I sat beside the lake  
and noticed  
the natter of juncos  
the lap of water  
	the brush of pine needles.  
   
I walked between the trees  
and inhaled  
the evergreen air  
the ash from afar  
	the mountain breeze.  
   
I climbed the steep trail  
and admired  
the quiet peace  
the twisted roots  
the mosses and  
	liverworts.  
   
I think back through the years and  
imagine those before me  
who sat beside the lake, and  
walked between the trees, and  
	climbed the same steep trail.  
  
I marvel at the changes and  
the fine grains of sifting sands,  
the moments that arise,
quickly, only to perish
	once again.

On the edge of winter at the drop of dusk,
Wapiti bows his head, his antlers catch the wind.
Like scaffolds made of bone, they steady his stance
     against the graupel gust.
  
Wapiti finds refuge below the Mummy Range, 
he rests in willow withies along a frozen rill,
he gnaws the matted ninebark 
     as first snow begins to fall.
  
When morning breaks, a ginger glow 
     rings the turquoise sky.
Wapiti rises tall, stands proud as Mount Chapin —
     unmoved by crackling boughs, 
     untouched by prickling frost.
  
In the alpine meadow, Wapiti strides alone. 
     He looks toward the herd — a drifter, he holds back,
dreaming of the dawn when he 
     leads them from the front.
  
When daylight slants to evenfall 
and moonlight cools the snow,
Wapiti’s bugle fills the night
     as he cries out, hoping to be heard.

A late summer stillness settles in at Brainard Lake. The cool evening air pours into the valley. Everyone moves slowly, without urgency. There is a kindness that permeates the air. Smiles on faces, soft conversations, laughter. For the past few days, a parched static has pervaded the air—and with it a desperation for rain. Smoke from fires on the Western Slope seeped over the Divide on the highest wind currents and stained the clouds like spilt tea. But today the winds shifted, the skies cleared.

Families relax on the shore. They sit in camp chairs, share dinners from coolers, eat sandwiches and salads piled high on paper plates. Children in plump life jackets steer paddle boards in wide circles in the shallow water. Small flocks of juncos tumble from one bush to the next, chasing each other and chattering softly. Chipmunks inspect the perimeter for dropped goods: potato chips, bits of bread, clusters of sweet granola.

Brainard Lake was once home to the Ute and Arapaho Native American tribes. Later settled by Europeans in the late 1800s. With them came logging, mining, ranching. The area was part of the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. Roosevelt’s New Deal of the 1930s brought the Civilian Conservation Corps to the area. They built recreational facilities, trails, picnic areas, campgrounds.

The midwestern summer air is muggy and sweltry. There’s a sense that everything on the prairie stings, bites, cuts, begets rash. Hikers flinch and swat at real and imagined attackers alike: mosquitos, spiders, biting flies, nettles, poison ivy. But there is beauty too, and you can see it in the tall, proud Purple Coneflowers and the joyful Annual Sunflowers. The prairie plant list is extensive and animated with peculiar names: Rattlesnake Master, Joe Pie Weed, Junegrass, Milkweed, White Snakeroot.

Bull Creek overflows its banks in early summer, then runs dry by late July. During the wettest times, it leaks wide across flat ground, creating more swamp than waterway. The prairie transforms into rich wetlands that support a grand diversity of birds, both resident and migratory species.

I jot down my own inventory of birds spotted during my prairie walks. The easy ones are the songbirds, Blue-gray Gnatcatchers, Gray Catbirds, Baltimore Orioles. But the prize sighting of the season is a Sora. This secretive rail, though rarely seen, is unmistakable. A stout yellow bill, a sooty black face, yellow-green legs, long toes, and an cringeworthy clumsiness on land.

It’s early March, and I’m heading over La Veta Pass in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains towards Monte Vista, a small town in the San Luis Valley of south-central Colorado. The weather’s iffy and temperamental—typical for March. I keep my eye on a swirl of dark clouds up ahead. As the road climbs and bends, sleet whips across the windshield. The pavement is wet, though not yet slick. Snow covers the rising, rolling terrain ahead.

