plain National Park and surrounding Game Management Area. As has been the fate of most wildlife populations across the world in recent history, complex economic, political, and social problems arose in the latter 20th century, and regional populations of various species were extirpated or decimated. Consequently, by the 1990's, there was only one remaining lion within Liuwa Plain: "The Last Lioness." Here she is, relaxing in the shade near camp in Liuwa. As many viewers have already discovered through watching the Nat Geo documentaries, this lion developed somewhat of a familiarity with a filmmaker who spent a fair amount of time in Liuwa Plain. Without a pride of lions to return to each morning, it has been argued that the lioness developed a sense of longing for a pride, and that the filmmaker and his campmates became her de facto pride. As a result, the lioness continues to spend a large amount of time relaxing in camp, near its human occupants. I heard her calling and roaring from within camp regularly, most often in the middle of the night when I was tucked away into my sleeping bag. An electrifying experience to have a lion roar within two hundred meters from your tent!

Two years ago, two male lions were introduced to Liuwa Plain in an attempt to encourage lion reproduction in the park. Here is one of the males on a late afternoon in January.

As the sun rose on my first morning in Liuwa, we loaded up our field gear in hopes of finding the Sausage Tree pack of African wild dogs. Within twenty minutes of departing from camp, we encountered the two male lions in the plains, with full bellies, apparently having just killed and fed upon a female wildebeest.

Retreating into the shade of the woodland. We stumbled upon the male lions just after sunrise, as we were searching for one of four of the collared wildebeest. The lions appeared to have fed overnight and were moving into the shade for a post feed nap.

This picture puts predators into perspective. Lions do not chase their prey for long distances; they rely on highly developed ambush techniques and the ability to blend in with the environment. These lions were no more than forty meters away, yet only one was clearly visible. Had we not seen the visible male, we would never have realized another adult male lion (hiding in the grass on the left side of the photo) was lurking in the tall grass at such a close distance...

Liuwa Plain African wild dogs

2011-08-09T16:47:00.000-07:00

"With so many consumers of the fertility of the earth, and so little attention to the means of repairing the ravages, no one can be surprised at the impoverished face of the country."
-James Madison, 1818

"The central thing for which Conservation stands is to make this country the best possible place to live in, both for us and for our descendants."
-Gifford Pinchot, 1910

"...the modern technoscientific revolution, including especially the great leap forward of computer-based information technology, has betrayed Nature a second time, by fostering the belief that the cocoons of urban and suburban material life are sufficient for human fulfillment. That is an especially serious mistake."
-E. O. Wilson, 2006

-The grand and ultimate illusion would be that man could provide a substitute for the elemental workings of nature."
-Fairfield Osborn, 1948

Full-bellied and happy, a pup from the Sausage Tree Pack of African wild dogs.

African wild dogs are incredibly social and intelligent. Several hours out of each day are used by members of the pack to play and interact. These two wrestled for nearly a half hour near a wetland in the late evening.

After a big wildebeest meal, the pack's pups played keep away with an older subadult dog. The subadult carried a stick in its mouth and ran from the pups, resulting in the entire group of pups forming a collective unit to chase down the subadult and its stick. Watching this behavior, it was rather evident that the subadult was teaching the pups how to hunt as a pack. In order to get the reward (the stick, the wildebeest, the oribi), the pups had to form a unified group and coordinate a series of flanks and attacks. The subadult would concede the stick to the pups from time to time and let them wrestle with it amongst themselves. But not to be left out of the fun, the subadult would dive back in and wrestle with all the pups, ultimately grabbing the stick again and running from them. The expressions in these wild dogs' eyes, mouths, and tails were reminiscent of dogs at home playing fetch or keep away in the backyard... In a world far from home, these dogs were good company.

Three subadult wild dogs "stalking." Wild dogs will stalk each other as a form of social greeting, as an indication of the beginning of a hunt, or just simply as an enjoyable thing to do in the evening. On this occasion, the wild dogs were beginning to stalk a small herd of wildebeest.

Packmates. Allies. Friends.

Liuwa Plain hyaenas

2011-07-28T11:23:00.000-07:00

"If we are to balance and direct our remarkable technological muscle power, we need to regain some ancient virtues: the humility to acknowledge how much we have yet to learn, the respect that will allow us to protect and restore nature, and the love that can lift our eyes to distant horizons, far beyond the next election, paycheque or stock dividend. Above all we need to reclaim our faith in ourselves as creatures of the Earth, living in harmony with all other forms of life.
What a sign of maturity it would be for our species to acknowledge the profound limitations inherent in human knowledge and the destructive consequences of our crude but powerful technologies. It would mark the beginning of wisdom to pay attention to ecosystems delineated by nature--mountain ranges, watersheds, valley bottoms, rivers and lake systems, wetlands--rather than regions determined by politics or economics. "
-David Suzuki, 1997

We found this clan of hyaenas during the peak of the flood season. Matt and I went into Liuwa Plain in late January, as the floods were in full force, just to see what we could see and maybe even get some work done. No researchers had ever been in Liuwa Plain in the flood season; we were the first to do so. In one week in January we accomplished a lot; we located more than a dozen of the study animals and determined they were alive and downloaded GPS information from three of the four collared wildebeest (unbelievable that we managed to do so, given the flood conditions, the massive amount of land in which the wildebeest could be, and the sheer volume of wildebeest in the region at that time; how we managed to locate three specific wildebeest out of potentially 35,000 from the ground, without air support, during flood conditions is beyond me...). The last night we were in Liuwa, we searched for this specific clan of hyaenas. The sun was setting over Angola, and the angle of the light lit up the golden grass on the floodplain in almost a radiant sort of way. The light, sounds, and smells alone were enough to wash away any difficulties we might have encountered, and allowed us both to take a step back and realize how unbelievably beautiful Liuwa Plain is during the flood season. As we traversed through the floodplain, we picked up a signal for one of the collared hyaenas. We zeroed in on it and came ever closer. Quietly, and almost stealthily, two of the hyaenas poked their heads up out of the grass behind us, one of whom was holding a wildebeest leg in its mouth. A few more hyaenas picked their heads up and watched us, some of whom casually strolled 15 yards further away, and others who simply laid back down in the grass. Seeing this clan in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but the rich smells of grass, the sounds of thousands of migratory birds, and the angle of the Angolan sunset was among the most incredible moments of my time in Zambia.

Slowly repositioning herself to further gnaw on her wildebeest leg. A yearling hyaena cub proceeds her in the background.

This hyaena appeared to have been caught in a snare, with the resulting scar around its neck quite obvious. Snaring is a regular occurence in Zambia for a few reasons: villagers will set snares to catch antelope species and other mammals for food; villagers will also set snares to catch species pestering their farmland, garden, or livestock. I'm not sure how or where this hyaena was snared, or just as curiously, how it got out of the snare..

Hyaenas are powerful animals. Their jaws are powerful enough to crush bones. And not just any bones, but big bones like zebra femurs. That's a lot of pounds per square inch of jaw power. With that in mind, it's easy to see how hyaenas might lose an ear in an inter or intraclan altercation..

My first morning in Liuwa Plain and we came across this scene. We first found the smalll pride of lions, sometime around 6 am. Then in the distance, no more than 200 yards away, we saw some frenzied movement. We drove closer and found these hyaenas devouring the remains of a wildebeest likely killed by the lions that night.

December brings the rains

2011-06-30T12:45:00.001-07:00

December 2, 2010
Hello hello!

I trust that not everyone on this list is sick of reading my electronic novellas, so I'll fire off another dispatch from the booming megalopalis that is Mongu. A town of 30,000 that feels more like a refined village than a city. The same size of Juneau or Bozeman, yet it still feels like there are only a few thousand folks around these parts, pushing their tomatoes and kerosene in the market nearby. There are some incredible furniture builders in this town, and they display their finely handcrafted chairs, tables, bedframes, and doors along the side of the main road. I'm not sure if Mongu is known for its fine furniture builders. But it should be.

Anyhow, for those I've talked to in the last week and a half, you're quite familiar with the frustrations I've had. For those that I haven't spoken with or emailed, I'll relate some quick backstory. The inefficiency of this place is mind boggling. I mentioned it in my previous email, but it truly is noteworthy. It's a fine line of being irritatingly absurd and completely humorous. And for a while, I was allowing myself to dive deeper and deeper into the former. It got to the point where I had my bags packed and was ready to head out. I felt like nothing was being accomplished, and I was just another hand on deck, bailing out the constant wave of problems breaking over the bow. However, my supervisor and his comrade Meagan, both from Bozeman, helped me make the transition of being frustrated to being downright amused. These two have spent years and years in the African bush, and they know that nothing goes to plan, and nothing works. They have a saying that makes me laugh harder and harder every time I hear it when we make a plan for the day: "what could possibly go wrong?" Every time I hear it, I burst out into laughter, harder with each subsequent time it's mentioned. Having those two around to laugh with, to daydream about hash browns from the Cat Eye Cafe or dark coffee from Rockford in Bozeman has been quite the medicine.

One thing I have noticed in the face of all of these constant, absurd amounts of regular problems is the camaraderie that people here develop. Everybody helps everybody. Is it because nobody has anything to do at that specific moment, so they might as well help? Perhaps a little bit. But also because everyone is so used to dealing with problems that they understand a helping hand is much appreciated. And they're offered without question. You have a problem? You have two or three people in there to help you resolve it. That's a new phenomenon for me, and I'm liking it.

On the other hand, Matt, my supervisor, described how we actually are making big strides in Liuwa Plain, despite all the obstacles. Liuwa Plain is home to the second largest wildebeest migration in the world, yet nobody knows anything about it. Nobody has ever studied it, nobody knows where the wildebeest go/come from, how big the migration is, and how expansively their migrations range. It's estimated that there are between 30,000 and 40,000 wildebeest in the park, and four of them have GPS downloadable collars that track their movement, report that information to a satellite high in the sky, and store it all in their neat little unit around their necks. We managed to find all four of those wildebeest, four amongst potentially 40,000, on the ground without air support. We downloaded the information collected from the past four months, and now we have a map of where some of these wildebeest travel after they leave Liuwa. A first! A contribution to science; information regarding the second largest wildebeest migration. And we're the ones doing it. Pretty cool!

We've also recently managed to determine that there are not two, but three packs of African wild dogs in the park. We managed to follow the Sausage Tree pack (the most easily found pack) again for two days. Another four wildebeest taken down, followed by hours of puppy-play. It was interesting to see the yearlings at work in the pack. They look after the pups, regurgitate mass quantities of meat for the pups (as if the pups haven't eaten enough already with their fat ol' bellies), and teach the pups essential hunting behavior through play. I watched one yearling wild dog play keep away with the pups with a stick for over an hour. The yearling would taunt the pups with the stick, much the same way you and I do with our own dogs when we have a toy it wants. The pups go wild, bark and tweet incessantly, and chase the yearling in circles. Eventually, the yearling will allow one of the pups to snatch up the stick, chew it for a while, and then it's back at it again with a different stick. It's interesting to see that the yearling is teaching the pups to not only chase, but to chase as a collective unit. A pack. And he rewards them with the prize. These pups are going to be great hunters!

It's also hilarious to see the dogs stalking each other. Anybody with a dog has played the game in which you slowly, ever so slowly, stalk up to your dog who is watching you with a secret service style eye. Eventually your dog can't take the built up excitement any longer and springs up like a rocket and goes crashing into the nearby table with a big grin on its face. These wild dogs do the same thing, but with each other, without any humans playing the game with them. So next time you play keep away with your dog, or stalk up on it like a sly ol' trickster, just know that you're teaching them how to behave like wild dogs on the African plain!

Apart from the wild dogs, I managed to go on a few flights over the park last week. Our goal was to find a few specific animals, including one wild dog that dispersed a few months ago and hasn't been seen since. We saw huge herds of wildebeest running wildly at the approach of our little Cessna, herds of zebra doing much of the same, big old eland lurking around on the woodland fringes, and wild dogs and hyaenas sleepily sharing a big wet pan in the baking midday sun. The pilot of the plane is a filmmaker. You've seen his work if you've watched Planet Earth. He was the camera man for the African wild dog sequence (a very cool sequence). If you watch the behind the scenes, he's one of the main guys talking about the difficulties of finding these animals and actually filming them. He's filmed all kinds of animals for the BBC, most recently a film called "Elephants Without Borders," tracking elephants across Zambia, Angola, Namibia, and Botswana. A pretty savvy dude, and as humble as they come.

I'd like to write more, but I have to jump into the back of a Land Cruiser and cruise three hours into the driving rain, over the potmarked "road" back to Kalabo in thirty minutes. Didn't forget my rain gear this time! Halfway through, we'll cross the Zambezi, the place where I huddled with the family in their reed hut a few weeks ago fending off a tropical grassland dose of hypothermia... It's crazy to see how much the Zambezi River has risen in the last four weeks with the rains we've had. We're getting more and more, and before long, the roads will be inaccessible, and it'll be swampthing amphibious vehicles for the duration..

Hope everyone is well and not entirely insane with Christmas music already! I heard "Feliz Navidad" in the supermarket yesterday afternoon and it made me laugh. Yet it was comforting to hear a familiar old tune in such an otherworldly grocery store... Have a great week everybody, and hopefully next time I'll finally have some photos, eh?

Cheerio,
Daven

Flying overhead with the camera crew, we caught a few good glimpses of herds of wildebeest munching their way through the freshly sprouted vegetation.

Although hyaenas and wild dogs will fight over the tasty remains of a carcass, they decided to share the cool environs of a wet pan this afternoon. The hyaenas are to the upper left in the water and mud. The wild dogs are toward the right and the bottom of the image, lounging in the cool mud or green vegetation.

At play with full bellies.

If you've ever played fetch with your dog, or wrestled with it for what seems like hours, you've probably thought, "this dog could play all day and never get tired!" These wild dogs are the same. After a successful hunt and a good feed, some of the dogs wrestled and played keep away with each other literally for a full hour or more.

Somewhere in this landscape is the Angolan-Zambian border. It is believed that the wildebeest migration travels outside the Zambian border and into Angola. If we can prove these movements using the information obtained from the four wildebeest GPS collars, it could mean further habitat protection not only for wildebeest, but for all other prey and predator species that depend upon the same land.

The "roads" traveled

2011-06-30T11:15:00.000-07:00

A few of the sights along the route from Mongu to Matemanene, our field camp in Liuwa Plain.

Along the Mongu to Kalabo road, you'll see hundreds of people walking in either direction. For most, walking is the only form of transportation available. Many have bicycles, which are mostly pushed along the Mongu road due to difficult terrain, or perhaps due to the load of water, parafin, grain, and fish they've strapped to the bike's frame. This fellow was out in the midday heat, shielding himself from the rays.

The Zambezi River bisects the flood plain between Mongu and Kalabo. Here we are waiting for the pontoon to empty its eastbound vehicles, soon to board and head across the river toward Kalabo. The pontoon only runs during the latter half of the dry season, when the Mongu to Kalabo route is dry enough for vehicles. The huts near the pontoon are mostly fishermen, but some of them have set up small shops offering hot soda, salty snacks, and talk time for Zambia's pay-as-you-go cell phones.

Back in the day, there was a Grand Idea to connect Mongu to eastern Angola by paved road. I'm not entirely confident I know the reason behind the proposed road, but I heard more than once that it was to service the diamond traffic between mines in Angola and Lusaka, Zambia. Angola has a fairly ugly blood diamond history, and apparently the idea was to ship diamonds to Lusaka to make them easier to buy and sell, but also perhaps to try to wash away some of the Angolan blood diamond reputation along the long route. This section of road was an anomoly. Paved from Kalabo to the beginning of the Zambezi flood plain, it was a stretch of 17 or so miles of isolated asphalt. Indeed, it was quite strange. The road was complete with kilometer markers and pullouts for naps, bathroom breaks, whatever. The road continued on as a paved surface to the Luanginga River in Kalabo, despite there being no gas station in Kalabo, and not many vehicles either. In the other direction, the pavement terminated at a collection of huts, where the four wheel adventure begins.

The end of the pavement in Kalabo, and one of the few regular vehicles in town. Behind the white truck is the Luanginga River pontoon. The Zambezi pontoon is equipped with two motors that zip you across the big river. This pontoon is equipped with one rope, which breaks from time to time, that you use to pull the pontoon across. Boarding the pontoon was generally easy, unless it was done at night, which made for more than one exciting evening... On the other side of this river and across a few miles of sandy four wheel drive trail is the boundary of Liuwa Plain.
Matemanene, our field camp in Liuwa Plain, has a large radio tower placed smack in the middle of the camps' woodland. I climbed the tower to use our telemetry receiver to pick up signals from collared animals throughout the park. It eventually dawned on me to bring my camera with me and snap off a few photos of the landscape immediately surrounding our camp. The water in the background is the Munde Stream, and during the heavy rains it presented a huge obstacle to getting in and out of camp. In dry conditions, you could drive from the Munde to our tents in five minutes. In wet conditions, it took us a couple hours to try to find a reasonable crossing in which we wouldn't sink our vehicles in the swampy stream.. And again, these crossings were made all the more interesting at night!

Thanksgiving dispatch from Zambia

2011-06-16T09:05:00.000-07:00

Noember 22, 2010

Aloha!

Where to even begin... This past week has been a complete pipe bomb of stimuli; an odyssey of events, reactions, and improvisations through which I've somehow managed to navigate and arrive back in Kalabo town on a pleasantly balmy yet fresh November evening in Western Province...

After spending three weeks in Zambia, I'm beginning to generate some moderately informed impressions. At risk of falling into the trap of forging down the road of over simplified generalizations, I take it upon myself to produce the following characterizations of my time in Zambia:

Highs and lows.

Frustrations.

Highs. The highs in Zambia are truly indescribable. It is hard to put into words what it feels like to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of two male lions calling at each other, 200 yards from your tent. It's not necessarily spooky, but it gives you goosebumps. It's chilling. Alluring and intoxicating. You don't want the lions to come snatch you out of your tent (which isn't going to happen, so don't worry), but you don't want them to stop roaring under the Zambian moon. It's nice to know that lions don't scavenge campsites the way bears do, so we don't have to worry about falling into the lion's clutch if we leave a few boxes of porridge strewn about on the kitchen table. (We do, however, keep our camp clean as a whistle. The vervet monkeys are especially advanced thieves, and the hyaenas don't mind a free lunch either)...