Cranes of the San Luis Valley by Laura K

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As mountain passes go, La Veta is relatively mild. But in March, I take nothing for granted and steer carefully, hoping the weather holds. The highway crests the ridge at 9,220 feet, and I relax as it winds down the western slope. The terrain opens to an expansive vista and the sun breaks through the clouds.

The road circles around the south shoulder of Blanca Peak. At its base lies a barley field gilded in evening sunlight. In the field, something catches my eye, and I realize that I’m seeing for the first time the very reason for my journey. There in the field, a group of about a dozen greater sandhill cranes stands with their long necks bowed to the ground, foraging leftover barley amongst the clipped stalks.

It’s been over a decade since I set out to witness a sandhill crane migration up close. I was living in northern Illinois when, on a whim, I attended a lecture about cranes, not knowing the fascinating world I was about to enter. I don’t recall every detail of the talk, but I do remember its effect on me. I was captivated by what I was told about cranes and alarmed to hear of their vulnerability. When I asked the lecturer what I could do to help, he told me to seek out the International Crane Foundation.

Founded in 1973 by ornithologists Ron Sauey and George Archibald, the International Crane Foundation (ICF) works to protect crane species around the world. Crane conservation is an extraordinarily complex undertaking. There are 15 species of cranes alive today, ten of which face a considerable risk of extinction. Although themselves hardy birds, cranes rely on fragile, declining ecosystems. To complicate matters, cranes are migratory, and their survival depends on conservation efforts that cross borders and connect cultures.

In the summer of 2010, not long after I attended the crane lecture, I visited the ICF headquarters in Baraboo, Wisconsin. The facility included over 250 acres of prairie habitats and sheltered a flock of 100 cranes. All 15 species of cranes were present at the facility, housed in large enclosures that brimmed with natural vegetation. But the facility was more than just a sanctuary. It was—and is—a place for advanced research in captive breeding and species reintroduction.

I explored the live crane exhibits and marveled at their beauty and variety. There were blue cranes from South Africa with long sooty wing feathers that draped behind them as they walked. There were hooded cranes, among the smallest of the crane species—though still demonstrably large birds—who winter in the boreal forests of Siberia and breed in the wetlands of China. There were red-crowned cranes, the largest of the world’s crane species, with body feathers so white they glowed like new snow. And there were others—whooping cranes, white-naped cranes, demoiselle cranes, sandhill cranes—all magnificent in their ways.

I took a guided tour and learned of the ICF’s tireless efforts to save the whooping crane—North America’s most endangered bird, whose population dwindled to fewer than 20 individuals in 1941. I discovered, too, that another North American crane, the sandhill crane, once threatened, was now on good footing in the wild. I decided then to try and see the sandhill cranes myself along one of their migratory routes.

Today, more than 800,000 sandhill cranes travel along multiple flyways across North America. Each spring and fall, the cranes gather to recharge at stopover points along their journey—places such as the marshy Sandhills of Nebraska and the wet meadows of Colorado’s San Luis Valley.

There are six subspecies of sandhills, distinguished roughly by their separate ranges. The greater sandhill crane, Antigone canadensis tabida, the subspecies I plan to see, winters in New Mexico, migrates through the San Luis Valley of Colorado, and breeds in Wyoming.

I’m groggy from the long drive, but the sandhill cranes I spot south of Blanca Peak revive me. I think of the time it’s taken me to get here—the many years I’ve tried to wrangle my schedule and budget to allow me this trip. Only now have I managed it. I arrive at my hotel after dark, unpack, eat a quick dinner and go to bed. It will be an early start tomorrow, and I don’t want to miss a moment.

The next day, I arrive at Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge at dawn, hoping to spot the cranes in their roosting habitat before they fly over to the feeding grounds. When I enter the refuge, the road disappears into dense fog.

I drive slowly for two miles, then pull over and turn off the car. I roll down the window to listen. And there it is—a thick chatter of a greater sandhill crane flock roosting nearby. Their calm vocalizations consist of trills, peeps, and rattling purrs. The cranes use these soothing sounds to reinforce community and reassure each other that all is safe.

The sun climbs in the sky and begins to desiccate the brume. Gradually, I make out the contours of nearby trees. The cranes’ chatter crescendoes now. Slowly, the birds take flight, heading to the fields to forage. Some fly nearby, and although I don’t see them in the mist, I know they’re close when their trumpet calls crack the air around me.

The air finally clears, and the birds decamp in noisy gangs. They fly low and straight over the landscape to the fields on the western side of the refuge.

Each spring, the town of Monte Vista holds a festival to celebrate the stopover of the cranes. The festival is a mix of fundraising activities for crane conservation—an art show, nature exhibits, and vendor booths chock-full of bric-a-brac. I set aside a few hours one afternoon to explore the festival and am pleased to unearth a few science-minded events that interest me. I sign up for a bus tour of the wildlife refuge and the keynote presentation in the evening.

On the bus tour, a refuge naturalist tells us about the habits of cranes—how they shelter together each night in shallow water where predators dare not approach. During the day, they gather in meadows and fields to socialize and feed. We also learn that with cranes, the gravest concern isn’t climate change; it’s the destruction of their habitat.

The bus stops at a viewing area in the southwest corner of the reserve. There, the guides mount spotting scopes on tripods for us to observe the greater sandhills as they graze, trumpet, and perform courtship dances. When the sun sinks low over the mountains, the cranes take to the air and return to their roosting sites in the nearby wetlands.

That evening, I attend the keynote presentation. I’m thrilled to discover that the presenter is George Archibald, co-founder of the International Crane Foundation. Dr. Archibald’s talk reflects on the achievements of the ICF, now in its 50th year. In that time, the ICF has led numerous international, community-based conservation programs. It has preserved vast areas of critical crane habitat. And it has brought the whooping crane back from the brink of extinction, with wild individuals now numbering 800 individuals.

All are stunning achievements, but today’s volatile human-dominated world demands sustained conservation efforts. So that evening, I go online, make a donation, and renew my membership to the International Crane Foundation. It’s a small gesture when measured against the incredible achievements of conservationists like Dr. Archibald. But I am glad to be able to provide some support.

The time comes for me to head home, and I decide to take the mountainous route. The drive is both scenic and formidable, but I’ll arrive in time for dinner. The cranes will leave soon too. But their journey will be more daunting—and more spectacular—than mine.

When preparing to leave the valley, the cranes test the upper-level winds that will power their journey. They fly in a skyward spiral on thermals that lift them high enough to touch the heavenly winds. These powerful air currents can ferry the cranes 300 to 500 miles a day at impressive altitudes—as high as 13,000 feet over some mountain passes. But the cranes are cautious at first, and retreat to the ground if conditions are sketchy.

They’ll try again the next day. And the next.

When, at last, the cranes deem the winds reliable, instead of descending as they did on previous attempts, they plunge forward into the wild river of air. One after another, a precious thread of birds sets off, bound for their summer home.

Photographs

Photographs were taken by the author at Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge in March, 2023.

Notes

1. Alamosa and Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge Complex. Audubon. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://www.audubon.org/important-bird-areas/alamosa-and-monte-vista-national-wildlife-refuge-complex

2. Blue Crane. Smithsonian’s National Zoo & Conservation Biology Institute. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://nationalzoo.si.edu/animals/blue-crane

3. Crane FAQs and Facts. Colorado Crane Conservation Coalition. Retrieved March 19, 2023, from https://coloradocranes.org/crane-faqs-and-facts/

4. History & Mission. The International Crane Foundation. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://savingcranes.org/about/history-mission/

5. Leopold, Aldo. A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There. Oxford University Press, 1949.

6. Red-Crowned Crane. Smithsonian’s National Zoo & Conservation Biology Institute. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://nationalzoo.si.edu/animals/red-crowned-crane

7. Sandhill Crane. The International Crane Foundation. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://savingcranes.org/learn/species-field-guide/sandhill-crane/

8. Sandhill Crane Antigone canadensis. Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Retrieved March 19, 2023, from https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/sancra/cur/introduction

9. Species Field Guide. The International Crane Foundation. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://savingcranes.org/learn/species-field-guide/

10. Whooping Crane. Smithsonian’s National Zoo & Conservation Biology Institute. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://nationalzoo.si.edu/animals/whooping-crane

It’s early Sunday morning, and I’m driving north along US Highway 287. It’s been raining almost every day for three weeks now, and the landscape’s raging like green wildfire.