Highs. We finally found one of the two known packs of African wild dogs in the park (if you don't know what African wild dogs are, google 'em. They are supremely cool). Since they are elusive little canids with a monstrous home range, we had to stay on them/follow them until we lost them. We managed to keep up with them for about 36 hours before they gave us the ol' slip... Don't wag the finger just yet; it's nearly impossible to follow a pack of small, dark creatures that move a couple of miles at the drop of a hat under the starry night. Anyhow, as we followed them, we witnessed not one, not two, but four successful hunts. Two wildebeest calves, one wildebeest adult, and an oribi (a small, insanely fast plains antelope). Wild dog behavior is also somewhat intoxicating. They have very interesting social structures, and downright cute, playful behavior. After a successful hunt, the dogs wag and shake their tails/entire bodies uncontrollably, wrestling, jumping, and playing with their pack mates. The pups always eat on the carcass first; they're usually the ones with the fullest stomachs and the ones most inclined to play. Considering there are 9 pups in this pack, it made for quality pup watching. At any rate, as we followed the pack to a shallow pan during the midday Zambian sun, we thought we could take a break and relax. Just as soon a s we put our feet up and our caps down over our eyes, a couple dogs leaped up and sprinted at a small herd of approaching wildebeest. The chase was on, and the entire pack was soon racing after an isolated wildebeest cow and her calf. We followed as quickly as we could in our land cruiser, which isn't easy in this unspeakably and unpredictably rough terrain. The chase somehow managed a mid-session 180 degree spin and began sprinting back directly toward us. The calf was taken down literally 20 meters from our cruiser and consumed in about 5 minutes. The cow stood in shock nearby, calling to the calf (which isn't uncommon behavior for an animal to exhibit after it's lost its calf). Unfortunately for the cow, some of the pack took it upon themselves to trap her in the pan and eventually dog-piled her to the ground. The groans, moans, girations, and desperate attempts at escape were vivid beyond description. It was a murderous scene, truly violent and savage. A specta cle. The dogs began consuming her at the pan's edge, and she emitted her last groan about twenty minutes later. Seeing the predator-prey dynamic live and in color, all literally within 50 meters of our truck was extraordinarily rare and quite amazing. In my years in Yellowstone and Alaska, I've never seen anything even close to that. M att, my supervisor, who has worked in Africa for years and did his PhD work in Yellowstone on wolf-elk-bison dynamics, said he's never seen anything like that, within such close proximity. In that regard, witnessing the natural predator-prey dynamic was unreal. Yet witnessing the entire interaction. The calf sprinting wide-eyed for its life, finally falling in endurance to the pack of hungry dogs, observing the mother's behavior and her eventual downfall, and listening to the gurgles and groans being emitted from two dying wildebeest certainly drew on some less-than-happy emotions. Raw, wild. Exciting, yet saddening. Pleasing to see a healthy and wild system, yet always a tinge of reality when you reflect upon your own life as you see it taken from another creature. An interesting bag of emotions, for sure. Regardless, I obtained some ridiculously great photos from the doggy hunt! I wish I co uld attach some, but I can't upload them to this computer unfortunately... Later this winter, they'll be up online!

Highs. Giving Nicolas Muzembi, a hitch hiker from a nearby village, a ride to Kalabo in our little four wheeler. He was all smiles and told me he was working for the Zambian Census to try to earn enough money to go to university. He wants to become a teacher, like his father, and he was ecstatic about his dream. He wanted to share it with me, and he did. He described how he was very poor, how everyone in his village is very poor. He described his perceptions of white tourists, how they are very good people, very fine. They have everything, and he wished they could train him and his village mates to have everything also. But he also noticed that whenever he hitch hiked, no one with white skin would ever pick him up. Until today, when I picked him up. He smiled and said, "Ah! Yes! You LOVE! Keep th at spirit! Keep the loving spirit!" I dropped him off at his reed hut near the Kalabo market this afternoon with a couple of smiles and a handshake.

Highs. Huuuuuuge sunsets over Angola, which rests only 40 km from our camp. Just the thought of watching big sunsets over Angola is a surreality in itself. Who knew?

Highs. Big moons. On nights without clouds, the big moons light up the plains to the point of driving without headlights. You can see massive herds of wildebeest and zebra grazing frightfully through the night, ever fearful of packs of wild dogs, clans of hyaenas, or the small pride of three lions lurking in the tall grass. There are many other highs, but this email has the potential for Iliad proportion, so I'll jump ahead.

Lows. I could combine this with frustrations. Inefficiency. Liuwa Plain is a unique ecosystem in its present stage. Lions were nearly extirpated in the 90's by Angolan poachers, leaving only one lioness in the park (if you want, you can go to youtube or hulu.com and download "The Last Lioness." It's a National Geographic documentary about Liuwa Plain). Currently, there are three lions, two packs of wild dogs, hundreds of hyaenas, and thousands of wildebeest and zebra. This is a unique opportunity to study a system basically void of a natural predator (lion) and the effects that lion reintroduction will have on the system in coming years. There is a ton of research to be conducted, endless data to collect, and an ever-expanding list of work that needs to be accomplished. Yet we don't ever seem to get to go to work. I was warned by many people that I will have to learn African patience if I work here. And I am slowly learning that. Something that should take 10 minutes, like filling a vehicle with diesel, usually takes 2 or 3 hours. Something that should take 1 hour, like eating dinner, can sometimes take 4 or 5 hours. Something that should take half a day, like locating a clan of hyaenas, generally takes several days. Something that should take one day, like locating a spare tire, has taken, thus far, 14 days. There are always delays. Always. The diesel was put into petrol jerry jugs, and now we need to find a jug that hasn't been contaminated with petrol to put into our vehicle. We need to be out at the hyaena den by 5 am, but someone from Zambian Wildlife Authority has run out of fuel and we need to locate some and deliver it to him 15 km away. We need to drive to the west boundary of the park, but our leaf spring has collapsed and we don't have any appropriate spare parts to make a fix for the next two days. We need to change the oil in the four wheeler, and somehow get side tracked into greasing 75 miscellaneous nuts and bolts that will never be used, and rolling up ratty rope to put into storage rather than just changing the oil and getting out into the field. Etc, ad infinitum. Or, more often, we just wait. For no real apparent reason. We just wait, standing around. Nothing happens on time, and I'm not quite sure why anybody even gives estimates on what time things will be accomplished. In that regard, I have been frustrated beyond words. I came here to see amazing things, to build relationships, to meet people and learn their perspectives, sure. But I also came here as a conservationist, hoping to contribute to an organization that is making great strides in ecosystem restoration, community involvement and collaboration, real conservation. And thus far I've found myself sitting on my hands a lot, wanting to actually get to work, stressing that our work keeps accumulating without any work being accomplished.. It makes me wonder if I'm utilizing my time effectively here...

Despite this, I am genuinely enjoying my time here. Some of the people I've met so far have been incredible, and have, as anticipated, unknowingly generated some serious introspection on my end. Like Lee, the high school kid I've befriended here who wants to see what Alaska looks like, wants to get married and leave Kalabo (perhaps to Canada, he's mentioned), wants to see the "Concrete Jungle" more than anything else, wants corruption and nepotism in Zambia to come to an end so that he and his fellow high school graduates can actually find employment, but ultimately realizes that he will become a subsistence farmer just like his father and will likely never leave Kalabo. And in the face of this, Lee smiles.

Anyway...

There are at least 593 different stories I'd like to share from this past week, but I don't even know how to unwrap all of those experiences and put them into words. It's been a lot of stimuli through which I've had to navigate. Highs and lows. Like Allan said, every day is an adventure. A struggle of sorts, navigating through all of the unanticipated problems du jour. Although I'd like to revise his statement and conclude that every hour is an adventure. Really. If you're looking for a bona fide adventure, come to Western Province in Zambia.

Glad to hear from everyone that responded! I hope all you folks in the Rockies are enjoying that mega-snow load I've seen in a few photos you've sent me! I hope everyone has a happy Thanksgiving and understands that we sure have a lot to be thankful for! Keep up the emails if you get a chance. It's great hearing from you all!

Enjoy your turkeys,

Daven

The sun setting slowly into Angola, with a small herd of wildebeest preparing for another dark night in the plains full of predators...

Sufficiently skeptical of our approach, this wildebeest bull allowed us to approach him within 20 yards or so before he sprinted away in a zig-zag fashion, his genes firing away telling him to juke from side to side to elude our potential predatory chase.

In the wee hours of early morning, these wild dogs take the time to size up a wildebeest bull. After testing him for a few minutes, the dogs ultimately decided that a bull wildebeest wasn't worth their energy, and they moved on to find something more to their liking.

As mentioned above, this pack of wild dogs was snoozing the snooze I had hoped to catch under the midday sun. We'd parked our vehicles and put our feet up, not expecting the dogs to move much in the middle-of-the-day African heat. But hunger can strike at all hours of the day I reckon, and these dogs sprang up like compressed coils and charged after a small herd of approaching wildebeest. They isolated a calf, not more than a month old, chased it down and killed it all within 20 yards of my truck. The chase was so close, I could see the desperation in the calf's eyes... Those eyes embodied the true sense of terror, of desperation, of helplessness. I doubt I will ever forget the look in those eyes for the rest of my days. With wild dogs, the alpha pair and pups eat first. And a wildebeest calf isn't much meat for a pack of 17 hungry animals. As the alpha pair and pups consumed the little calf, the subordinate adult male and the subadult dogs redirected their attention on the mother of the calf, who was standing 30 yards away. She continued to make her alarm call, seemingly calling to the calf in somewhat of a state of shock. The subordinate male and subadults, who hadn't eaten yet, sprinted directly toward her and she didn't budge. When they pounced on her, she gave a tremendous fight, injuring the subordinate male dog with her horns. Yet eventually they wrangled her to the ground, and the pack of dogs finally had enough meat to feed the whole gang. Witnessing this hunt was quite a paradox of feelings. Exciting, yes. The source of happiness, knowing that there are still wild systems at work in our overdeveloped world, yes. But hearing her groans, understanding what it means to be animal, having to take the life of others if you are to sustain your own and your offspring. It all felt tangible, visceral. It was great, but it was awful. Something few people in the world have ever seen that close, and I was happy I was there. Yet it was indeed a horrible scene, complete with the final sounds emitted by a dying animal and the corresponding fleshy noises associated with the tearing apart of a living being. A heavy afternoon to be sure.

The feeling during this hunt was too intense to retrieve my camera and start firing away. I just sat in my truck and watched, amazed and dumbfounded. Humbled. After twenty minutes or so, I finally pulled my camera out and started taking pictures, after the calf had been entirely consumed and the whole pack was on the cow. In retrospect, it would have been interesting to catch the earlier moments of the hunt on camera. But the whole series of events was too powerful to do anything other than sit silently still and watch.

Humbling.

A herd of Burchelli's Zebra grazing in the early morning sun. Although a prey species for many a carnivore, these animals tend to be more spry, flighty, and downright strong for the wild dogs and hyaenas we observed in Liuwa Plain.

Another day, another adventure

2011-06-04T12:08:00.000-07:00

November 11, 2010

Bueno,

Well, it certaily appears that I'm around internet and cell phone coverage much more regularly than I assumed I would be... Although I rarely have a ton of time at a computer on any given instance... Anyway, I read an email from my friend Allan this morning who spent a good chunk of time traversing Africa from Kenya to Capetown. He mentioned that it's hard to relate/describe all the stories you collect while traveling in Africa, and I certainly agree. Every single day has been worthy of a lengthy email or conversation at the pub with a nice cool Alaskan Amber. Every day has been an adventure of some sort thus far. So here's another one...

Yesterday, I had to drive back to Mongu from Kalabo to retrieve a coworker who had been in Lusaka. The road between Mongu and Kalabo is no ordinary road, though. It is Johnny Fourwheeler's wet dream. A rough and chaotic network of variously rugged four wheel drive tracks, traversing high grass, deep sand, rutted mud, pools and puddles, streams, and remote Zambian villages. The road is about 40 miles, but it takes 4 hours to drive. It crosses the Zambezi River via pontoon boat, which each crossing is a story in itself... Anyway, our primary field vehicle in Liuwa Plain is kind of a suped up ESPN hunter's vehicle. One of those big, burly, four wheel drive golf carts all decked out in camo with various racks for various things. The thing is, it has no windows or windshields. And just a little tarp for a roof. If you have your rain gear on, it's no big deal. It's actually great. But when you forget your raingear back at camp and have to drive to Mongu and back in a monsoon rain and high winds, the situation suddenly becomes less than a barrell of laughs... Which is exactly what happened. After six or so years working outside, I somehow managed to be foolish enough to leave my rain gear behind. Bad mistake... After the first two hours of driving through the downpour, shivering and daydreaming of things like a warm sleeping bag, a hot cup of coffee, or even just a dry place to stand out of the rain and wind, I arrived at the pontoon on the Zambezi. The pontoon was broken temporarily, as one of the two engine's fan belts had snapped. The fix took the pontoon crew about an hour, so I decided to huddle and shiver behind the four wheeler and take my lick. I only sat huddled for a couple minutes before a local lady living in a reed hut near the river called at me and motioned for me to come to her hut and sit out of the rain. I did, and was very grateful! I ended up sharing the hut with her, her husband, and a large collection of adolescent and infant children. Perhaps 8 or more? None of them spoke English, but I made the appropriate thank you gestures, and smiled and laughed with the little kids who kept staring at me as though I was a recent arrival from Jupiter. Later, a Dutch/Zambian farming couple arrived to the pontoon in their safari vehicle, and saw me and loaned me their jacket. We eventually crossed the Zambezi, made it to Mongu, whereupon I gave the jacket back and the Zambian man told me, "Yep, Africa has a steep learning curve, eh?" and laughed. He took a picture of me to add to his safari scrapbook and continued on his way...

Funny. A boy calling Montana and Alaska home, shivering his britches off in the African summer!

The return drive to Kalabo was exciting as well. No rain, but thousands of sizeable frogs hopping across the road. A few jackals made their appearance as the sun began to set over Angola, and then darkness set in. The drive in the darkness was uneventful except for a few cattlemen coaxing their cows down the road, the chilly breeze, and the hundreds of thousands of moths and other bugs making their way directly into my face as we sped along the dirt track... We got back to the park housing in Kalabo in time for a cup of tea and a National Geographic episode on Wild Yellowstone. Drinking tea, eating pasta, and watching people like Roy Renkin of Yellowstone on tv whilst sitting in far western Zambia. Strange...

Anyway, it's back to the park today (I think; plans change here every couple of hours!), where we can begin our prey surveys. We have to survey 16 transects throughout the park and document how many ungulates we see, what species, what age and sex, by Sunday night. I hope we can get it done! Hope all is well in the snowy/rainy conditions back home!

I miss you all!

Cheerio,
Daven

Bigger does not necessarily mean better on the Mongu Road. These guys were buried before we were and hadn't made a whole lot of progress by the time we'd winched and dug ourselves out. Who knows how long they hung around in the mud..

The crossing at the Zambezi River. I huddled in a reed hut similar to the one in this photo for an hour or so during a torrential downpour. If I hadn't been approaching hypothermia, I would have thought it to be one of the most surreal experiences of my life. But since I was too cold and wet to think about anything other than ways to warm up, I thankfully sat and shivered until the fan belt on the pontoon was repaired and we could carry on through the rain once again.

A typical scene on any rural road in Zambia. We gave all the people in the foreground (plus another five or six passengers to be picked up later) a ride to Mongu.

Our fleet in Liuwa Plain National Park. The goofy looking rig on the left is the machine I rallied with through the downpour. We had this thing stuck a few times, but when it was running and not blowing head gaskets, it did fairly well in the sand, mud, and swamp.

Yet as mentioned above, we found ways to bury this thing in the sand and mud on occasion. This situation was a dandy to dig out, as we were all sloppy and soaking wet from head to toe. Matt elected to try to woo Pyatt's Crackers and attract some sort of big time donation by giving them a bit of free advertising out in the Zambian bush...

More birds from the floodplains

2011-06-04T11:43:00.000-07:00

A few more birds from the Zambezi River floodplain...

Look familiar? The African fish eagle holds a certain reverence in Zambia, similar to the bald eagle in the United States. It is the national bird of both Zambia and Zimbabwe, and looks and behaves quite a bit like it's bald cousin in the Western hemisphere.

The tawny eagle, looking a bit like a certain golden bird of prey in North America, also looks and behaves like its Western counterpart. Tawny eagles feed a fair amount on carrion, or the carcasses of large mammals, much like the golden eagles I've seen browsing the roadkill on Highway 89 in Montana...

The fairly common spur-winged goose in flight.

One can only guess as to what the little bee eater's diet consists of... This one swooped down in front of us to pose atop a termite mound.

I couldn't quite get close enough for a good snapshot of this southern red, or scarlet bishop. A good lookin' bird indeed.

Big Birds of Liuwa Plain

2011-06-02T08:22:00.000-07:00

November 9, 2011

"But the most impressive thing so far has been the copious amounts of large birds. Storks, cranes, vultures, eagles, and more. Hundreds of them. Everywhere. This place is a birder's paradise!"

Picking tasty insects from the mud, a group of blacksmith plovers and little stints keep a trio of crowned cranes company at the beginning of the wet season.

The wattled crane stands in at just over five and a half feet tall, the second largest crane in the world. It's estimated that roughly half of the world's wattled cranes are found in Zambia, including these two picking their way through the grasslands on an early Liuwa morning.

A revered bird in Africa, the secretary bird repositioning itself to better hunting grounds. Secretary birds are birds of prey, and they primarily hunt by foot (contrary to most birds of prey who hunt from the air). The birds are revered in Africa for their ability to kill snakes, of which there are plenty in Zambia! The feathers behind the eagles head protrude out the back much like a pencil behind a secretary's ear when sitting at their typewriter, hence the name.

Hunters and scavengers at the dinner table. This pack of wild dogs killed a wildebeest calf and its mother at the edge of a rich, wet pan in the heat of mid afternoon. The scavengers, including lappet-faced vultures, white-headed vultures, and a single marabou stork join the dinner party. Marabou storks are often called "the undertaker," as their presence generally indicates the freshly deceased, not to mention their spooky, 19th century undertaker appearance... The undertaker is another enormous bird, as it can reach heights of five feet with a wingspan over ten (the largest wingspan of any bird in the world, a title shared with the Andean condor).

The undertaker out for an evening stroll in northern Liuwa Plain. The night this photograph was taken, Jassiel and I got trapped by the high waters of the Matemanene River. November is the beginning of the wet season, and when the rains come, they come like you've never seen. After a big rain, the flood plain floods and the rivers swell, making navigation less than an easy task (especially at night). We were roughly 30 minutes from camp when hanging out with this undertaker, but because of the flooding and lack of daylight, it took us over two hours to find a way back into camp without sending our vehicle deep into the drink...

3 days in liuwa plain, back in kalabo village for a night

2011-05-30T23:49:00.000-07:00

November 9, 2010

Hey folks,
An unscheduled trip out of the bush and back into the village of Kalabo tonight. A few days in the park so far, and I've been blown away. Sure,we've seen lions and a lion's share of hyaenas. No wild dogs yet, as they're proving to be difficult to find (huge home ranges). But the most impressive thing so far has been the copious amounts of large birds. Storks, cranes, vultures, eagles, and more. Hundreds of them. Everywhere. This place is a birder's paradise!

Anyway, this is only a quick email to jot down a couple noteworthy events, and then I have to hand the computer off.

1. My first night in Liuwa Plain. A massive lightning and thunder storm, along with heavy rains. Lightning illuminating our camp, tent-shaking thunder. And lions calling eachother/roaring throughout the night, within earshot of my bunk. I can't express the sensation in such a quick email, but you could say the feeling was electrifying lying under that huge lightning with lions roaring nearby! I layed awake for hours listening to the show...

2. Two nights ago, one of the wildlife scouts (a Zambian from a nearby village who knows the area very well and can search for some of the animals being studied) took one of our vehicles to go visit his wife near the Angolan border. We expected him back by about 6 pm. He didn't show. We went so sleep. Woke up the next morning (today), and he still wasn't at camp. We called around on the radio and couldn't find him. Then a few hours later, we received a report that he had broken down at his wife's village, and we needed to go to his location to fix the flat tire and drive teh vehicle back to camp. (Don't worry. This part of the Angolan border is completely safe and filled with Barotse fishermen who don't really have any issues with the political border between the two countries. They are all very friendly and all smiles; no spooky Angolan interactions, but we weren't even in the country anyway). We arrived at his wife's village, which was entirely remote, all reed huts with maize fields and robust gardens, no electricity or plumbing, and about 50 residents. We found the vehicle and realized that the tire was irreprable, so we improvised a way to get another vehicle out to it tomorrow to fix/tow it back to Kalabo for proper repairs. Keep in mind this is perhaps the most remote place I've ever been, with no roads other than dirt tracks that lead into the flat plains (easy to navigate with a GPS, but not exactly an accessible location for a repair). And the whole while, us four white faces were discussing this plan amongst a village of Barotse, who all congregated around us and stared at us the entire time. I wish I could write more about how surreal and otherworldly the whole situation felt, but I'm running out of time for this email. Just know that although we had a bad situation with a vehicle that seriously disrupts the research being done, I couldn't help but laugh at the situation and wonder how the hell I found myself in a remote Barotse fishing village 2 miles from Angola... As we left, everyone smiled and waved and gave us thumbs ups.... The vehicle is still there, so we have to go retrieve it eventually...

Alright. I have tons more to dispatch, but there just isn't any more time tonight. I'll write again soon, but know that things are well, I'm seeing some incredible wildlife and birdlife, experiencing things I never imagined and having to problem solve in the most surreal locations... I'm having a great time! But I wish I could chat with you all, as well... I'll be able to in no time...

Hope everyone is well. Talk to you soon!

Daven

And please pass this along to anyone who I forgot on the email list. I'm in a rush and I just jotted down the names that came to mind the quickest... Thanks!

A flock of crowned cranes prancing around the grass in the early morning.

Two saddle-billed storks stretching their legs out near a wildbeest bull. These storks were almost as tall as the wildebeest, which were no small ungulates themselves...

Perhaps one of the most remote places I've ever been. This Lozi village is the home of our scout's wife, where our vehicle broke down. We were a few stones' throws from the Angolan border, and I'm pretty sure I can guess how many white faces, let alone strange looking four wheel drive golf carts they've seen in their lives. Lozi is the most commonly spoken language of the Barotse people, who inhabit much of Western Province, Zambia and some of eastern Angola. I have to admit, I felt somewhat uncomfortable and perhaps a little nervous taking a couple photos of this village...

Kalabo town. This dirt road led to African Parks housing, where I could send text messages and emails back to the States. Kalabo used to have a fair amount of money, as it was formerly a sizeable tradepost in the Angolan diamond trade.

Later in the fall I flew over Liuwa Plain with the BBC film crew, hoping to track a certain pack of wild dogs (which we eventually did). This shot was taken as we flew over the bustling Kalabo en route to the park.

Day two, Feelin' groovy

2011-05-28T16:12:00.000-07:00

November 5, 2010

G'day mates! Sorry for such an immediate second email. I generally won't send this many mass emails so quickly, as I know they can be a bit annoying in the ol' inbox for those who aren't so interested. However, I'm leaving for the bush early tomorrow morning, and I only have an hour on the internet today. So I thought I'd maximize the situation and send out another big one...

Anyhow. Day number two. Quite an improvement from my mixed emotions from yesterday! I think two hearty meals, 12 hours of sleep in a bungalow, and two cups of delicious coffee black really helped the situation... I spent the afternoon last night and this morning running errands with my field supervisor (Jassiel) and my top dog supervisor (Matt). Both are overflowing with humor and smiles. Robust senses of humor, you could say. It felt good to be around folks with easy laughter, and I'm happy to know I'll be working with such jolly chaps...

We spent today racing around town trying to check off a list of to-do's. We got about half of them done, and Matt was ecstatic. Matt wareed me that things move incredibly slowly in Zambia, especially when it comes to shipping, receiving, or financial transactions. After participating in a one-hour long propane bottle purchasing transaction today, and after paying for a phone yesterday afternoon, only to have the salesman tell me the phone wouldn't be ready until today (which it wasn't), I suppose I am not in a position to discomfirm Matt's warning. Things do move slowly here (except for the traffic). But it's all good. We got plenty of things done today, and the only ramification of things moving slowly was that I had to drop Matt off at the airport this afternoon (he's heading into a different part of the country for two days to meet with a funder from Europe), and then I got to drive back into downtown Lusaka in a local truck. I wasn't sure what to expect of myself, though. In Zambia, the driving rules are the same as England. Steering wheel on the right, cars moving forward on the left. Seems easy enough, until you factor in the amount of roundabouts in Lusaka (which are rather confusing when they're turning the opposite way)! Yet it was perfectly easy. Not a bad second day in Zambia...

Tomorrow I get on an 8 hour bus for Mongu where I'll meet Egil, a Zambian Carnivore Programme ecologist from the Netherlands. From his email he's sent me, he, too, sounds like a humorous soul.

We talked about what a typical work day will look like for the coming months. And here it is: wake up at 3 am to start tracking collared hyenas and wild dogs. Track animals until we get a strong signal from the individuals we'd like to track that morning, find them, see if they're currently eating or hunting, document what we see. Take a break in late morning to nap, read, eat, and most importantly: enter data. Then it's off again at about 5 pm to do the same thing, returning to camp by about 7 or 8. In the process, we'll be seeing mostly wildebeest, zebra, numerous species of antelope, hyena, wild dog, and perhaps a few cheetah. There are only three lions near where we'll be, one female and two males. They're seen almost on a daily basis, but they have not expressed any aggressive behavior toward humans, vehicles, or camp. Oh, and 450 species of birds... Exciting, eh?

National Geographic will be right behind me, arriving in Liuwa Plain only a couple days after I do. They'll be camped with us for two weeks, filming hyenas, lions, wildebeest, and the staff of the Zambian Carnivore Programme. After seeing the Alaska Bears and Beyond program on National Geographic and how they spun Pack Creek, I can safely admit that I'm expecting some amount of cheesiness as a result...

We'll also be sharing our camp with Robin Pope Safaris. I know nothing about this guy Robin, but apparently he's a world renowned safari guide. He'll be next door to us for a month...

To accommodate all of our neighbors, our camp apparently has two toilets and two showers. Talk about living plushly in the bush! I was expecting one to two showers a month and a latrine-digging event every few days. Perhaps this is too luxurious...

Anyway, I'm off to organize my stuff and better prepare myself for tomorrow morning. Hope everyone's enjoying old man winter!

Until next time,
Daven

Jassiel M'Soka, ecology staff for the Zambian Carnivore Programme. Jassiel told me late one evening that his goal in life is to have a modest but sturdy house on about ten acres of land with a garden. Sounds familiar to me...

Matt Becker, CEO of the Zambian Carnivore Programme. Among the most refined senses of sarcasm I've come across in the 21st century..

Two of the three National Geographic film crew out on the finest road in Liuwa Plain National Park.

Mongu, Western Province with a storm brewing beyond. Mongu was a very quiet, mostly peaceful town at the end of the paved road in western Zambia. It sits on a high bluff overlooking a massive flood plain that is dry, Kalahari-style grassland in the dry season, and soupy flooded swamp in the wet season. I arrived at the tail end of the dry season, when the days were hot and transportation was a relative breeze...

Folks in Mongu meandering on a Sunday evening. While in Zambia, there was some civil unrest in Mongu. In the 1960's, the Barotse people of Western Zambia struck a deal with the Zambian government (shortly after independence from England) to eventually form an independent Barotseland (similar to a situation like Swaziland, an independent nation within the borders of South Africa). This indenpendence has never been granted, and in January, 2011, some Mongu and surrounding area residents took it upon themselves to again demand independence. It turned somewhat violent, and two residents of Mongu died in the altercation. I was not in Mongu at the time, but I arrived two weeks later, complete with police check points, curfews, and a fair amount of sad and meloncholy Zambians I had come to know over the course of my time there...

Safe, sound, and a bit sleepy here in Lusaka City!

2011-05-28T10:31:00.000-07:00

November 4, 2010

Hello folks!

I have to preface: this likely won't be the most coherent of emails I've crafted in my day. The past two days have included sizeable flights and extended layovers in large airports. I didn't find the ways to obtain the zzz's that I craved, and now I am a young lad in need of a certain midday siesta here in Lusaka, Zambia.

There aren't many impressions to write quite yet, as I've only been in the city for about two hours. I will say that in no way do I feel unsafe. The people I've spoken with so far have been all smiles and very friendly, except one Zambian who assumed I was Australian and kept saying "g'day, mate" as I walked past him half an hour ago. The majority of the streets I've seen have been clean and free of litter (with the exception of a few alleys; not unlike anytown USA, I'm sure). Customs was a breeze, the airport was tiny but organized, the sky is blue, the weather is warm, and the place I'm staying at in Lusaka is cozy and welcoming. I'm meeting up with the project director for whom I'll be working this afternoon, which will be nice to chat with him face to face and hash out a few nuances I'll likely encounter while I'm here. But Lusaka seems good. I wouldn't say that I'm in love with the city by any stretch, but it sure has been an easy, stress free day thus far.
Last night, on the other hand, was a different story. I was reading a book about "conservation refugees." The term conservation refugee is new to me, and I now understand it to mean the millions of people who have been displaced by conservation groups who lock up and preserve big tracts of land in developing countries and/or rural and remote areas of developed countries that still have indigenous populations. You see this a lot in big national parks or game preserve in which thousands of locals once lived, hunted, cultivated, gathered, and collected. Once the boundaries of the parks were defined, the people were displaced off of their original land, ultimately winding up in soil-poor land foreign to them or unemployed and in the city, and most often under poverty. The chapters I read last night discussed Canada, Alaska, the American West, Latin America, SE Asia, Iran, but predominantly sub saharan Africa. I felt a growing guilt washing over me last night as I read further and further into the book, knowing that I was heading for sub saharan Africa to contribue to a conservation organization... Thankfully the group I'm working for seems to understand this situation and is working toward conservation goals while simultaneously striving to keep locals on their land, even if that land is within designated game reserves and/or national parks.

Anyhow, I somehow couldn't rationalize that last night. I just kept feeling the feelings of guilt and let them build. I was doing alright last night, for a while, though. I was bouncing back and forth between being calm and being excited. And sometimes a bit nervous or afraid. It really struck me though as I monitored our flight path and we passed over Libya. Then over Chad and into the Sudan and the Darfur Mountains. I have to admit that as I saw myself passing over those places, looking out the window and wondering what the hell was happening immediately underneath me, I allowed myself to become genuinely frightened. I was afraid for about two hours, but eventually got over it by dumbing down my senses and watching the movie Almost Famous on my little tv screen in front of me. A rather trivial, and unlikely remedy to a quick bout of fear, but it did the trick somehow, and I'm glad it did.

After I started feeling a little better, I noticed an enormous lightning storm off the right side of the plane. Looking at our flight path, I deduced that I was watching a thunderstorm over the Congo Basin. Talk about surreality!

Since landing in Lusaka, however, I've realized that those fears are unjustifed. At least for where I am, in Zambia (I'm sure those fears are indeed justified elsewhere). This country so far has had far better drivers than Panama or Bulgaria or New York. Much less litter and sidewalk trash than Chile or even Chicago. And seemingly friendly people who don't go out of their way to give you a crooked look or a hard time. Again, it's only been a couple of hours, but I feel good about it. I'm at an internet cafe about a half mile down the road from my little cabana I have rented here, and the walk here was sufficiently uneventful and unspooky. The people in the other cabanas and tents at our little travelers compound were relaxing in the sun, reading books with their cameras strewn about the area. It didn't have the feeling at all that you needed to watch all of your belongings at all times. I overheard one conversation near my cabana involving a couple of Australians here to help build an educational operating room in a local hospital (one with facilities and infrastructure ammenable to teaching local medics and doctors the ins and outs of surgery). Pretty good crowd to be hanging out with so far...

Alright, it's time for me to return to my casita to obtain a large quantity of zzz's. I hope to hear from you folks, and just know that everything thus far has started off smoothly!

Daven

Copper River Valley

2011-05-21T11:57:00.000-07:00

Well, it comes as no great surprise that I hadn't the time to post the final photos from our October road trip through the interior. Gathering my field gear for Zambia and saying bye to family down South were the priorities last fall, and I'm just now getting around to those final few days on the road with Scott. Included this time around are a couple scenes from the shores of the mighty Copper River, along with some higher elevation taiga and tundra landscapes from the Matanuska rainshadow. Juneau and Southeast Alaska are about as beautiful as it gets, but the interior definitely packs its own beautiful punch. Sometimes I wonder if I should move into the interior to collect a few more sun rays and blue skies. Who knows. It's cheaper, anyway...

Scott sitting atop the Safari Rack, consuming a Matanuska-sized landscape for lunch. This, of course, occurred after we consumed perhaps the biggest lunch the town of Glennallen has to offer.

Snowy and blowy ridges somewhere along the road to the Matanuska Valley.

And two boneheads picking an akward fight with the camera alongside the salmon-stuffed waters of the Copper River.

Zambia bound...

2010-10-26T07:28:00.000-07:00

"Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love."

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky

The Brothers Karamazov

"We shall make our most useful contribution to a world in dire need of concern for the neighbor and the stranger if we begin by trying to make ourselves as individuals able to love."

-Rollo May, 1953

Today I leave for Zambia. I wish I had something fancy to write about what to expect, but it's early in the a.m. in Chicago, and I haven't had a drip of coffee yet... If anything, I hope to arrive in Lusaka free of expectations. Take it all as it comes, and absorb all I can while navigating through an entirely new ocean of social and sensory stimuli. I'm sure it'll be quite the ride..

I'll be working for an environmental NGO that has demonstrated competency in achieving conservation goals in Zambia. It has raised awareness of biodiversity and habitat loss, and the corresponding population nosedives of cute, charismatic African wildlife such as lions and cheetahs. With these cute creatures as their poster children, The Zambia Carnivore Programme has been able to work toward habitat protection. Habitat not only for lions, African Wild Dogs, and leopards, but for all of the other organisms living in those corresponding grasslands and valleys. A biodiversity and habitat protection plan via snapshots of large predators. Seems like an effective strategy. Obviously the organization is much more complex and employs many more strategies to achieve its goals. But the aforementioned is an influential method of raising awareness...

More importantly, however, is the effort put forth to illuminate both the short and long term benefits of conservation for surrounding communities. A lot of people mistake conservation with the whims of rich white folks who would like to have pretty playgrounds to vacation in. Not so. Conservation and people are directly connected, and it's no secret that communities surrounded by an unhealthy environment are in trouble.

As much as it is about wild creatures, conservation is about people. The ZCP understands this, and I have a feeling there is a lot to be learned from them in terms of developing goals with foundations in conservation that can ultimately lead to sustainable development. If you're interested in web surfing, you can check them out at www.zambiacarnivores.org

I also slapped a couple more photos from interior Alaska on this post. All of them were taken in Wrangell-St. Elias National Preserve sometime in early October.

Anyhow, while chuckling like a couple of idiots at the enormously beautiful landscape in front of us, Scott and I happened upon a local guy out on a dirt road that informed us of a public use cabin just a few miles up a nearby trail. We thanked the man and headed in that direction. That night was cold enough (I think it dropped into the mid teens) for us to be sufficiently pleased with a cozy cabin warmed by an old stove.

We thought we might see quite a few wild creatures in this little drainage. We'd heard a few grizzled bears, a collection of black wolves, and even a wolverine had frequented the area. No carnivores were to be found on our saunter, but we did lay our eyes upon a moose, a few live caribou, and one very dead caribou.

The views from a neighboring ridgeline were big and uninterrupted. Including this choice sunset lingering over glacier-capped big ones.

A perfect view for an early morning. Enjoyed with a fresh cup of coffee and an old skull..

Clarity in the Tok and Slana valleys

2010-10-24T07:55:00.000-07:00

"I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. . . . corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the Republic is destroyed."

-President Abraham Lincoln
November 21, 1864

After a half dozen cups of hot coffee black in the Tok Valley's chilly morning air, we packed it up and headed south to see what was happening with the Slana Valley. We found what we figured we might find: big peaks, blue skies, expansive wetlands, crystal clear water, and honking flocks of waterfowl. Pausing for a few brief moments of landscape absorbtion, and pondering another cup of mid morning coffee, we quietly slid into a super-sized valley tucked behind a few super-sized, 16,000 foot Wrangell Range volcanoes.

The night before, Scott and I found ourselves on top of a mountain discussing the growing disconnect between humans and the land. Depression, apathy, complacency, and expectancy seem to be omnipresent in North America, and I suggested this had something to do with the current lack of connection between humans and the land. Most people would deny this suggestion, arguing that a connection to the land is romantacized and outdated. These same people assume the land is solely a commodity needed to be developed, insist there is no need to maintain a connection with it beyond exploitation, and ignore the priceless free systems that a healthy environment offers a community. Others would simply be oblivious of the disconnect and want to change the subject. If you're skeptical, try to think about the number of corporate logos you recognize. Now name as many species of tree as you can in your community. Peter Forbes observed that the average American can recognize over 1,000 corporate logos, but cannot name three species of tree in their own city. How's that for disconnect?

Scott and I continued, changing the subject to the question of happiness. We talked about our genuinely happy friends with rich souls in Alaska, Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, and even Nebraska. Friends who have gardens growing fresh kale, chard, carrots, squash, berries, apples and more. Friends who put halibut, crab, salmon, or trout on their plates in the summer, who have elk or moose meat on the dinner table throughout the winter. Friends who revere and embrace approaching storms, who aren't afraid of the changing seasons. Friends that understand the value of rich soil, clean water, and strong connections with public land. We talked about the free systems a healthy environment provides: clean water without the need of expensive filtration and purification systems. Rich soils full of bugs, birds, and natural humus that doesn't need expensive synthetic fertilization. Biodiversity, allowing people to supplement their store-bought food with fresh fish, red meat, birds, and wild berries. Clean air. And a community full of people that understands the importance of the land surrounding them. I told Scott that I feel happiest, most at peace, when I am living with a deep connection to the land, and that I wished I could share that feeling with everyone I know. We sat on top of that ridge talking about such things, overlooking a rich valley crawling with ungulates and running with clean water. Two happy souls, absorbing the evening's final warmth from a cold alpine sunset .