Just south of Livermore, Colorado, I pull the car to the side of the road. The sun breaks through the clouds, and the morning light washes over the landscape in front of me. The prairie glows like a slice of fresh avocado against a dark ridge in the distance. That’s where I’m heading—up and over that moody ridge along a highway that bisects an ancient swathe of Colorado’s geological history.

I’ve stopped here to check my book, Roadside Geology of Colorado, a field guide to the rock formations along Colorado’s highways. Geology has long bewildered me, and despite my handy reference, I remain stubbornly confused. I inspect numerous maps, diagrams, and descriptions. Finally, I determine that the dark ridge in the distance is most likely part of the Lyons Sandstone hogback, a spine of rock that parallels the eastern foothills of the Front Range. I snap a quick photo before the clouds close in. The morning sunshine fades. I drive on.

When I next stop, it’s at a point where the road cuts into the crest of the hogback. I get out of the car to inspect the exposed rock, which resembles a tilted layer cake of pink and red stone. I rub my hand across the surface, it feels warm and chalky. I consult my guide. This particular sandstone formed from quartz sand that was deposited and compressed some 250 million years ago.

Back in the car, I drive for a few miles to the crossroads town of Livermore. I’m delighted to find the Fork Merchantile & Saloon open. It’s the only restaurant for the next fifty miles, so I pause my journey for an egg & sausage muffin and a cup of coffee.

When I leave Livermore, the landscape changes. Hogbacks give way to distant rolling hills and wide vistas. I turn down a dirt road and drive west, hoping to get a closer look at the landscape. I continue for twenty minutes, but the mountains don’t seem to get any closer.

My map provides little guidance. The Red Feather Lakes—a popular camping area—are somewhere out there to the southwest, but this road bends to the north. When I turn the car around to head back, I’m treated to an extraordinary view. Driving west, the road seemed dull and flat. But I’ve ascended a thousand feet or so, and the added elevation offers me a scenic vantage.

I stop again to try to understand what I’m seeing. The rocks here match the description of Sherman Granite. My guidebook tells me that this beautiful pink stone—made of grains of mica, pink feldspar, and quartz—is 1.4 billion years old. I touch the surface of an outcrop. It’s covered in gray lichens and feels smoother and denser than the Lyons Sandstone.

Back on the highway, I continue north across the Wyoming state line. The landscape has transformed again. I’m in Big Sky country now—the Laramie Valley. The clouds are loose and puffy. The Medicine Bow Mountains wrinkle the western horizon. It’s tempting to keep driving and exploring—north to Casper, west through the Wind River Reservation, all the way to the Tetons and Yellowstone.

Tempting but not possible. I come to my senses. In Laramie, I top up the tank before turning back home along US 287.

Notes from an hour spent observing nature at Alluvial Fan Trailhead, Endovalley, Rocky Mountain National Park.

8:03 a.m. Sheltering in my car. A heavy rain teems down. My mountain-girl grit eludes me. I’m eager to get out, squeamish about getting soaked through. I eye the picnic table where I intend to sit and write. Not tempted. The wet concrete bench exudes a hardship I’m reluctant to endure. And so I set up a temporary writer’s camp in the passenger seat. Roll down the window a few inches. Record the birdsong. Sudden silence. The birds toy with me.

8:12 a.m. The rain doesn’t let up. That’s all right. I don’t recall the last time I saw the landscape so lush. I’m reminded of the generosity of a proper spring. We’ve recently emerged from a years-long drought. A rampike stands tall, dead, and dripping—a stark reminder of a faltering climate.

8:18 a.m. Black scars on the Quaking Aspen trunks mark where lower branches once grew, self-pruned long ago, as an adaptation to wildfires. A park service truck pulls up next to me. A woman steps out to change the bin bag. She replaces the cover carefully, it must be bear-proof. We exchange a nod and a smile.