Coming down from the ridge after the sun tucked itself behind the Wrangell Range, we talked about how our world has come to the point it has. We talked about the corporatocracy in America, and its ever-expanding influence. For-profit corporations buying political campaigns, resulting in politicians owing favors to private--not public--interests. For-profit corporations ultimately writing legislation, subsequently pushed and backed by the politicians those corporations sponsored in the first place. Many of these corporations also happen to control numerous arms of the media- the very outlets from which the majority of Americans receive their information about purchased policymakers, controversial legislation, and ambiguously illegal corporate involvement. For-profit corporations can replace human jobs with mechanized systems to save money. For-profit corporations can replace rich, diverse farmland with synthetic monoculture to save money and create synthetic seed that does not naturally reproduce so that farmers have to buy seed each subsequent year, forever endebted to the corporations. They can outsource jobs and externalize toxic wastes to save money, dumping jobs overseas and pollutants into our publicly owned airsheds, watersheds, lakeshores, and seashores. And through legislation and various media outlets, they can convince us that they're doing what's in our best interest. Sounds crazy. Yet it's the reality. Funny system, ain't it?

What's interesting is the fact that the very people trying to right the ship are the ones most publicly marginalized. People working to protect clean, drinkable water are marginalized as radical environmentalists. People advocating literacy and strong foundations in ethics are marginalized as elitists. People fighting for common decency, fair wages, and job security in the workplace are marginalized as leftists and socialists. People struggling to maintain possession of their indigenous land or basic rights like accessible, clean water are marginalized as terrorists. And people shouting the loudest in support of for-profit corporations are heralded as patriots.

So we walked and talked. Private interest controlling political campaigns, federal and state level legislation, and the media. A combined manifestation of Orwell and Huxley's prophecies, here and now and in the flesh. We talked about the complexities and interconnectedness of the economy, of natural resources, of private interest vs. public service and a healthy middle class, of the commercialization of human existence. Of the undeniable importance of education and ethics and how they're being marginalized for the sake of Wall Street. We talked as we meandered back to our clean, spartan, creekside camp.

The situation is far more complex than just these thoughts. We'd just covered the tip of the iceberg. But we agreed that a good start to getting things back on track is to help people remember the importance of the land. What we do has consequences. Our actions tangibly affect the land around us, and anybody who believes otherwise is living under an illusion. When people begin to remember the importance of our actions and their environmental ramifications, people will begin to remember the importance of a healthy biotic community, healthy watersheds, clean water, clean air, and robust biodiversity. And when we have a healthy environment, we can have sustainable industries providing jobs that help stimulate a local economy, a real community.

So Scott and I wrapped up our night in an aspen grove under crystal clear Alaskan skies with a couple Whitehorse-brewed IPA's. A couple souls in the trees, hoping to distance ourselves as far from corporate interest as possible. Searching for autonomy, authenticity, real and uncommercialized experience. I sat next to our fire and our creek looking through the aspen branches at Venus, shining brighter than I've ever seen her before. And I shared a few laughs with a good friend in the woods.

Clarity.

Boreal perfection

2010-10-23T07:07:00.000-07:00

The mountains in the western fringes of the Yukon are fine, indeed. Dozens of gravel-bed creeks and rivers creeping directly into high, frosty mountains without a trace of commercialization. These creekbeds flirted with me the entire trip, beckoning me to come explore their upper reaches to see what was behind the first folds of mountains. Paradise Lost might be found behind those first few folds...

The Donjek River; a perfectly pleasant landscape with rich, robust forests and ice cold, clean water. With some rainshadow sunshine to boot, it made a boy want to find an old, nearby trapper's cabin with a functional stove and a musty old library and set up camp for a lifetime.

A couple of beastie boys gettin' ill on a snag on the Donjek River. This river made us feel as internally groovy as we externally appear in the photo, if not groovier.

If you've ever been to the Boundary Waters in Minnesota/Ontario, then the Tetlin National Wildlife Refuge would make you salivate for days. More lakes, ponds, streams, and wetlands than you could shake a stick at, bigger peaks than you've likely ever seen, and a raucous cacophony of geese, ducks, swans, and owls. A gang of trumpeter swans, together with a trio of great-horned owls filled the silence at our snowy camp.

Slowly swimming through one of hundreds of lakes, these swans took their time enjoying an eastern Alaskan sunrise.

Solitude in Alaska. Me encanta.

Takin' it slow in the rainshadow

2010-10-21T21:20:00.000-07:00

For a guy living with the liquid sunshine of Southeast Alaska, the massive rainshadow behind the Wrangell and St. Elias ranges offers a significant temptation to slow things down and enjoy the sunrays. When you're in the sunshine with a stove, a few extra cannisters of propane, and a cooler full of tasty soups, teas, and cold ones, it's next to impossible to pack up the car and get a move on.

A lakeside retreat with the same clothes for the fourth straight day. I smelled pretty good. I can't guarantee Scott smelled the same. I didn't help myself to any close range sniffs..

Not able to take much more of the stresses of big mountains and blue skies, Scott opted for a pseudo nap along the center stripe.

Looking fairly Yellowstonesque...

The lake ice creeping forward with each passing night, hinting at old man winter's lingering presence..

Big views from the highway.

Luego, Kluane

2010-10-21T20:28:00.000-07:00

It's hard to imagine a better scenario than the following: crisp temperatures that require a down vest and a set of wool gloves, broken skies with dramatic cloud coverage ripping through the sky at 30 knots, heavy hitting peaks covered in fresh snow, a couple cool beverages with a cool friend, and a complete lack of mosquitoes. Some might call that combo "the Yukon in the fall, plus one commrade."

Relaxing in the trees with a jug of cold water and a YT boreal sunset. Hard to find a better way to spend an October hour.

Let's take a little closer peek at that evening's ridgeline..

Scott enjoying what appears to be a Pink Lady apple in front of what appears to be a charismatic set of tall boys under a broken blue sky.

Oh boy. These mountains look just as good the morning after, which ain't always easy...

Despite the continous stream of snowcapped big boys, I still couldn't help snapping off photo after photo of good lookin' landscapes. The Yukon is among the most photogenic of ladies I've come across in all my days of sauntering.

Gliding through Kluane on two feet and four wheels

2010-10-20T15:15:00.001-07:00

Although not made entirely of sugar, Scott and I both agreed that the damp winds and accompanying light sleet in 4 degree (celcius) weather warranted time spent in a cozy little backpacker's structure next to Lago Kathleen (where we met a friendly gal from northern Alberta). The structure had a sizeable wood burning stove that generated enough heat to encourage more than one of us remove our down layers. A nice unexpected find on a frosty Yukon afternoon.

Lago Kathleen, doing her shimmering thing in the autumnal afternoon light.

After having a humorous conversation with a Parks Canada warden, we decided to take her advice to walk a trail a few clicks north of our cozy little shack. The wind was undeniable once we got out of the trees, but the uninterrupted views of wild Yukon terrain were exactly what the doctor ordered.

Looking northwest toward the icy peaks, wondering if we had the minerals to climb atop them without any appropriate gear or rations.

Megan (the Albertan), Scott (the Boulderian), and Daven (the Juneauite).

A wet-footed ponder atop a sloppy knoll.

Beginnings of a boreal sojourn

2010-10-20T09:20:00.000-07:00

A week with an old friend in an old jeep and 700 contiguous miles of mountainous landscapes in the north country. Not a bad way to start an October.

Cottonwoods displaying their annual end-of-the-season outfits in Haines' Chilkat Valley.

Atop the pass in the tiny sliver of British Columbia, protruding into what could've been a Yukon-Alaska border. Biting winds were the theme of this afternoon, despite my lack of gloves...

A soon-to-be not-so-lazy river, babbling its way through southern Yukon's boreal forest in the early a.m.

These kettle ponds looked like promising moose habitat, particularly when we saw signs drawing attention to hunters that hunting was prohibited in these wetlands. Sure enough, when I gazed down toward the second pond, a big ol' bull sprinted silently into the willows. By the time Scott laid his eyes upon the scene, the moose had pulled the ol' disappearing act.

Scott doing the Twisted What's Up Dance, and me taking a moment to reminisce of bygone days when we walked like Egyptians next to an elongated yet thoroughly shallow Lago Dezadeash.

More cub

2010-09-18T11:25:00.000-07:00

No backstory this time. Just a cute little cub playing with dead fish in the flooded estuary during high tide. I will say that we saw a cub wrestling a big dead salmon, clutching it between its jaws and flinging it back and forth rather violently. The cub swung the dead salmon with such disregard for its surroundings that it actually smacked its mother in the side of the face with 5 or 6 pounds of fishy dead weight...

Takin' a peak. A rather flirtatious glance...

A happy cub with a firm grip on a dead pink.

Chowing down on the tasty remains of a decaying carcass.

Bear hugging with a salmon.

Yeah!

The Keystone and the Money Tree

2010-09-18T11:14:00.001-07:00

Salmon are the money tree. The keystone species. They hold it all together. Much of Alaska's economy, and its ecosystems, depend directly or indirectly upon robust populations of salmon. The commercial fishing industry: obvious. The guided sport fishing industry: obvious. Commercial crabbing: less obvious. Every summer and fall, salmon spawn up anadromous streams, spawn, die, and flush out to the brackish tidal waters where thousands of crabs lay in wait for all of that organic debris to feast upon. Wildlife watching: less obvious. Bears, whales, orca, porpoises, seals, sea lions, eagles, gulls, mink, otters. All of these species heavily feed on salmon every year. Healthy forests: even less obvious. Birds and mammals take salmon carcasses away from the stream and into the forest throughout the summer, eating what they want, and depositing the rest of that nutrient-rich organic debris throughout the forest. That discarded organic debris leaches invaluable nutrients into the forest soils, thus creating healthier botanic communities and larger trees. Recent studies have clearly indicated salmon DNA in trees throughout the Tongass National Forest. Those tree roots are sucking up the nutrients oozing into the forest floor.

If salmon disappear, a lot of Alaska's beauty and wildness will also disappear. Salmon jobs will disappear. Crabbing jobs will disappear. Tourism jobs will disappear. Wildlife will disappear. The biggest trees won't be quite as healthy. And people don't recognize this fact. Salmon hold it all together. It's the money tree that keeps on giving, as long as you pluck a few leaves every year rather than chopping down the whole thing for a few quick bucks. Yet some industries are actively pursuing measures that would significantly impact salmon habitat, and thus the whole chain of events just described. Think it's a case of simply "crying wolf?" Take a look at the Salmon River in Idaho. That river wasn't arbitrarily named. It used to have tremendous runs of salmon only a century ago. How many salmon spawn up the Salmon River these days? Zero. How many commercial fishing and tourism jobs are generated on that river from salmon today? Zero. What would the ecosystem and landscape look like today if the keystone species hadn't been removed? Hard to know... The same can be said for dozens of major rivers throughout Idaho, Washington, Oregon, and California. Salmon numbers aren't nearly what they used to be at best. At worst, the salmon are entirely gone. And thus, the corresponding wildlife, habitat, and potential industries are gone as well.

Whenever you read or hear about a resource issue that could potentially affect salmon, understand the value of the fish. They're what hold this state together.

A few pink salmon considering a nice redd - the area in the river's gravel bed in which females will deposit their eggs and males will later fertilize.

Death next to life. The cycle. Dozens of salmon carcasses litter the shore, while living salmon continue to spawn upstream.

More carcasses. These salmon have already spawned and ultimately died. Bears, mink, otter, crabs, eagles, gulls, insects, and other bacteria will devour these carcasses, continuing the complex and healthy ecological web that makes Alaska such a magnificent place. Think of all of the rivers, streams, and tributaries littered with this much organic debris throughout Alaska. All of that organic matter isn't just taking up space. It's feeding the whole ecosystem. Take away all of that invaluable organic material, all of those nutrients, and watch the whole system (and the local economy) deteriorate...

A couple of good lookin' dead beats.

The remains of a salmon after a few tide cycles. Something's been feasting on this slimy body...

Snowcapped to valley floor

2010-09-06T19:26:00.000-07:00

Descending off of Narrow Pass to the Thoroughfare Valley floor under blue skies is certainly one definition of a satisfactory afternoon. We thought we'd get a glimpse of the high one, Denali, but we kept getting our view blocked by smaller peaks like this one. And as the afternoon progressed, the clouds rolled in, covering up the high one by the time we got the opportunity for a full frontal...

Sunrise Glacier melting into the Sunrise Creek drainage, complete with a scenic mountain shoulder dusted with fresh snow. I found this confusing, as Sunrise Glacier faced toward the sunset, and Sunset Glacier faced toward the sunrise. Not quite sure how that works out...

Sunrise Creek winding its way through a narrow canyon on the west side of Scott Peak.

Looking back toward the Alaska Range from the tundra above the Thoroughfare River valley. Another godd-sized grizzly lumbered along the shores of this kettle pond, picking his way through the blueberry bushes in the summer sun.

We hitched a ride to the west side of the park and stayed the night under a big moon. Here she is, rising over Mt. Brooks, illuminating the nocturnal landscape.

After a week in the park and not catching a single glimpse of the high one, I finally got the opportunity to steal a glance at the summit from a bus stop near Talkeetna...

Narrow Pass

2010-09-06T19:16:00.000-07:00

Sneaking into the snow-laced ridges around 6,500 feet, it was in the back of my mind (nah, let's be realistic; it was at the front of my mind) that the blue skies would disappear, to be replaced by the misty gray winds typical of that elevation. Yet we kept climbing, the hours kept passing, and the blue sky remained. What a cherry!

Looking for a lunching location at the saddle of our unnamed pass. Ever the pragmatists, we casually named the little slice of ridge Narrow Pass due to the fact that the pass itself was about five meters wide. Our little footsteps can be seen traversing the mountainside above Emily's head in the background.

With a belly full of lunch, Emily practices her slopestyle atop a ridiculously photogenic ridgeline.

Much of this snow was quite crunchy and old, but there was a layer of the fresh stuff to be found. It was warm enough to remove one's shirt and collect a sun tan atop this ridge. For a few minutes, at least...

Investigating an ice cave diving into a rogue sheet of ice spewing down Scott Peak's mountainside.

Bigger view, same ice cave. Yet without the hominids in place to add a relevant scale, the ice cave somehow looks smaller...

Scott Peak

2010-09-06T19:03:00.000-07:00

Scott Peak, standing at 8,800 feet and change, marks the beginning of the real peaks of the Alaska Range. The Toklat Glacier rests in one of Scott Peak's pockets, as well as underfoot and covered by debris.

The Toklat Glacier covered with debris leading directly into the teeth of Scott Peak. A couple friendly souls provide some scale in the debris, front and center...

Getting an early start in the valley floor.

This Alaska Range view speaks my language, and yours too, I reckon.

Descending one of many high points on the Toklat's debris. And a blue-peppered sky to boot.

Alpine. Very nice.

The Green Dome and the Toklat Glacier

2010-09-06T18:55:00.000-07:00

Nearing the Toklat Glacier, it became irresistable to not scoot up one of the various mountain folds surrounding us. After we set up camp and polished off our Tasty Bites, I scampered up a nearby ridge to get a bird's eye view. Pretty choice location for a bird's eye, I must confess. Looking down on the valley in the damp, chilly wind, I was reminded of Jared Diamond's description of Viking Greenland in the 15th century. Not because I thought myself a Viking at that particular moment (althouth I'm sure I have some Swedish and Danish Viking in my genetic code), but because the only things growing in this part of the valley were ground level shrubs and alpine grasses and flowers. A small group of dall sheep negotiated the hillside to nibble on the shrubs, and I thought of Vikings bringing their sheep to Iceland and Greenland, only to discover the land was too fragile to support the hungry chomp of the domestic sheep's mouth. It appears Alaska's interior has worked out a biologically symbiotic agreement between Dall sheep and alpine vegetation.

A handful of Dall sheep resting atop one of many scenic overlooks.

The beginnings of the Toklat River, as viewed atop one of the Green Dome's ridges late at night.

The Toklat Glacier and the Toklat River's headwaters as seen from the high ridge sloping off of the Green Dome.

A late evening rendez-vous with Emily, Jared, and our new friend Toklat.

And there he is: evil incarnate. The big, bad, bloodthirsty antichrist scheming his next sport-killing event. This carnivorous canid was exceptionally shy, and left as quickly as we arrived. And no, I did not see him along the Toklat. I saw him from the Denali bus. But I didn't know where else to put this photo, and I reckon it's a fine photo, so I had to include it somewhere. Since we saw a handful of wolf tracks paralleling the Toklat as we advanced upriver, I figured I'd capitalize on a little poetic license here...

Toward the Toklat's toe, and its headwaters, too

2010-09-06T18:49:00.000-07:00

Later the next day, I hung around the toilets at the Toklat bus stop for an hour or so, and eventually met up with my good pal Emily and her good pal Jared. We commenced our collective leg of the trip not far from the toilets, and soon found ourselves in some frightfully beautiful landscapes.

Heading upriver along the Toklat. One very blonde Toklat grizzly rambled along the side of the mountain near here. It seemed to have been riding a good sugar high, as it bounced and girated its way through the blueberry bushes. (Well, perhaps it didn't exactly girate, but it did seem to bee bop along at a pretty good clip).

Emily and Jared continuing upriver toward the enchanted peaks.

If only I were a geologist, I could describe to you what is happening on the slab of rock in the foreground of this Denali landscape. Unfortunately, I am no geologist, so I can't even speculate the formative forces behind the white and orange symbols metamorphosed into this riverbed boulder. But it sure is fancy to look at!

Emily and Jared elected to scramble across a slippery rock face adjacent to the river. I elected to scramble up the hill to avoid the slippery rock face, only to discover that I had no way down other than the way I'd just come, which provided the pair with a nice opportunity for a riverside snack as they waited. I do believe somebody is visible in the bottom right of the photo, providing a bit of scale for the scene.

Nearing the Toklat headwaters in a deliciously green valley framed by light dustings of fresh snow. Can't argue with that.

Accessible ridges

2010-09-06T18:44:00.000-07:00

Just a few views from a couple of Denali's most accessible ridges. I took a nap on the first ridge and was indeed awakened by the clashing sounds of wind flapping my jacket against my face and a wolf howling to the north (or south, or east, I couldn't really tell with all that wind). Regardless, Primrose Ridge is a nice spot to catch a few z's in the warm August sun.

A big view from Primrose Ridge. I saw no mammalian activity from the ridge, but I did hear a wolf howling. I also noticed a super-sized storm fast approaching from the west, which is slightly visible in the right of this photo.

But all was sunny and warm on the eastern front.

However, the storm will always catch you and provide a free course in the varieties and characterizations of precipitation. This squall wasn't bad, as it mostly involved mists and light gusts of wind.

Yet when the squall passes, which is frequent to quite frequent in Denali, the patient are rewarded with technocolor! I sat around on one of many ridges extending high up Polychrome Mountain and absorbed the big views and cornucopia of color the passing precipitations provided.

The classic colors of Polychrome Mountain. I walked this ridge for a while before I set up camp and found a few costco-sized piles of wolf scat and more than one discarded hare foot. I had to pause on this golden ridge for a while to contemplate the colorful arc in front of me.

Dall sheep

2010-09-06T18:35:00.000-07:00

One of the primary reasons for establishing Mt. McKinley National Park was the preservation of Dall sheep habitat. There are quite a few enclaves of the white sheep throughout the region, including this good looking group.

A young ram posing confidently with a cheek full of chew.

Somebody must have told this ram a decent joke, as he appears to be struggling to keep a straight face.

The big boy of the group. Regal enough.

A little toothy.

Cheek to cheek. I wish I knew why some mammals display this behavior. I've seen sibling brown bears show similar behavior, but I do not understand its significance. I'm sure there are a few journals or excerpts on this behavior out there, but I haven't exactly looked hard for the material...

Ungulates!

2010-09-06T18:27:00.000-07:00

Strolling around in the foothills of the Alaska Range, I was moderately confident that I'd get to lay my eyes upon some hefty ungulates. Living in the rainforest, one develops an aesthetic craving for creatures other than bears and blacktail deer. My eyes were peeled for velvety protrusions in the willowed hillsides...

And sure enough, ol' caribou provided a free glance at his buns and rack. A sizeable set of antlers by any standard...

Navigating a moonscaped hillside, hoping to find his way toward some tasty greens.

A small group of caribou organizing a fraction of what will become a bigger winter herd. Caribou start congregating in early fall, and their group sizes grow as the cold season approaches. I perched upon a ridgeline by my lonesome late one night and watched a small herd of about forty of these charming ungulates slowly meander across the valley floor of the East Fork of the Toklat. A fine way to spend an August evening.

A large bull dressed in velvet loitering in good rutting habitat.

Two thousand pounds of herbivorous mammal on the move.

Spring cub

2010-08-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

We're lucky enough to have three generations of cubs in the estuary vicinity this year. This spring cub (sex still undetermined) is growing more and more brazen every day. Weeks ago, it was terrified of its mother when she caught spawning chum in the creek. Now the cub tackles spawned out salmon on its own, investigates other cubs, and occasionally meanders in our direction to get a better idea of what us bipedal creatures are all about. The cub is still, by far, the most vocal bear in the estuary. Whenever a slight amount of stress arises, this cub huffs repeatedly, as its mother stands casually at bay, looking for salmon in the creek or observing an approaching bear.

Keeping a playful eye on the large hominid beasts standing atop the hill near the creek...

Like many cubs, this one's interest is aroused with the close approach of a raven, crow, or gull.

Still displaying signs of timidity, which is understandable for a 7 month old bear. With the heavy pink run, there has been an almost continuous congregation of multiple bears on the creek for several weeks.

A quick playfight with mom after consuming a few roe-filled salmon.

Mom displaying a sufficient amount of tolerance after receiving a bear bite to the nose...

Subadult special

2010-08-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

We hadn't seen a ray of sunlight for over three weeks. Clouds, mist, fog, rain, sideways rain, wetness, dampness. Then Christy and Steve arrived, from sunny Montana, and with them came the extended sunshine. The bears enjoyed the warm sunbeams seemingly as much as I did the first several days, but after a few days in the 70 degree heat, we noticed the bears became less and less active by day, opting more for the evening and night time fishing expeditions...

Stealthily scoping the spawning salmon in the smooth, silky stream ahead...

A young subadult male, whom I've loosely called "Beardie," as he's got a surplus of scraggly neck hair. This bear is one of three subadults that sporadically meet in the sedge meadow for extended playfights and wrestling matches. This one, along with two others that are quite possibly his siblings from a litter four or five years ago, meet in the meadow and practice posturing and fighting. They stand on their hind legs and growl at each other, grab each other's heads and shoulders with their front paws, and occasionally bite each other around the neck and ears. The fighting never escalates into a serious altercation; it's a natural process for younger bears to practice the postures, poses, and maneuvers for mating/fishing hole fights they'll get into in their later years.

Beardie walking in the sunshine, considering the immense amount of pink salmon spawning up the creek.

Beardie, responding to a choice salmon splashing in the shallows.

Guess who? The same bear, content with a stomach full of several slightly decayed pink salmon.

Little bears

2010-08-06T15:48:00.001-07:00

It never gets old watching bear cubs wrestle with their mothers, with themselves, with clumps of grass, twigs, or dead fish. Although it's appropriate to remain impartial, it's often difficult not to show some amount of affinity toward these goofy little cubs who want to chase the ravens and seagulls or stage a playfight with their mother who outweighs them by four hundred pounds. If I only had a video camera...

A slightly curious, slightly confused cub of the year attempting to determine if we are a good, bad, or benign presence in the landscape.

A two and a half year old cub approaching slightly closer, trying to determine if we'll retreat if he wanders slightly nearer.. Of course we maintained our position, and he eventually realized we weren't afraid of him, nor were we a threat to him. He later went down to the creek and fished with his back to us.

Another two and a half year old cub milling around on the sunny tideflat. A bald eagle and a few dozen Bonaparte gulls keep her company..

Mocha and her cub pushing two smaller bears away from a choice fishing hole.

Junebug and her nervous little cub caught in the middle of nine other bears (only one of which is visible in this photo). You'll be pleased to know that this little cub is still alive and well, and has gained a fair amount of weight this summer!

July bears

2010-08-06T14:41:00.000-07:00

Often an indication of stress, yawning is something bears do quite often. This bear must have just genuinely been tired, as he had no competition near this fishing hole to stress him out.

Investigating the sounds of a splashing salmon upcreek..

Standing upright isn't a display of dominance or aggression. More often than not, standing upright simply provides an opportunity to gather more information via their eyes, nose, and ears.

A large, and fairly old male scoping out the spawning chum in the shallows.

A river otter plotting his route back into the trees from the shoreline. These otters run from the forest to the ocean to pick off a flounder in the saltwater. Sometimes they'll feast on the flounder on the beach, and other times they'll run all the way back to the forest dragging the large, flat fish.

Sow and cub show

2010-07-26T18:55:00.000-07:00

We've been lucky enough to have several sows with cubs cruise the shores of Pack Creek this summer. Mocha and her yearling cub, quite familiar bears, have been the most regular. Mocha has demonstrated a lot of dominant behavior all summer, chasing subadults and adult females from various clamming and fishing holes. We initially wondered if we'd see a lot of bears on the creek this season with the amount of dominance Mocha had been displaying. Despite her efforts, many bears have made their way to the creek. Junebug, a young little mother of one spring cub, has also been regular. Her cub is easily intimidated, and oftentimes she runs away when her mother catches a salmon in the creek. The cub must associate any violent movement as something to run from, thus the quick and powerful movements of snatching a fish hit the cub's panic button and send her sprinting for the trees. Hopefully she learns to understand that fights with fish are good fights, or else she might run right into the clutches of a more dangerous bear...

Junebug and her frightened little cub scanning the waters for fish.

Freshly caught pink salmon, with Junebug's cub hiding somewhere in the sedge...

Big ol' Mocha and her yearling cub obtaining some fresh vitamin D in a late July sucker hole.

Staying within arm's reach as other bears approach the creek.

Mocha taking a nap creekside, and her cub wrestling with one of her numerous phantom friends.

Congregating bears

2010-07-25T10:26:00.000-07:00

This summer, the bears of Seymour Canal seem to be congregating in larger numbers compared to last year. The blueberry and salmon berry bushes have exploded with fruit, thus bringing in the bears in big numbers. The salmon runs have been relatively light, but there are still plenty of fish to be caught and munched streamside. With the abundance of berries and availability of fish, we've had to use all of our fingers and toes to count the bears we're seeing. In one day, we counted 18 different individuals utilizing the creek or adjacent berry bushes. At one given time, I was surrounded by 11 bears, all within sight up and down the creek. With the arrival of the heavy quantity of heavy hitters, we've seen some very interesting interaction between sows with cubs, subadults, and adult males. Some spooky situations for spring cubs, stressful situations for young subadults recently kicked out by their mother, and one hair raising scene in which I saw the largest boar of my life (I can't accurately estimate his weight, but he dwarfed a bear we know to be roughly 600 pounds; I'm thinking he's at least in the 800 pound range)...

Stripping the bushes for sugary salmon berries, this dark chocolate adult female feasted in the bushes near us for over an hour. She also retrieved a rotten salmon from the bushes- the discarded catch of a previously successful fishing bear.

Too many ideal captions for this photo. Do I go with "she's roaring her frustration over the lack of a suitable mate," or "she's serenading the creek with her favorite Rage Against the Machine tune?" Turns out, she was simply snatching all the salmon berries she could find, using her large omnivorous cuspids to intimidate the berries into falling into her mouth.

This tall drink would qualify as an aforementioned "heavy hitter." He wandered up and down the creek for a half an hour or more, without taking any fish from the water. A few other bears, mostly subadults and smaller females, immediately vacated the area as he approached. He certainly is a stout bear, but not the biggest we've seen this summer.

A downstream view from our observation tower.

The matriarch. This bear is believed to be 24 years old, having been born in 1986 (she's a very easy bear to recognize, given her frosted/blonde colored ears). She's seen some adversity in her day, as you can see her nose has taken a major hit or two over the years. She arrived to the estuary this spring with an obvious angulated fracture in her rear right leg. An injury like that could have happened any number of ways. It's possible she took a fall crossing an avalanche schute in the spring or fell from a slippery rock or log while trying to cross a stream or ravine. In any event, her leg has managed to heal enough to apply light pressure. Some days are better than others. Some days she walks with a slight limp, other days she tucks her leg up and walks with her remaining three legs. She scratches her head with her broken leg, and oftentimes stands on her hind legs to get a better view of the spawning fish. Commonly, an injury like a broken leg would mean the end. We'll have to wait and see. Since she is in her mid twenties, she's had years to perfect a fishing technique that wastes minimal energy and catches numerous fish. From our observations, this bear has caught the most fish this summer, despite her injury. And she's even starting to develop a good sized summer belly full of fish flesh...

The Yukon: Where the sun resides...

2010-07-24T18:24:00.000-07:00

Somehow I selected one of the soggiest weekends in Juneau to escape to the relatively dry climate of Skagway and the sunny landscapes of the Yukon. As it came down in sheets in Juneau on a windy weekend, I slipped my shoes off and went for a summertime run in the Carcross sand dunes near Whitehorse. It's been many full moons since I last dipped my toes into some sun-warmed sand. It felt good to prance around like a beach-dweller.

Once in Whitehorse, I was informed by a girl that the Carcross sand dunes are Canada's fifth smallest desert. Seems a worthy acknowledgement, eh? After I chatted with her a bit, I found my way to a corner store and bought the most delicious oranges I've eaten all summer, took my book to the riverbanks of the mighty Yukon, and took a warm nap in the green grass. The Yukon has the medicine that I craved these past few rainy weeks: a double dose of vitamin D.

Windswept ripples receiving yet another gust of the good stuff: a hot summer breeze.

Living in the rainforest of the Tongass, you'd think I see my fair share of trees. Yet I was a happy-go-lucky soul when I saw these sizeable expanses of aspens leafed out in the Yukon sun.

Bria and her pantaloons blowin' in the wind.

Pleasantness personified: late evening in the Yukon with blue skies, wild peaks, no mosquitoes and one black bear picking his way through the lakeside berry bushes.

Perhaps the best cover for a book I've ever seen. I can't remember the title, as I was mostly focused on this perfectly creepy individual collecting edible fungus in what appears to be the middle of his in-the-woods-trombone-playing mission. My friend Pete, with whom I worked for a few years back in Yellowrock, now lives in Skagway. He uses this mushroom field guide to harvest tasty edible mushrooms in the forests surrounding Skagway. With his harvested mushrooms, combined with the fresh crab caught outside Skagway and the deliciously fresh kale and chard grown in his garden plot in town, we had some extraordinarly finger lickin' good local cuisine. Thanks Pete and friends!

Los parajos del bosque lluvioso

2010-07-24T09:53:00.001-07:00

The avian diversity of coastal Southeast Alaska isn't exactly robust, but there are some fancy looking feathers swooping through the old hemlocks now and then. The most common birds we see in Windfall Harbor are, of course, eagles, ravens, crows, and thrushes. We do, however, see quite a few marbled murrelets (fairly rare), mergansers, a few loons, and scoters. Here are a few others that managed to stay still long enough for my lens to snap off a shot or two..

The regal pose of lady libery, focusing ponderously on some minute movement 800 yards away (perhaps).

Bird bathing in the cool waters of Pack Creek on a soggy Southeast afternoon. Despite its rather golden eagle appearance, this is indeed a juvenile bald eagle.

The lesser yellowlegs tiptoeing around the rocky shoreline like a Romanian gymnast in search of a gold medal buried amongst the seaweed.

One of my favorites, the belted kingfisher, complete with her fancy feathered headdress. We've had many more kingfishers scooping up salmon fry along the estuaries and coves this year than last year.

A solitary Wilson's warbler feasting in the salmon berry bushes near the creek. The salmon berries have exploded this year, resulting in a few more birds, and a lot more bears...

Windfall Harbor in late June

2010-07-08T22:08:00.000-07:00

Life in Windfall Harbor, and on the majority of Admiralty Island for that matter, isn't only about bears. Particuarly in late June and early July, when you're near a creek that doesn't spawn sockeye, and the chum haven't yet begun their spawn. At that time, most bears follow the receding snowline and the subsequent fresh greens that follow the snowmelt. A few bears remain in the lower elevations in late June before the salmon arrive, most of which are subadults or sows with cubs. The ones that want to be where the adult males aren't. However, we occasionally see a straggling adult male or solo adult female in the lower elevations in June, rooting around on the tideflats for some choice horse clams or grazing the sedge meadows for remnants of protein-rich plants. Otherwise, late June and early July are good weeks to hang out with organisms other than ursus arctos on Admiralty Island.

The steadfast peaks of Windfall Harbor. The place where I rest my head. For four months a year, at least.

Attempting to scale a camp-dwelling Sitka spruce. And when I say attemping to scale, I simply mean posing-in-front-of-with-arm-stretched-upward, as though I were half-assedly attempting to scale. This Sitka spruce seems large enough, but it's actually relatively small compared to the big dogs that were cut decades ago in Alaska and BC.

Another relatively small specimen. An adult male who has a large frame, but has yet to pack on the pounds to fill out his large stature. A few more years of consuming thousands of calories, and this fellow will be an intimidating soul, indeed.

Caught with its little tonge out of its beak, this intercontinental migrator and his buddies tend to frequent our camp. Rufous Hummingbirds make the big trip from Colombia and Venezuela to Alaska and back again every year. Not bad for a bird the size of your thumb...

For those interested in American voices, the hermit thrush has been described by the likes of Walt Whitman as encompassing the American voice. The hermit thrush song is about as soothing as it gets, particularly as you're waking up at 6 am on a summer's day in Windfall Harbor. This gray little guy seems to favor the blueberry bushes directly in front of our tent, as he, or others that look identical to him, cherry pick the bush's best blueberries on a regular basis.

Decent Views

2010-07-08T18:41:00.000-07:00

If you're into the whole enormous views, endless ridges, napping in the sunshine, and no crowds scene, then this neighborhood ridge might be up your alley. Which ridge is it, though? 'Fraid I can't say.

Mount McGinnis and Stroller White, a couple of sizeable stones loitering next to a cold sheet of ice.

Supplementing the scene with a sprinkle of scale, Jackie and Shylah contemplate the big icy to the north and the lupine and buttercups to the south.

Casually meandering amongst a few flowers, investigating a good spot for a potential afternoon nap in the sun. The Skagway-Haines-Juneau ferry can be seen approaching via the Lynn Canal in the distance.

I've read about various species of alpine goats and sheep getting harrassed by eagles, but this is the first time I've actually seen it. This eagle pressured these mountain goat kids for a few minutes, forcing them to retreat to a safer zone. If successful, the eagle would have managed to get a mountain goat kid to slip and plunge to its death, upon which the eagle would certainly have had a carrion feast. In the photo, you can see the eagle swooping upward from two mountain goat kids, near the center of the image..

The bears return! (Or: I returned to the fortress)...

2010-06-11T13:49:00.001-07:00

The winter wasn't easy. I could explain that on many different levels, but I'll leave it at the surface level: I allowed myself to fall into a rut. I lost sight of who I was for a while, and I simply went through the motions of waking up, feeding myself, going to work, feeding myself, and sleeping. Granted, there were some great games of bananagrams in a dank bar nestled in the basement of a moderately sketchy hotel, some wintery walks in the February rain, and good conversations over a hot cup of tea or a cold beer. And there were friends. Yet I still allowed myself to fall into a rut, a rut from which I've been eager to climb out.

I've spent half a month on Admiralty Island this spring, and I've already noticed a remarkable change in my disposition. Living outside again, allowing the wind and rain to soak me as thoroughly as the springtime sunshine. Slowing my pace down and reading a book or two a week. Writing, thinking, and coffee drinking (of course). By April and early May, my mind was fairly frazzled and moving at an unconnected, flaky pace somewhere between banana-sluggish and Mach 1. However, the past few weeks in the woods have allowed me to slow my pace down, to unwind a few of the mental cobwebs and birdsnests and approach things at a more reasonable pace. This, in turn, has allowed me to slowly inch toward the clarity and peace I've known before. I can only assume a few more months in the woods will expedite this return to clarity.

I re-read The River Why last week. Somewhere near the middle of the book, Gus took a walk up the Tamanawis River for no reason other than to take his body and his mind for an indefinite hike. During his walk, he was reminded of a tale during which a young man took a similar journey and reached an unanticipatedly profound level of peace. After several days and nights of contemplating and sleeping on the ground next to a fire, he sat on a stone near his smoldering coals as a a few animals approached and investigated him, including a bear. All of the animals understood the peace he had reached, and after a brief investigation, left the man alone. Although I haven't returned to that level of peace, I couldn't help but feel a happiness when several Admiralty animals reminded me of the tale. Paddling in Windfall Harbor late one night, I was startled nearly out of my kayak when a humpback surfaced and trumpeted boisterously within 40 or 50 yards of me. The air was still and tranquil enough to hear the whale's voice echo off the surrounding mountain walls. The whale continued to surface near me as I made my way toward the shore, and eventually we headed in seperate directions. A few days later, sitting on the beach, two Sitka blacktail deer came prancing down the shoreline. As they neared us, they became curious. We sat motionless as the deer inched closer and closer, sniffing like curious bloodhounds and analyzing our shapes, sizes, and smells from 20 feet away. If we had moved, the deer would have fled immediately. But we sat as the deer investigated for ten minutes or more, finally concluding that we were alright. And eventually, of course, we crossed paths with a few bears. Some familiar, others not. Although never complacent around brown bears, it was a subtle sense of personal freedom to again be out in the open with wild, undiscriminating animals, reading their body language and responding accordingly. We let the bears do what they needed to do as we blended in with the landscape. A mature male clammed within 50 yards of us, and a familiar old sow and her cub meandered within 20 yards. The wind beat us, the rain beat us, and the sun beat us. Ravens cackled, gulls croaked, and the water provided calm seas as often as choppy. I smiled.

It's good to be back outside.