8:25 a.m. The sky darkens, and the deluge intensifies. It’s carwash rain—what a bargain. Another car pulls up. Two men get out and start gearing up, unfazed by the weather. They don pack vests, waders, and sling packs. After assembling their fly rods, they hike southward towards Fall River, seeking yet more water.

8:32 a.m. Logistical problems. The pen’s leaking. It’s the altitude. I always forget. I wipe the ink drops and carry on. Am still confined to the car, trying to record birdsong. At last, I snag the warbles of a House Wren hiding somewhere amongst the Ponderosa Pine. A Black-billed Magpie swoops down, lands atop the aspen in front of me, and flicks his tail. A tiny bird darts past the windshield. Too fast and too small to identify. Perhaps the House Wren.

8:40 a.m. I inspect the south-facing flank of Bighorn Mountain, which rises to the north of my little encampment. A mix of Ponderosa Pine, Quaking Aspen, and Douglas fir blankets the slope. The light changes, and a sunny glow emerges through thinning clouds. Small yellow flowers beam in the undergrowth. The rain slows. I grab my camera and abandon the car. On close inspection, the flowers turn out to be Mountain Parsley.

8:48 a.m. The sun retreats, and the sky darkens. But I’m untethered now, determined not to retreat to the car. I breathe in the wet alpine air and evergreen scent. I chat with a man who has just arrived. He assembles a spotting scope and fixes it on the ridge above. Would I like to have a look? I accept. A dozen Bighorn Sheep graze in a small meadow. The image is clear and crisp. So easy to miss such detail with the naked eye. I fight the absurd urge to race home and price up spotting scopes. I can’t even operate a fountain pen properly.

8:54 a.m. A family in matching ponchos the color of Mountain Parsley follows a trail onto the Alluvial Fan. One of the children dawdles behind, twirling a bubble umbrella. The others splash through puddles and skip ahead down the path. The parents stop for photos and to inspect the vast pile of rocks that were swept down from Lawn Lake in 1982 after an earthen dam gave way in a storm.

8:59 a.m. Back in the car, toweling off the camera. The peaks of the Mummy Range are visible now. The fresh snow shines against the black granite rock. A gentle wind pushes cotton fog into the valley. Wrapping things up now, readying to leave. I can’t resist another quick birdsong recording and am thrilled to detect a Broad-tailed Hummingbird maneuvering nearby. I shouldn’t have needed an app for that one. My hopes to hear Mountain Chickadees and White-crowned Sparrows dashed. Maybe another day. It’s time to head home.

I arrive at the Denver Audubon Nature Center in Chatfield State Park shortly after dawn and join a small group of birdwatchers gathering at the entrance. We're here to visit a bird banding station and catch a glimpse of conservation research up-close. After checking in, an Audubon Society guide leads us to the banding station inside the park.

The station is tucked away, barely visible at the edge of a wooded area. It's a simple field lab with a shelter, picnic table, banding equipment, and a semi-circle of chairs where visitors can sit and watch wildlife biologists as they work. It's a lively place too, where young research assistants dash back and forth, picking up equipment and disappearing in different directions into the vegetation.

I take a seat near the end of the picnic table. Beyond the table hangs a metal grid with numbered pegs, and from some of the pegs, dangle small cotton bags. Periodically, the bags wiggle and rustle.

Meredith, a bander from the Bird Conservancy of the Rockies, welcomes us and explains the banding process. First, researchers hang mist nets around the station and check them regularly to collect any netted birds. Then, they place the birds in cotton bags and hang them on the pegs, where they await their turn to be banded, measured, weighed, and released.

Meredith removes one of the cotton bags from the grid. She slips her hand inside the bag, and it flutters and scuffles. After a moment, she pulls out a small sooty-plumed bird with a dark charcoal crown.

"We've got a Gray Catbird," she says. The research assistant makes a note in the spreadsheet. Meredith explains that birds have personalities that align with their species. It's clear from the catbird's raspy mews that this breed has a rebellious streak.