Ol' honey paws slowly moving from point A to point B in the hot June sunshine.

Our girl Mocha, looking robust and healthy in the early months of the season.

Mocha last fall, at nearly the same location as the above photo. She looks a bit larger in the photo from this year, but much of that is the remnants of her heavy winter coat. Despite these photos, she was much more heavy-in-the-belly last fall than she is this spring. After a summer full of salmon, she'll be back to her bigger ways in no time.

Chino, Mocha's yearling cub appearing healthy and shy.

A mature boar keeping a casual eye on us as he sniffs the tide flats for more clams.

Ice Cold

2010-06-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

A bald eagle perched atop one of many tidewater glaciers within striking distance of the Juneau Harbor.

Looking strikingly similar to a healthy coho salmon, this iceberg casually swam its way past us en route to bigger waters.

International travel without a passport: Cessna-cruising the Alaska-BC border and the Juneau Icefield after Sunday breakfast.

Thanks to the difficult-to-quantify amounts of nearby ice, the Tongass remains lush, wet, and mild year round, providing rich waters for feasting, as demonstrated by this crew of bald eagles loitering on the reef.

Freedom taking a dip: this eagle must have snatched a fish too heavy to carry in flight. In order to cash in on the calories, this eagle had to swim a few hundred yards to the nearest reef to open up its talons for the fishy prize.

Poor man's puffins and lucky man's landscapes

2010-05-23T17:53:00.000-07:00

More snapshots from an April week in Haines. I'd been told that hitch hiking wasn't easy in Haines, but if I may, I beg to differ. Not only were the rides relatively easy, but we also met a great lady who after driving us one direction offered to take us on a hike and then give us a lift back to town. If that wasn't enough, she offered to let us use her bicycles for the weekend, which was rather fortunate, since the Chilkat Valley happens to be among the finer locations for weekend bike rides I've ever known. If you'd like to talk about warmth, trust, and authentic generosity, you'd better include her in your description.

Sitting on the beach on a Thursday afternoon with a few hundred surf scoters. Scoters have "whistling wings," and on a calm day you can hear their wings whistle from huge distances. Surf scoters are fairly spooky sea ducks and will flee at the approach of anything on the water or on the beach. A river otter approached this group from somewhat of a discreet location, but before it was within 100 yards, the several hundred poor man's puffins packed their bags and headed toward another location a quarter mile down the bay.

Alaska's clean waters and healthy wildlife are up against enormous threats (and given the mentality, philosophy, and politics of the vast majority of Alaskans and their corresponding lawmakers, the current outlook for clean water and stable ecosystem dynamics is pretty scary). Surf scoters' numbers have declined an estimated 50 - 75% in the last 50 years, which should be sufficiently alarming to anybody who understands that losing 3/4 of the population of a species in a half century is not a healthy trend for the region's ecological stability. However, it is still possible to head to the beach and see hundreds of these birds diving in the shallows for tasty crustaceans.

Ripple remnants on the Mud Bay mudflats at low tide.

Looking south into Mud Bay and at the approach of a wintery mixed bag of precipitation..

April feast up the Chilkat and Chilkoot

2010-05-23T17:16:00.000-07:00

If you're trying to find a recipe for unpleasantness, I don't think the following would fall into the equation: Sunny skies in the Chilkat Valley, temperatures loitering around the 60 degree mark, a cozy cabin, good company, free bicycles, Haines Brewery beverages, and the annual caloric bonanza that is the hooligan spawn.

Gulls gathering for an instinctual meeting on the mudflats of the Chilkat Valley. In late April, it'd be hard to find a hungry gull in northern Southeast, given the abundance of slimy little snacks spawning their way up familiar watersheds.

Eulachon, or hooligan, or candlefish. Whichever you prefer. They are, regardless, the culprit responsible for the massive April feast in choice estuaries throughout northern Southeast Alaska. The fish run in the millions, providing a nutritious free-for-all amongst humpbacks, sea lions, gulls, eagles, and other feathered friends with an appetite for the stuff. Hooligan are oily enough to burn like a candle, but I've recently passed a personal resolution to burn candles that smell pleasant, not ones that smell like oily fish carcass...

Thousands of gulls speed-dating on the mudflats in front of the unphotogenic Chilkats.

A couple good-lookin' peaks looming largely.

Not punctual, but not forgotten

2010-05-04T08:44:00.000-07:00

A few Southeast snapshots from the winter/spring...

Looking northwest sometime near the spring equinox. After a dreary March, a broken sky with slivers of sunset was enough to make this boy smile.

Pals palling around at an undisclosed lunching location in Berner's Bay.

A few friends motoring through Berner's Bay. Joining us for our paddle were a handful of humpbacks, a dozen sea lions, and two stark naked crab fishermen. True story.

A rather young nursery log building bridges over an undisclosed creek east of Berner's Bay.

Tenakee Springs doing its best to shake off the midmorning fog. Tenakee, with a year round population of 100 give or take, has more beautifully crafted off-the-grid homes than you could wave a stick at. And a community bathhouse/hot spring in which one of the clear regulations is something along the lines of: "Clothing may not be worn at any time."

Sunshine in Southeast

2010-01-23T20:58:00.001-08:00

There aren't many towns in the world in which a day at the beach and a day at the glacier are the same day...

Eagle Beach, an exceptionally beautiful puppy playground

Winter in Alaska can look like this.

Looking a little more Scandinavian... Or Alaskan? And which is more evocative of a frosty high noon sun?

An abrasively fragile winter texture.

The mighty Mendenhall looking as crisp as ever.

Out the Road

2010-01-18T20:36:00.000-08:00

After a couple cups of the Panamanian coffee black that I've been nursing for the last month and a chocolate chip/peanut butter waffle at the waffle joint, I figured I'd head out the road to see what the sunshine situation was like a few miles out of town. Alas, no golden sunrays, but I did find a solid afternoon without precipitation. A first in a while! As most weekend afternoons at the beach go, this one was theraputic. Looking across the Lynn Canal at the Chilkat Range, peaks upon peaks and millions of acres of wild, undeveloped forests and watersheds. Beyond which is Glacier Bay, Mt. Fairweather, Wrangell-St. Elias, and more wildness. It was good to set my eyeballs upon the reasons that drew me back to Alaska. Wildness. Undevelopment. Rugged old mountain valleys not yet consumed by the machine that is the new world order. Uncorrupted and natural. For now.

I shared the beach with a few other folks absorbing the 10,000 foot ceiling that will qualify as somewhat of a sunny day. Mostly dog owners out walking their always happy four legged rascals on the holiday afternoon, along with a few dozen harbor seals bobbing their heads in and out of the shallows offshore. A couple bald eagles played it cool roosting in nearby trees, and a few mallards and loons soaked their feathers in the seawater. Pretty good company.

Looking east into the snowcaps from Eagle Beach.

The Lynn Canal, with the weighty Chilkats standing guard beyond.

A family out for a stroll on the tide flats.

The casual holiday scene was indeed this: snow on the beach, a couple guys hauling their scuba gear into the icy drink for a quick forty minute mingle with the crustaceans, and a happy go lucky husky rooting them on from ashore.

Peaks for weeks.

Juneau, January style

2010-01-11T21:25:00.000-08:00

Pulling into Juneau on a crisp January morning was a mixed bag of feelings. On the one hand, it was great to be back, especially on a ruby dazzler of a day like the one pictured below. Winter in Alaska (not only a collection of words used to describe a time and place combination, but also the name of an experimental electronic gypsy-pop solo musical act, so I'm told). I questioned whether I was up to it, and there I was. About to drive away from the ferry terminal into the day to day of a Juneau January. On the other hand, as I drove past a few familiar haunts in Auke Bay, I had more and more of what Jules in Pulp Fiction called a moment of clarity. I realized where home is, and who and what are important to me. Montana is home; it feels like no other place. It feels like home in a way that words can't describe. Better yet, words definitely could describe the feeling, but I'm trying to type this whilst eating spaghetti, and I don't have the capacity to excel in sentence creation while simultaneously chowing on last night's dinner... Anyhow, coastal Alaska does indeed have it all: the ocean, fresh seafood, sea kayaking, rock and ice climbing, mountaineering, alpine hiking, abundant wildlife, sizeable brown bears, bald eagles roosting around every corner, and any other magical experience you'd like to get mixed up in in the out of doors. But it ain't home. And it's a pretty solidifying feeling, at least for a pseudo vagabondish ranger type like myself, to definitely know who and where home is.

Sliding into Auke Bay in Juneau. I could smell the chocolate chip waffles at the Southeast Waffle Company from the boat. Which, actually, was a total lie. But those waffles were certainly among my priorities as I began to line out my first day back in town...

A quiet morning alpenglow on the Chilkats south of Haines.

A late winter sunrise sneaking its way through Youngs Cove on Admiralty Island.

The early a.m. on the Lynn Canal.

Unfortunate winter sailing weather south of Wrangell...

Midwinter Alaskan Inside Passage

2010-01-04T18:29:00.001-08:00

Well, for those fans of quirks, idiosyncracies, and insignificant claims to fame, hear this: I was aboard the first ferry north to Alaska in this new decade. Departing January 1 from Bellingham, the crowded MV Malaspina tardily made its way north into the darkness.

Three days aboard the Malaspina, with plenty to think about. In the last three months, I've visited those that mean the most to me. Home for a spell in Gardiner, down to Colorado to link up with family and friends and a couple quick games of catch in Boulder, out to Utah for some relaxation, 3D movies, and hockey games, and on into Nebraska for the holidays with family and a moderately wild pack of seven house/farm dogs. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I managed to squirt down to Panama and hitch hike around for a few weeks, witness the exploitation of the global South by the global North, and dip myself into a couple oceans. Pretty heavy load to reflect upon on this journey back north...

I told a few people over the course of the last months that I am truly at peace, that I am happy. Now, here in Juneau at 5:45 in the evening, where the sun set two hours ago, I can still say the same. That I am happy. Yet, despite that, I must admit that the most recent goodbyes were some of the most difficult I've had. Teary eyed in Gardiner, Denver, Salt Lake, and Lincoln. What a salty set of weeks for a guy! You'd think after five or six years of saying these goodbyes, they'd become easier. They haven't...

As the ferry motored past Vancouver and up the eastern shelf of Vancouver Island with those thoughts rockin' around in my brain, there was some sense that the darkness and clouds were trying to forcibly tell me something. That after such heavy goodbyes and heading north into the winter, something dark and heavy was ahead.

Waking up the next morning with a cup of ferry-brewed coffee black, I stepped out onto the deck to investigate the temperature. I didn't realize until I'd stepped outside that the moonlight was illuminating the ridgelines of eastern Vancouver Island. I stood outside on the deck with a breeze biting my cheeks, absorbing the moonglow on the snowcapped ridges and thought to myself: shit, if this isn't what it's all about, what is? My camera was stowed away on the bottom deck, so there weren't any photo opportunities for the photo hungry beast that is me. Which I think may have been a good thing. I stood on the deck shivering like a southerner on a sea vessel nosing its way in the Alaska direction for a couple hours. I watched close to 30 miles of rugged Canadian coastline pass near me. And indeed, they were rugged miles of coastline.

The clouds loomed ahead, and overhead, and remained on top of us all day.

I ate dinner and had a great conversation with a travel nurse, thinking about what a lucky son of a gun I was to be in a cozy vessel motoring into the icy waters north of us. And onward we pressed.

I went to sleep thinking about family and friends, and what was in store for me with this new opportunity in downtown Juneau. Again, obeying my internal alarm clock set for mountain standard time, I woke up at about 5:15 local time. I put a few bagels down, returned for another cup of ferry's famous coffee black, and stepped outside to see what was happening. The sunrise was trying to manifest into something beautiful on the southern horizon. I went back inside and snatched my coat. And since the sun is at its wintery angle, I watched the below scene unfold for the next hour and a half..

Sunrise pressing its way through the forests north of the Dixon Entrance.

An hour and a half later, sliding into the harbor at Ketchikan. I talked to Erin on the phone while I was in Southeast's southern reaches. I had on a sweater, a hat, and a pair of gloves and couldn't have been more comfortable. Meanwhile, in the midst of another cold front, Erin was freezing her tukus off a thousand miles to the south...

Another early morning glimpse at wintery Ketchikan.

A few hours past Ketchikan, the clouds began to roll in once again. Things started to look a little more wintery. And within the course of half an hour, they felt wintery as well...

Heading out of Ketchikan toward Wrangell looking at the snow covered evergreens, I thought to myself this: happiness isn't the product of one isolated equation. It is not only Gardiner + sense of home + exceptional friends = happiness. It is not only Colorado/Utah/Nebraska + dogs + road trips + an exceptional set of siblings + an exceptional set of parents = happiness. True, those things equate to enormous happiness. But happiness can be found anywhere, if you're willing to feel it. It can be found on a farm in Nebraska, in the cloud forests of Panama, with family eating a favorite home cooked meal in Utah, in a sleeping bag in central Colorado in the back of your dad's truck, in a grotesque liquor and sex mecca of Central America, and it can be found facing a nasty winter wind heading north into a 3:30 sunset. It is where you feel it. And thanks to family, friends, dogs, and travels, I've felt it a lot recently.

Bocas del Toro, Panama

2009-12-29T18:51:00.000-08:00

At the beginning of the trip, Linnaea and I both agreed that we would avoid Bocas del Toro at all cost. Bocas is Panama's answer Cancun. Or Oahu. Or a fusion of both. The primary activities in Bocas del Toro are quite obvious: sex, posturing and posing in trendy surf threads in effort to obtain sex, surfing, posturing and posing as an actual surfer in effort to obtain street credit/sex, heavy drinking, and retiring. Neither Linnaea nor I had any interest in visiting such a wonderful location in which superficial sex is king and surfing's the mayor.

However, we ran into a couple interesting bicycle enthusiasts while in Boquete who had some decent things to say about Bocas. They took a water taxi through the archipelago and saw some dolphins, poison dart frogs, and sloths. We were only three hours by road and another by water taxi from Bocas, so we figured we might as well give it a shot. Within five minutes of hiking down to the highway and sticking out our thumbs, we were picked up by a friendly engineer from David. He took us to the Caribbean side and dropped us near a bus stop, at which point we rallied the rest of the way in a crowded Caribbean mini bus. There were some similarities between the Pacific and Caribbean sides. Rural agriculture, co-ops, etc. Despite the similarities, there were some definite differences between the two coasts. Banana plantations, Caribbean cuisine with more fish and less chicken, somewhat of a Pidgin Spanish, less salsa and more reggae. And although the Pacific side was quite laid back, the Caribbean side is champion when it comes to lounging...

I'll speak for myself when I say that, despite our negative preconceptions of Bocas del Toro, it turned out to be a beautiful spot with good weather, sloths, poisonous nickel-sized amphibians, and some friendly people. It did, however, live up to its reputation of sex, surfing, touring, and retiring...

Relaxing beachside with a girl from California and an aspiring expat hoping to soon call Nicaragua home.

A bit of a labyrinth of palm trees and mangroves opening up to the soothing Caribbean.

The first major rainforest mammal sighting of the trip!

Hangin' in there after what appears to be one too many tokes of opium.

A great white egret snacking upon the local fishy cuisine.

La Fortuna - Las Lajas - Boquete, Panama

2009-12-20T09:35:00.001-08:00

Nestled in the mountains of the La Fortuna Forest Reserve is an ecolodge run by a couple of Canadian expats. After not meeting many fellow travelers for the first couple weeks in Panama, it was interesting to stumble upon a collection of fun loving gringos sipping coffee and smoking excessive amounts of cigarettes in this ecolodge compound in the Panamanian cloud forest. We arrived at the tail end of the rainy season, and the beginning of the windy season, and were lucky enough to have both seasons high up in the hills. "Brisas," or little breezes, pick up in early December, and can hit the 70 to 80 mile an hour mark with regularity. What a place to experience both seasons, the rain and the monstrous winds, tucked away in the cloud forest with a bunch of good people, some incredible bugs, hummingbirds, and reptiles, and a high quality foosball table. I must admit, I was impressed and surprised at my respectable performances in the nightly foosball tournaments.

Biodensity in the tropical rainforest of La Fortuna. The noise in this forest was incredible, in a subtle sort of way. On the surface, it was nearly silent. But if you stopped to listen, the wind blew powerfully through the upper ends of the canopy and dozens of different birds rang through the trees. I kept stopping, anticipating to hear a gang of howler monkeys hoop it up. It never happened. I did, however, hear some great birds and see some great plants. Like the ones above, growing on an enormous tree that looked like a less spidery cousin of a banyan tree. The Canadians at the ecolodge apparently called this one something similar to "Old Grandpa," and advised us to sit under the tree to listen to its secret wisdom. I attempted, and was rather immediately devoured by jungle bugs. I walked forty feet down the trail, and somehow managed to elude the cloud of insects. We stood around for a while near the tree, looked at the plants and interconnected systems of vines, and contemplated the several million-strong army of ants that extended several meters down the trail.

Although we saw no sloths or heard no howlers, we did take a break every now and then to admire the creatures dangling from various leafs and branches. This caterpillar was one amongst many miniature beasts wandering around the jungle. Each time we stopped, we'd see several large spiders, nations of ants, caterpillars, leaf bugs, stick bugs, and beetles. If we'd had a local expert meandering through the jungle with us, I'm sure we would have also seen the several thousand insects and mammals that were likely right in front of our eyes.

One very rough-around-the-edges beetle that came to join us for dinner one evening. At night, the monster bugs came out in force. They didn't bother us, as most were slow moving and seemed to be most interested in doing what their genes designed them to do: blend in with the landscape and try to score a free lunch somehow.

Three Pacific-side girls traversing the beach east of David, Panama in their cowgirl boots.

The small town of Boquete, Panama. I assumed I would immediatley dislike this town, as I had heard it was overrun with North American retirees looking for tax loopholes (Panama does not charge property tax and land in Panama is cheap, therefore making it appealing to North Americans to pick up sticks and settle in the spring like climate of Boquete). However, the town has a pull to it, and we ended up staying several days longer than originally expected. In the hills surrounding town are numerous coffee plantations, and two LSD inspired gardens.

Sobre del Volcan Baru, Panama!

2009-12-17T08:19:00.000-08:00

Making our way from Santa Fe/Santiago toward David and Parque Nacional Volcan Baru, I was reminded of Gabriel Garcia Marquez more than a few times. History seemed to be repeating itself in Panama, with external corporations snatching up resources intended for Panamanians. We drove past several pine tree farms, planted in the 70's under the direction of Omar Torrijos, to be harvested in 40 years as a source of income and affordable lumber for local Panamanians. The trees planted 40 years ago are now mature, yet for one reason or another, local level or national level Panamanians can't seem to transcend their differences in order to harvest these tree farms. As a result, the government is accepting bids from outside countries like Colombia and Costa Rica to come in, harvest the trees, and export them, leaving no lumber, pulp, or money for the locals. The Peace Corps volunteer I talked to suggested that the problem rests in the co-op system of rural Panama. It seems very idealistic on the surface, but when it comes to making decisions that affect the community, there are so many differing opinions and points of pride that it becomes impossible to reach any conclusions. With the delay in decision making, other countries are stepping in to perform the old snatch and grab...