Meredith handles the bird skillfully as she places a tiny band on its leg. She measures its wing and tail, weighs it, and asks for a volunteer. A boy steps forward from our group, and Meredith gently slides the bird into his cupped hands. The bird sits momentarily, shakes its feathers, and then disappears into the trees with two quick wing beats.

The whole process is repeated for each bagged bird. There's a House Wren, a second Gray Catbird, and an American Redstart. Each is dazzling to see up close, with their gleaming feathers and distinct charms. Every bird has an individual spark, a spirit that you might miss from a distance.

The last two birds that Meredith unbags are Bullock's Orioles—a male and a female. They're a dapper pair with an impressive blend of colors that includes yellow, orange, olive-gray, white, and black. She bands the birds, takes their measurements, and asks me if I want to release the female.

I cup my hands before me, and Meredith places the bird in my palms. The oriole’s feathers are silky, and her body is almost weightless. Then, in a flash, she flies over my shoulder and back into the woods. And for the rest of the day, I think of my bird and wonder where she is and how she's faring.

I started visiting the shortgrass prairie in the spring of 2019 when I began having problems at work. My company had adopted an aggressive management system that left me depleted. A job that had long been challenging became unbearable. My schedule overflowed with meetings and endless deadlines. Work not completed within business hours had to be done on personal time—evenings, weekends, and holidays.

The exhaustion mounted for many months until something inside me finally gave way. One morning, I declined my meetings, shut off my computer, and got in my car. I drove north until paved roads narrowed and gave way to dirt tracks. Four miles shy of the Wyoming border, I arrived at Soapstone Prairie Natural Area.

Soapstone Prairie Natural Area was established in 2004 when the City of Fort Collins purchased a 28-square-mile parcel of land in the northeastern corner of Larimer County, Colorado.2 With the establishment of Soapstone Prairie, conservationists hoped to protect a pristine remnant of the shortgrass prairie ecosystem that had once covered the entire eastern half of Colorado.

On my first visit to Soapstone, I hiked along a narrow trail, stopping frequently to admire the views. In the distance, I could see the mountains of the Mummy Range, their snow-covered peaks still hibernating. At my feet, a tiny greater short-horned lizard scampered across the trail and disappeared behind a pile of rocks. A gentle wind picked up, bending the blue grama and buffalograss in waves across the rolling terrain. There were no sounds of traffic or human activities. Instead, gentler sounds emerged—the rustle of rabbitbrush, the twinkle of birdsong, the purr of bees.

Since its inception, Soapstone Prairie has matured into a place of refuge for numerous imperiled species. After my first visit, I returned to the prairie frequently, each time thinking less about my troubles and more about the prairie and its inhabitants. Between visits, I researched the area’s wildlife and ecology. I collected lists of plants and tips for spotting rare birds. I became enthralled.

I learned of a bison herd released into the park in 2015, that consisted of individuals chosen for their wild lineage and resistance to disease. I read about the endangered black-footed ferrets that biologists recently reintroduced—nocturnal hunters once thought extinct, now slumbering in prairie dog burrows beneath my feet. I discovered that many vulnerable grassland birds, such as loggerhead shrikes, thick-billed longspurs, and burrowing owls, thrive in Soapstone as they decline elsewhere.

While unprotected shortgrass prairie habitats succumb to the destructive forces of agriculture and urbanization3, Soapstone offers fragile creatures much needed refuge. For me too, Soapstone is a place of sustenance.

Although it took me several years to leave that troublesome job, I consider my first visit to Soapstone Prairie a turning point. From then on, I knew that for me, there is only one real world that exists, and it is not governed by any corporation. The real world is outside in a landscape where natural balance prevails, biodiversity thrives, and hope rebounds.

A compilation of short recordings made in Rocky Mountain National Park at dusk on October 3, 2022, and dawn the following day. Elevation 8040 feet.

MORAINE PARK, COLORADO - Autumn is a spectacular time of year in Rocky Mountain National Park. The foliage changes color in vast waves that cascade down from the tundra as frosty temperatures and shorter days set in. The alpine shrubs and herbs that thrive above the treeline are the first to change color. Cadmium, crimson, rust, sienna, and umber hues sweep across the tundra and descend in waves that wash over the aspen groves, understory, and montane meadows of the lower elevations.