Also on the drive, I saw the first mosque of the trip. Reading Garcia Marquez, there are constant references to Arab and Turkish migrants setting up shop in Colombia and Panama in the 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries. See Shakira, who apparently is part Lebanese, speaks fluent Arabic, and whose hips suggest some amount of belly dancing lineage...

A few miles down the road, I saw a pair of Panamerican adventurers riding their bikes loaded with full panniers, waving their Argentine flags from their rear wheels. With such heavy loads pointed in the direction of the southernmost city in the world riding on the Panamerican Highway, I chose to believe that they had started in Alaska and were working their way to Tierra del Fuego. Who knows if that was really the case, but it made a fella think for a few moments about future endeavors...

Eventually we reached Boquete. A conglomerate of a North American retirement community and wild, ecclectic mountain town Latin America. Volcan Baru hovers immediately overhead. There are only a handful of places in the world from which you can see the Pacific Ocean and Atlantic Ocean. Volcan Baru, the tallest mountain in Panama near the Costa Rican border, is among those locations. Baru, weighing in at 11,398 feet, is a climatic enclave of chilly, damp weather in an otherwise tropical region. As we soon found out... The round trip was only about 25 miles, but it required a fair amount of elevation gain. Six thousand feet or so... In Panama, some of the trail routing is pretty straight forward: straight up, regardless of the grade. Needless to say, it made for a sweaty climb. We were told we needed at least 7 hours to reach the final camp at about 10,500 feet (known as "communidad de volcan," or volcano community). We had a late start and decided to push through the climb to try to reach camp before nightfall. When we reached the top, we were met by four Spaniards, one Frenchman, and a couple Panamanian guides. We realized we'd climbed about 5,000 feet in elevation over the course of 12 miles in about three and a half hours. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but I will admit I was ready for bed...

What would a Latin American point of interest be without the requisite cross, crucifix, or Virgin Mary? Located smack on top of the summit was this cross, which was framed by an eery sundog in the early morning light. Ironically, this photo registered as number 666 on my memory card. Muy bizzaro! I heard a story later in Panama that on full moons, a group of Christians or Catholics from the Chiriqui Province hike to the top of Volcan Baru in excited anticipation of the end of the world. It has yet to happen, apparently. However, I'm not sure of the story's validity, as we were on the summit on what was quite close to a full moon and saw zero end of the world parties...

When we woke up at 5 am, the sky was perfectly clear and we could see more stars than you could shake a stick at. We started clambering up the last mile toward the summit, and the clouds began to roll in. Once we reached the summit, it was completely socked in. We waited around for an hour or more, hoping the fog would burn off. It did, somewhat, to provide this view in the general direction of the Pacific Ocean.

Descending back toward the volcano community, the clouds broke up a little more and provided a view toward the Caribbean. Not sure if we actually saw either ocean, but the views were pretty magical nonetheless.

Linnaea wandering through the misty high elevation forest near the volcano community. Once the sun would hit the trees and bushes, we'd hear an explosion of birdsongs. Pretty cool.

We were "warned" about jaguars and tigres pequenos (ocelots and margays) by several people before heading to Baru. Not sure if they were warning us for our safety or for the safety of our cookies and yoghurt, but we didn't expect to come across any big cats in the jungle. However, as I was laying awake contemplating the bright, nearly full moon shining through the tent, I heard what reminded me of a heavyset cat running around the house at night. I wasn't sure if I was halfway between the world of make believe and the world of conscious cognition. But a few minutes later, the cat-like prancing noise returned. Then I heard it again, run immediately next to our tent. It sounded to be a decent sized animal. Maybe 20 - 40 pounds. Margays range from 7 to 20 pounds, and ocelots between 20 and 35. We checked for prints around our tent the next morning, but it is most difficult to find a cat track on stone and moss... I will, however, accept this: we were visited by some species of tigre pequeno under a full moon in the volcano community of Panaman's highest mountain.

Two quiet pueblos, Panama

2009-12-16T07:11:00.000-08:00

Public transportation in Panama is rediculously easy. In the city, there are dozens of school buses deemed unsafe for use in the US, so they were shipped to Panama for public transport. Each one is painted with intricate care and detail, but also with intricate craziness and color. They're called Diablo Rojos, or Red Devils. Fare on one of these buses is about 25 cents to most anywhere in the city. I didn't manage to snap off any photos, as we were only in the city for a day and I left my camera behind for most of it. However, for a quick glimpse at these buses, check it out at: http://http//farm4.static.flickr.com/3578/3344104413_6b42c10040.jpg.

Transportation between cities is via minibus. All you have to do is flag down and jump on a bus that has a sticker plastered to the front window declaring its general direction and final destination, and get off when the bus accelerates through your preferred destination. Fare on these generally runs about $1.50 per hour (not sure if that was the local price or the gringo price). A three hour ride would run about $4.50. Not a bad deal, considering taxis in Panama want to charge you $5 to travel 5 miles.

The minibuses can get laughably crowded, depending on what time of day you ride and whether or not school is in session. I learned from a Peace Corps volunteer I met in the mountain town of Santa Fe that Panamanian kids are out of school just about as often as they are in. In the month of November, she told me students were out of school for close to a dozen days, not including weekends, due to national and local holidays... Hard to retain the philosophy of Kant and learn logarithm functions, let alone basic literature and multiplication tables when you're out of the classroom more days than you're in one. Needless to say, the Peace Corps volunteer was frustrated at the local schooling system..

We were lucky enough to ride on a few minibuses with television screens, dvd players, and kickass soundsystems. The most popular dvds that were played were, of course, Latin music videos in which there is a strict paradigm that the artists must follow: a moderately creepy looking man, a beautiful woman who is either angry at or indifferent toward the creepy man, a long enduring courtship in which the man fluctuates between being passionate and being lazy, and in the end, a heavy makeout session between the man and woman. There were certainly some variations on this video: some were filmed outside, others were filmed inside. Some were filmed depicting a poor bartender pursing the hot waitress. Others depicted a highroller with superfulous bling pursuing an indifferent gringa on the beach. But rest assured, in the end, they always got the girl. Much different from a 17 hour bus ride I took in Argentina, during which we watched a dvd complication of Steven Seagal's greatest hits dubbed in Spanish..

The small town, or pueblo, of Santa Fe. This was one of the cleanest towns in Panama I saw. There were signs posted throughout town asking its residents to refrain from throwing their food wrappers and unwanted Fanta bottles out of the windows of minibuses. And yes, that is a regular occurrence. Finish a bag of Doritos, and rather than throw it in the garbage bucket in the front of the bus, simply open your window and throw it outside..

While talking to the Peace Corps volunteer I met, I learned that a Canadian mining company was moving into the area for a mining project. They have officially stated and publicly posted their plans for their project, which include displacing thousands of local campesinos away from the land they've lived on for hundreds of years. They also made aware the fact that after they've begun their mining project, the water in the local river will be unsafe for drinking. This is all small print on the flyers in town. The large print declares that minerals in the ground are dangerous, so the mining company should come into the area to take them all out of the ground and send them back to Canada (seriously). Obviously, this is not a unique event, but rather one of hundreds of projects throughout Latin America with parallel plans of action. And people wonder why guerilla movements develop in the rural hills... The next night, we had a great conversation with a local elementary school teacher. We asked him about the mine and he shook his head. I told him it was the same where I live, in Montana and Alaska. He asked us to spread the word of ecotourism in Santa Fe, so that gringos can come to the region and see how beautiful it is, generating sustainable revenue to the community and potentially raising a voice of opposition to the proposed killing of the local watershed. So, at his request: visit Santa Fe, Panama. It is beautiful, quiet, and slow paced. Great vistas, waterfalls in every direction, and plenty of tropical birds. And apart from us, we only saw four other gringos in our entire stay in the area: a Belgian who runs an absolutely gorgeous guesthouse named Hostal La Qhia, an American real estate agent who is trying to prevent irresponsible land sales and keep land in the hands of locals, a Peace Corps volunteer, and a journalist from East Germany.

Morning view from the hammock in front of our hotel room in Santa Fe. We stayed at Hotel Santa Fe, run by a helpful Colombian lady with the assistance of her goofy little puppy YaYa. The food was great, but it was a bit pricey for what we were looking for. If you're in Santa Fe, continue up the road toward the town center and follow the La Qhia signs to the tranquil compound of private rooms, dorms, hammocks, and garden run by the friendly Belgian lady.

Wandering around up a dirt road outside El Valle de Anton, we unexpectedly came across the entrance to Chorro Macho, which loosely translates to: Manly Waterfall. I can't remember the exact name of another waterfall near town, but it loosely translated to: Little Girls Waterfall... We attempted to swim in the pool beneath this waterfall, but the pool was small enough that it was much more of a soak than a swim. And a soak in cold mountain stream water isn't the most ideal soak... Walking toward this waterfall with a friend we met from Brooklyn, we saw the only toucan of the trip, the only massive iguana of the trip, and a sizeable troop of leafcutter ants.

Linnaea and Garrett, a guy we met in Panama City who runs a non profit for children with cancer in the Brooklyn area, walking through one of El Valle de Anton's quiet residential streets. Much of this town was filled with retirees from Panama City. If you're in El Valle, it's worth looking into getting a guide to go rumbling through the jungle and on top of the ridges of the surrounding volcano caldera. He'll probably show you the animals that we never saw...

Touchdown in Panama

2009-12-15T18:19:00.000-08:00

Panama City

Back in Latin America, in Panama. A genuine Banana Republic, and so much more.

Panama has quite an interesting history. Typically exploited, like the rest of Latin America, with the unique twist of one of the world's biggest resources: the canal. Panama's history is worthy of volumes and volumes of books. But I'll do what I can to summarize it, skipping out on a lot of gory details and nitty gritty information...

In the late 1800's, fresh off of independence from Spain, Panama wasn't even nationally known as Panama. It was still part of Colombia. A few powerhouse countries understood Colombia's narrow strip of land's significance and its potential for enormous wealth. Japan was interested in building a canal to provide a shipping shortcut between the Atlantic and the Pacific, but didn't manage to get their efforts off the ground. France gave it a go, opting to try to dig the canal below sea level. It didn't work. A few decades passed, a few countries mulled over the idea of trying to construct the canal, but nothing happened. Then, in 1903, with the full support of the United States, Panama declared independence from Colombia. Less than 12 months later, a major US contracting firm began what would become the successful construction of today's Panama Canal. Although employees funneled to Panama from all over the world to work, most of the billions of dollars generated in the construction project quickly found their way back to the US. Not much remained in Panama. As the completion of the canal neared, the US declared the immediate land on both sides of the canal as US territory. The canal tolls and fees would be handled almost exclusively by US banks and interested parties. Again, not much remained in Panama. One small sliver of land bisecting a tiny country, worth billions and billions of dollars, declared as the property of a dominant country more than a thousand miles away. Talk about the ultimate piracy of the 20th century!

Half a century passed, and resentment grew. People and politicians began arguing for, lobbying for, and petitioning for the return of the land surrounding the Panama Canal to Panamanians. The US declined. In the 70's, the popular Omar Torrijos gained momentum in the push to keep money generated from Panamanian resources in Panama for Panamanians. In 1977, Torrijos and President Jimmy Carter crafted the Torrijos-Carter Treaty, which returned the canal and its surrounding territory to Panama, scheduled for the year 1999. After the signing of the treaty, and during his enormous regional popularity, Torrijos' plane mysteriously crashed into a remote mountainside, killing all passengers (within months of a similar accident to the president of Ecuador who shared Torrijos' ideals: money made from Ecuadorian resources should remain in Ecuador for Ecuadorians. His plane also crashed into a remote mountainside).

At that time, a military commander with significant narcotics connections by the name of Manuel Noriega rose in popularity, both with Panamanians and with the CIA. He was among the favorites on the CIA's bankroll, helping funnel resources, dollars, and regional influence into US control. In 1983, he became president of Panama. Then President Reagan and Vice President Bush (former director of the CIA who helped pay Noriega, and indirectly the man in charge of the notoriously corrupt United Fruit Company) determined that the Panama Canal was too valuable to not be in US Control. They offered Noriega "incentives" to return the canal to the US. They assumed he would accept. He didn't. For one reason or another, Noriega recanted his old connections with the CIA and insisted that the treaty with Jimmy Carter be honored. Shortly thereafter, under the guise of removing a narco-dictator with communist sympathies, the US invaded Panama, a country without much of a military, and ultimately killed several thousand Panamanian civilians in the process. The UN strongly condemned the actions by the US. Yet the act was portrayed as heroic in the US.

Ultimately, their plan to retake the canal did not succeed, and the canal was returned to Panama in 1999, as stated in the original treaty.

So here we land, in Panama, 20 years after our country bombed their capital city strictly for economic motivations... A few weeks to wander around the country without any particular plan.

The tile flooring of Manuel Noriega's former house, 20 years after it was bombed by the US invasion. Inside the skeleton of this old colonial home, we saw a group of Panamanian teenagers smoking, skating, and in general shooting the shit. What a surreal place for a group of teens to meet for a quick cigarette and a few kickflips... The former home of the infamous Noriega, and the site of a dubious bombing campaign by a global superpower. Most kids I know generally skate in parking garages or organized skate parks! And previously that morning, we saw something like a professional photography shoot with two girls in leathery outfits posing at the place's front door. If you're interested in paying a visit, there were no barricades, police, or guards preventing entrance into this old skeleton of a home.

2,000 Miles of Mountains

2009-10-24T17:18:00.000-07:00

Like it or not, there are indeed several thousand miles worth of rocky peaks in North America that you'll never see. The good news: there are several thousand miles of rocky peaks in North America that you can certainly feast your eyes, and perhaps even your boots, fingers, and kayaks upon. The even better news: these very mountains extend beyond this recent 2,000 mile trip. A few thousand more miles to the northwest, and about 10,000 miles to the south. Not a bad spinal column of jagged granite and crumbly feldspar. Whoever says that all of the "good spots" are overrun with people and infrastructure apparently has only visited the spots that are overrun with people and infrastructure. I will let one secret out of the bag, but not many more: Stone Mountain Provincial Park, BC. I've said too much...

After two straight weeks of rain, wind, and rainy wind in Windfall Harbor, we had a few hours of perfect weather for a celebratory final paddle at the end of the summer...

Our cook tent early in the evening, surrounded by the solar powered bear deterrant: an electric fence

Two days on the ferry to Prince Rupert and two more on the road through northern BC, just in time to catch a quiet alpenglow in Jasper, Alberta

Heavy skies following us in from the north

Chilly breeze blowin' off the Columbia Icefield

Getting close to the end of the season...

2009-08-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

Less than a month of life on Windfall Island and Seymour Canal, relaxing by day with full-bellied brown bears, relaxing by night with good books and card games. Two months ago, you could wake up at any hour and navigate through camp on Windfall with plenty of light. Already, in mid August, we're having to use our headlamps by 8:30 or 9. Chillier weather and higher seas are replacing the good ol' days of sunbeams and suntans. It's still comfortably warm in Southeast, but you can tell that the summer season is on its last legs. In less than a month, I'll be traversing central BC once again on my way back to the Mammoth-Gardiner metro area. Just in time to catch the elk rut in full swing and the cottonwood and aspen doing their autumnal thing. While I'll be watching my back for stray bulls with a hormonal buzz and a fight to pick in Mammoth, our good friends Mocha and her cub will be scavenging hillsides for berries and scavenging north-facing alpine for a comfortable place to take a six month nap. Pretty nice to know that pockets of wildness will be continuing their cycles in various corners of the continent.

Making eye contact with a heavy hitter. Although it seems like she's looking directly into our eyes, Mocha was actually looking above and behind us. She passed by casually, within 40 feet or so, and proceeded to permit her cub to smack her in the face a few times, resulting in a brief wrestling match in which there was indeed an obvious winner.

This subadult has one of the goofiest personalities I've seen. Some folks at camp have been calling it Fran (short for Frantic) because it is always wrestling with fish, sprinting up and down the stream with a wide-eyed expression, and getting chased off by various larger bears.

Chili and her two yearlings pausing to catch their breath after consuming more than a dozen fish. The afternoon watching these three bears, combined with an unanticipated piece of news from Juneau, was arguably the most intense moment of bittersweetness I can remember experiencing.

A Bonaparte gull doing its best not to impersonate a spawning pink salmon within the hungry reach of this bear.

These two subadults, which we assumed were siblings, arrived on scene one morning thrashing and wrestling and playing. They continued their games for two days, wrestling and chasing and taking strolls next to the creek together. Then, just as quickly as they arrived, they disappeared back into the woods, and we haven't seen them since.

Hominids and Creatures

2009-08-05T21:52:00.000-07:00

Approaching Olds Mountain from the Juneau Ridge. I will admit, my legs and brain were seriously fatigued after the end of this day, and all I wanted to do in the evening was consume a pizza and about 50 ounces of cold agua. But the views were noteworthy, to put it lightly. And I'd do it again if anybody's interested... From this ridge and the corresponding peaks, you can see Admiralty Island, Chichagof Island, and Baranof Island to the west, the Chilkat Range to the north, the Juneau Icefield to the immediate northeast, and various ice capped ridgelines of British Columbia to the east. I didn't see another soul the whole day, save for the brigade of helicopters every 45 minutes providing the same view for folks with thick wallets.

Spooked speechless of the choppy seas in Seymour Canal.

Dori and Carl retrieving dinner from the crab pot: fresh Dungeness crabs, boiled in saltwater and served up hot alongside a tossed bowl of greens.

One of the numerous humpbacks we saw surfacing in South Seymour one evening. The sunset was spectacular, a sow and three yearlings were on the shore, and a dozen and a half humpbacks provided a noisy demonstration of blowholes and fluke action. Hard to beat a sunny evening in Southeast...
(Dori was the quick draw photographer for this particular scene).

Fungi that goes by the obvious name of: Chicken of the Woods. And yes, it's edible.

Beasts

2009-08-03T10:44:00.000-07:00

Mas osos. Siempre mas osos! But that's what it's all about, isn't it? At least for the next month it will be. I guess it could be analagous to Stockholm Syndrome, in which the kidnapped eventually begins to sympathize with the kidnappers. Actually, that's a lousy reference, and there's really not a whole lot of relevance in regard to living on an island with hundreds of large, slow moving beasts with an omnivore's appetite. Especially when I feel lucky to live in such a place... I will, however, continue my defense of taking so many photos of the same subjects with a more reasonable explanation: they're photogenic. When you have a camera within reach and a heavyset, charismatic opportunitist like a brown bear crawling around nearby, it's difficult not to pick up the camera and start firing away. And besides, who doesn't like a good bear photo?

As I told Tammy on the phone, though, I do purposefully leave my camera at camp every now and then to force myself to observe bears via my eyeballs rather than an eyepiece on my camera. It's hard to describe what it's like to watch three or four wild bears slowly move up and down the creek catching wild salmon in unpolluted waters for several hours. It's kind of strange, actually. You can watch a bear catch five or six fish, yet you're still waiting in heightened anticipation to see if the bear will catch a seventh. And the seventh fish is just as exciting to watch as the first. It doesn't get old.

Occasionally, bears will pass near us in transit from point A to point B. They might browse on cow parsnip along the way, forcing them to pause for a moment or two while within 30 or 40 feet of us. It might sound a bit Timothy Treadwell, but it's not. The body language of a bear is pretty discernable, particularly when you begin to understand subtle gestures and postures. (And for the ever-skeptical: we do have a few methods of defense at hand). Most bears that pass near us will show their backs to us, very clearly indicating that they do not view us as a threat. And they don't approach in an aggressive manner, as they do not associate us with any type of food or flavor (let's hope it stays that way)! Consequently, there have been a few moments in which bears will pass by, munching on sedge or cow parsnip, to the point where we can hear the bear chewing (and sometimes burping) as though it were sitting at the dinner table with us. If you don't get a sense of how close that is, take a moment to calculate the distance between you and your dog the next time you hear it eating its petchow. (Sorry mom, but that probably doesn't sit too easily with you). Just keep in mind that we aren't doing anything foolish or carefree...

Ain't nothin' better than a face full of decaying dog salmon on a hot summer's day. And a nice, cool drink to help wash things down. At this stage of the spawn, some bears will catch a fish, realize it's a male, discard it, and go back to the creek to catch another. Once they've caught a female, the bears will eat the skin and the roe (and sometimes the brain) and discard the rest. Which makes for a battle royale between eagles, ravens, and gulls for all of the discarded flesh laying around. At least nobody's going hungry..

Relieving an itch that likely looks familiar to anybody that lives with dogs... This bear played in the creek by itself for about a half hour, splashing and jumping into the water and pausing every now and again to scratch a few choice locations. And, of course, to retrieve a few salmon from the water.

A very small bear that managed to push a larger bear off the tide flats so it could move in and snack upon a buried seafood buffet.

Por su puesto, una mas foto de Mocha y su hijito en la playa. El oso chicitito se llama "Chino" ahora, pero no me gusta este nombre...

Looking tough. And I believe it.

Otras cosas que osos

2009-07-22T15:26:00.000-07:00

Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. –Chief Seattle of the Suquamish and Duwamish

And when you stand in the Blackfoot during a rising of fish and falling of joy like this, I don’t care how urban you are, you feel it: immersed in the muscles of the wild river’s flow, you feel in your 78-percent liquid body and steadfast heart how even you, even now, are part of the same wildness and flow. –David James Duncan

Suddenly the whole world is a fish and the fish is gone. –Norman Maclean

Last Saturday was pretty salmon-heavy. It was a damp day that kept temperatures cool and invited a few bears out of the woods that had been hunkered down waiting for weather more typical to Southeast Alaska to return. I was at work, watching wildness do its thing. Coastal brown bears patrolled up and down the creek searching for wild runs of spawning chum salmon. Discarded fish heads and skeletons were immediately snatched up by one or more of the eight bald eagles waiting in hungry anticipation of a free lunch. A solitary mink and a few dozen gulls snuck onto the scene to collect any scraps that slipped from the eagle-grip. As we motored back to camp in our little Boston Whaler after work, we saw a pod of orca surfacing and breaching more than a mile away. They eventually made their way nearer to us, pausing to breach, breathe, and feed at the mouth of our creek, and continued through the saltwaters that separate the creek and our camp. We’d made it back to the island and found ourselves standing on the rock outcropping watching this pod of six to eight orca pass within 75 yards of us. In Alaska, there are two types of orca: resident orca that feed primarily on salmonids, and transient orca that feed primarily on marine mammals. After observing this pod’s behavior for half an hour or more, we determined that they were exploiting the congregating salmon near the creek’s outflow. Yet the local harbor seals couldn’t tell the difference between resident and transient, consequently sending several of them into the shallow waters near our camp to seek safety from the orca. Since the water below us was clear, we could follow a few seals and watch them feed on schools of young salmon. Later that afternoon we pulled in our crab pot, which had been baited with salmon remnants and salmon skin from previous dinners at camp. And for dinner that night, we ate the crab we had caught with salmon remains alongside a few wild sockeye filets.
Salmon were the tasty keystone that made the day so interesting and interconnected. In that one day alone, I physically observed the following animals feeding on fresh, spawning, or decaying salmon:

Brown bears
Bald eagles
One mink
Orca
Harbor seals
Dungeness crab
Ourselves

David James Duncan would be pleased.

Joe Flannery might introduce this tall drink to you simply as: GBH

The ever fashion savvy orca pod, appropriately dressed for the black and white dinner party

A porpoise face I found half buried in the sand on Swan Island (seriously)

Our Boston Whaler, awaiting our return

Uh oh...

Mas Osos...

2009-07-20T00:06:00.000-07:00

Mocha and her remaining cub doing some sort of one-footed oral examination. (There are, at minimum, six million other captions that would be appropriate for this photo. Feel free to submit a handful).

A big evening yawn from a big bear, waiting patiently for the salmon to arrive...

An evening landscape unfolding in front of me, with an unknown bear wandering through the tide flats.

A poor subadult that was chased all day by another subadult, an old sow, and a large boar.

Said large boar, stealthily approaching said subadult. He took a brief chase hiatus to browse for salmon in the creek...

Reef Life

2009-07-19T23:41:00.000-07:00

Lying in wait just below the mean low tide line are thousands of creepy creatures, waiting to invade your crab pot... Still others wait for extremely low tides to expose them to innocent passersby in kayaks out for a morning stroll to the nearby reefs and rock outcroppings. Slimy stuff.

Although we were hoping for a few Dungeness crab, we were the recipients of several purple sun stars, including this large beast in Nancy's grasp. Or should I say, this large beast grasping Nancy?

Whoa! Mondo close-up, bro!

And here we have a fine specimen. The sneaky Graceful Decorative crab that founds its way into our Dungeness pot. Skinny little exoskeletal legs and all. Eventually, we caught a few legal male Dungeness, only one of which made its way to the dinner table, alongside wild Alaskan salmon, freshly picked nettles, and a handful of wild blueberries to boot. The Omnivore's Dilemma resolved! (For a night).

A sea urchin waiting patiently for the tide to come in.

An anomone that looks similar to a _______.

Tracy Arm

2009-07-07T21:22:00.001-07:00

If in the area, you should certainly check out this slender body of water, if I may be so bold as to declare a fjord as having attractive, curvacious features... And the calving action on the Sawyer Glacier ain't bad either, as a soft-spoken white haired Texan told me: "This glacier is off the hook." You can imagine my surprise at hearing those words come out of a man's mouth that was at least forty years better than me.

Sawyer Glacier at the end of Tracy Arm

Mas glaciar

Action

Poco mas..

Harbor seals takin' a breather

Roberts Peak and the Devil's Paw

2009-07-07T20:50:00.001-07:00

After avoiding Roberts Peak all spring/summer, I finally gave in and was pleasantly surprised... There is a tram that begins in downtown Juneau, for which you can fork out twenty or thirty bucks to ride 1/3 of the way up the mountainside. Or you can start hiking at the bottom, sneak your way past the crowd at the tram terminal, and continue up this ridge where your only company will be the most sizeable ravens I've ever seen. And one other guy, who had a pretty sly sense of humor, so I was happy to share the peak... Since there wasn't much else for the ravens to do up top, they took to some fun in the sun aeronautical acrobatics. Almost as though they were addicted to flying high and playing aerial tricks on each other. If you've ever read the book Jonathan Livingston Seagull, you wouldn't be able to think of anything other than ol' Jonny Seagull while watching these ravens. (And if you haven't read it and are in the mood for a literary pick-me-up, you should pick it up)..

Things became a bit knifey toward the peak... or as the other guy on the summit phrased it, "Things got a little creepy back there, didn't they?"

View from the Gastineau Ridge into the Gastineau Channel and Stephen's Passage

Granite Creek Basin from the saddle between Gastineau Peak and Roberts Peak

Chilkat Range and the Lynn Canal from the Gastineau Ridge

Taku Inlet and the Devil's Paw, on the boundary between Alaska and B.C.

Admiralty Island III

2009-07-06T09:56:00.001-07:00

Two weeks ago, my coworker Carl and I watched a sow and two cubs try to cross the creek for two and a half hours (click here for the photos of Mocha and her two cubs). The two cubs wanted nothing to do with the creek, and they let their mother know by crying and crying and crying from the gravel shore. Mocha, the sow, was persistent to the point of picking her cubs up by the scruff of the neck and dropping them into the water, only to see them float downstream a few hundred feet and make it back to the original shore in a panic-driven swim of sorts. Mocha then tried new tactics. She would gallop playfully through the creek toward her cubs, wrestle her cubs to the ground, and play with them for a few minutes. Her cubs would stop crying and start climbing up and down their mother, biting her and biting each other. Mocha would then get up and run around in the grass and into the creek. Her cubs pursued her as though it were a game, right up until she entered the water. Then the game was over, and the cubs would start wailing from the creek's edge once again. Occasionally, Mocha would make her way up to the alders, roughly 75 feet from the creek. She would peer into the trees, and come right back out towards the creek. She'd rub her fur on a few choice logs and limbs, and turn her attention toward her cubs. Carl and I figured there was something in the trees that Mocha wanted no part of, something from which she wanted to distance her cubs. Why else would she so persistently and cleverly try to get her cubs across the creek? Eventually, after two and a half hours, both cubs managed to paddle through the creek and follow their mother across the meadow into another chunk of forest. Five minutes later, a large boar came strolling casually out of the woods, the same woods about which Mocha seemed so skeptical.

A few days later, Carl and Dori saw a large boar with an open, bloody gash on his left flank. Later that day, they saw Mocha with only one cub, behaving in a curious manner. Two days later, we found a pile of bear scat, most of which was made up of dark brown fur. After we investigated a bit further, we found two baby bear claws in the pile...

It's certainly sad to know what happened to one of those cute little swimmers, but it's easy to understand that it happens regularly. Cub recruitment in Southeast Alaska is estimated to only be around 40%. The fascinating thing is that we got to see the whole situation unfold. Mocha appeared with her cubs for a few days, and we observed her doing her motherly thing with her terrified, yet playful little ones. We've seen her and her cubs pursued by boars, and her running across the tide flats with her cub(s) trying to distance herself from those hungry males. And we saw baby bear claws buried in a pile of scat, solidifying our speculations about what might have happened. It's sad, but that's the beauty of it. Admiralty Island is a wild place. Close to one million acres of undeveloped, undisturbed wildness. No human interference. The natural world working the way it should. Self-regulating. Healthy. Unforgiving.

It's beautiful.

Windfall Harbor on Independence Day, where I took the liberty of independently 'swimming' in the frigid saltwaterways of Southeast Alaska

A bear that Dori and I have unofficially called 'Clem.' She likes to dig for clams.

Local orchids on Windfall Island

Flying back to Juneau over the Glass Peninsula and Seymour Canal

The Pack Creek Estuary at high tide

Mt. Jumbo

2009-06-24T18:41:00.001-07:00

360 degree views from the summit of Mt. Jumbo

Not bad...

Seymour Canal

2009-06-21T21:50:00.000-07:00

Home sweet home (seasonally)

A photogenic scene, looking north from camp toward the sunset up Seymour Canal. A local crab boat droppin' late night crab pots, seen by the red light in the distance

Looking southeast onto Randolph Peak and the Glass Peninsula from our little ranger compound

Just out for an evening stroll.

Prancing around in the Windfall Harbor estuary. And when I say prancing, I mean cautiously meandering through the rye grass.

Subadult brown bear that was sufficiently curious on this particular day

Admiralty Island II

2009-06-21T21:22:00.000-07:00

This was one of the best scenes I've ever had unfold right in my lap. For two and a half hours, my coworker Carl and I watched this sow try to coax her nervous little cubs into crossing the creek. The cubs wanted no part of it. Or should I say, one cub wanted no part of it, while the other was somewhat interested but a terrible swimmer. After a few tricks and a bit of coercion, and a lion's share of patience, mom got the two across the creek and into the woods on the other side of the estuary.

Inviting her cubs for a swim from the other side of the creek. The cubs are skeptical...

Safe, but a little razzled, on the other side of the creek. Two and a half hours later.

Biodensity!

Chocolate lillies doing what they do best: lookin' good whilst photosynthesizing.

A rufous hummingbird looking for a free lunch

Admiralty Island

2009-06-13T19:04:00.000-07:00

Another day at the salt mines...

Admiralty Island National Monument, Tongass NF

Flying back to Juneau over Swan Island and the Seymour Canal

A female with an unofficial name: Clem

One of two sexually active boars we saw on the same afternoon

The other, doin' his thing...

Misty afternoon on Windfall Island

Southeast Alaska III

2009-05-26T17:21:00.000-07:00

A fancy little multi-sport day a few miles north of Juneau: a bike ride through the old growth forest, catchin' a cool breeze in the hair, and a scramble through the alders and up newly exposed granite to the toe of this bad lookin' flow of ice...

Herbert Glacier presenting herself on a sunny day in the rainforest

Maneuvering around the bend to gain access to the big white ahead

An aesthetic gravitational equation: water + granite = cascades for days...

Old school forest

Derelictly photogenic

Mt. Juneau

2009-05-26T17:10:00.000-07:00

A last minute decision to scurry up the slopes of Mt. Juneau with a pal from Idaho. Considering it was late May, the north-facing slope and all its corresponding avalanche chutes were piled high with heavy snow. I would be a cold liar if I told you those chutes didn't spook me...

Looking south toward Roberts Peak, Gastineau Peak, and the Gastineau Channel

Looking east toward Canada and Olds Mountain. More snow than I'd ever know what to do with. But I'm sure I could come up with a few good ideas...

Facing southeast at a nice view. Pretty significant snowpack and a few gnarly avalanche chutes on Roberts Peak, Gastineau Peak, and Sheep Mountain across the way

A couple three mountain goats enjoying a mile high breeze (note: we are not literally one mile high). These billies and nannies elected to give us more personal space than the goats near Sperry Glacier in Montana...

Cityscape of Douglas, Alaska, with Eagle Peak and Admiralty Island sneaking into view in the background

Southeast Alaska II

2009-05-26T16:59:00.001-07:00

A pleasant 15 minute bike ride from my apartment will earn you access to this little trailhead.

The flow of the Mendenhall sliding its way down the granite slope at a glacier's pace

Sure-footed on the ice.

Glacial-blue ice caves tucked into the terminus of the Mendenhall

Stone chillin'

I challenge you to display a better picnic opportunity than this.

Southeast Alaska

2009-05-26T16:44:00.000-07:00

Casey and I made our way over the White Pass from Whitehorse, Yukon Territory to Skagway. We stopped at the official tourism boundary between the Yukon and Alaska for a photo opportunity and a few declarative hoops and hollars indicating that we had finally made it after several dozen hours sitting on our cannisters in the Jeep. As we were stretching our limbs and preparing ourselves for an undeniably beautiful photograph in front of the Welcome to Alaska sign, a noisy, bulky, cock and balls motorcycle pulled off the highway next to us. A guy in a black leather jacket parked his bike, de-strattled it, and took a few steps to get a better view. Then he let out the most insignificant, infant-like cough you could ever stereotype. Almost as though he were apologizing for having a slight itch in his throat. It sounded as though it were equal parts pathetic sneeze, whimpy cough, and apology. Casey tried to maintain his composure, while I had a more difficult time and ultimately allowed my laughter to spew forth. I'm not sure if the motorbiker heard me laughing. But if he did, I'm not convinced he would have done anything about it...

The Lynn Canal and the Chilkat Range on a sunny spring afternoon

The Chilkat Range as seen from Point Bridget

Aforementioned beautiful photograph. And believe me, it felt as good taking the photograph as it does looking at it a few days later...

El Paso Blanco

If Joe Flannery were to describe this mountie, I'm sure among his descriptors you would find: Extra Long

Northern British Columbia and the Yukon Territory

2009-05-09T16:56:00.000-07:00

If ever, Steve Sarles, you are looking at a map of northern British Columbia and you're wondering what rugged country can be found in that unadvertised portion of Canada, you can include these images. Oye! Es muy preciosa!

A solitary woodland caribou presenting me with a profile in front of the gorgeous landscape of Stone Mountain Provincial Park

The Yukon River in Whitehorse, Yukon Territory. The fabled and infamous stretch of coldwater slicing its way through the town center. Complete with a nice running trail along the riverbank... Don't believe me, just ask Casey.

Feelin free, lettin 'er rip! In the cozy confines of our parkas on a lakeshore in northern BC... I believe our picnic of mac and cheese, dehydrated mixed fruit, and cold water couldn't have been better spent any place else.

Stone Mountain Provincial Park. Too good to be true. Yet it is indeed true.

An akward roadside celebration in the Yukon. I think Casey was looking for the hook and ladder, but it was too cold outside (despite the short sleeved t), so we didn't wait around

Canadian Rockies

2009-05-07T07:15:00.000-07:00

A few words I didn't expect to be among adjectives I would use to describe a national park in Canada: chic. sexy. cosmopolitan. high class. muy, muy carro!

However, If somebody demanded that I declare my preference for either Banff or Jasper, I would select Jasper 10 times out of 10. Unspeakably beautiful, wide open, slow paced, cozy. Among my favorite places I've been to, for sure. Except for the Wapiti Campground on the evening of May 6 when, as Casey described it, Party Cove set up camp next to us complete with tiki torches, ignorant drunks, Kid Rock screamin' out of the speakers, and copious amounts of hard liquor to help encourage the noisy situation..

I think this could be accepted as paradise

Hanging glaciers and snowy and blowy ridgelines along the Icefields Parkway.

As Casey and I sat next to Lake Louise (quite near this very spot) contemplating the derivative of X vs. Y, we heard an Australian shout come from the ice wall behind us. I looked up to see about 80 vertical feet of a 100 foot ice wall crashing down with serious momentum. The climber was hanging halfway on the ice and halfway on the recently exposed granite wall, while the belay man was standing not more than 20 feet from where the pile of icy debris landed. In his charismatic Aussie accent, the climber shouted to his partner, "That was fucking massive, eh?" and started snickering. A few minutes later the situation sunk in, and the climber became sufficiently frazzled... Good thing that sitting a few hundred feet below them were an ER doc (Casey), and a park ranger (yo soy un guardabosque, ahora...)

The morning view from a bootleg campsite in Banff, where we were roused in the middle of the night by a car doing doughnuts in the parking lot

A cold lakeshore where Casey and I shared one refreshing cold one and waxed philosophical about the following topics: girls.

Yellowstone Winter

2009-03-21T07:20:00.000-07:00

Winter summit of Bunsen Peak, with Big E (Electric Peak) starin' us down from the background

The Absarokas lookin' fine beyond the Mammoth Terraces

Round Prairie undergoing a January sunset

Lamar Valley. Spooky.

Slough Creek meadows and Cutoff Mountain after a solitary evening spent in the Lower Slough patrol cabin.