But the changing colors in the landscape are not the only signs of autumn’s arrival in the park. This time of year includes another spectacular natural shift within the park—the arrival of the elk breeding season.

As the cooler season sets in, elk move down from the high country and gather in the meadows at lower elevations. There they form large herds, and bull elk challenge one another to gain dominance over harems. Male yearlings—too young to claim a harem and too old to hide within one—linger on the periphery, somewhat confused by their lonely predicament.

Throughout the rut, bulls engage in various displays of bravado. They bugle, they roll in the mud, and they rub their antlers against trees and shrubs. Such behaviors aim to attract cows and ward off competing bulls. These tactics sometimes fail to drive away the competition. In such instances, bulls face one another in battles to establish dominance.

When cows come into estrus, they are receptive to mating with dominant bulls for a short time, just 24 hours. Cows can experience as many as four estrus cycles in a season, though most become pregnant in the first or second cycle. The gestation period generally lasts between 240 and 262 days, and cows give birth to a single calf (twins are rare) in late spring or early summer.

I usually spend Christmas in Wales, but for several years, that’s not been possible. So this year, I decided to create my own Welsh Christmas cheer—a slideshow of some photos I took in December 2019 while visiting the wonderful Saint Fagans National Museum of History.

Saint Fagans is an open-air heritage museum that depicts the historical lifestyle, culture, and architecture of the Welsh people. The museum preserves more than forty original buildings that were relocated and re-erected at the site from various locations throughout Wales.

During our visit, the museum was all decked out for Christmas, making it a perfect time to explore the exhibits and celebrate the holidays.

Wishing you all the best as we celebrate the holidays and look to a New Year!

Recorded on the afternoon of September 11, 2022, in northern Illinois. Elevation 755 feet.

LAKE COUNTY, ILLINOIS — A couple of weeks ago, I drove across the Great Plains from northern Colorado to northern Illinois (with an overnight stop in Nebraska) to visit family and friends. It was my first trip back to the midwest in a while, and I enjoyed making the journey by car instead of by plane so that I could take in the vast open spaces along the way. It’s a long drive though, and I was exhausted when I arrived. I needed a day or two to recover.

Not long after I unpacked the car and settled into the spare bedroom at my Mom’s house, a low-pressure system slumped into the Great Lakes region and stalled out. It rained non-stop for the next thirty-six hours straight. What a delight!

Having lived in Colorado for nearly ten years, this type of rain—steady, sheeting rain—is a rare treat for me. It gave me the perfect excuse to lounge around for hours on end, reading and listening to the patter of raindrops on the window sill. The showers also gave me the opportunity to record ten-plus minutes of raindrops falling on the coneflowers and sunflowers growing along my Mom’s front porch.

Last summer, I started using iNaturalist to keep track of the species I encountered during my outdoor adventures, and this practice has since developed into a rewarding hobby. Gathering species observations has encouraged me to see my surroundings in more vivid detail. It also weaves a common thread through my explorations that inspires me to learn about the organisms I come across and the natural communities they belong to.

If you’re unfamiliar with iNaturalist, you can learn more about it here. In a nutshell, it’s a website that allows you to log your natural history observations, identify the species you encounter, organize and annotate your findings, and participate in citizen science projects.

Over time, I’ve started to build a record of the habitats I explore—my own little natural history database. It’s fun to look back on my entries from time to time, to see what I observed during a recent hike, for a specific location, or throughout an entire season.

And so, now that autumn has arrived, I decided it’s time to review the species I made note of during this past summer—to summarize what I logged and learned.

iNaturalist Observations ~ Summer 2022

Queen's Crown (Rhodiola rhodantha)

Queen’s Crown is a species of stonecrop that is native to Colorado that occurs along alpine streams and in wet meadows. I came across it at Brainard Lake Recreation Area growing near South Saint Vrain Creek.

Another closely related species, King’s Crown (Rhodiola integrifolia), can be found in the same range and habitat as Queen’s Crown.

The two species can be distinguished by their flower petals. Queen’s Crown has longer petals that are pink, rose, or white, while King’s Crown has shorter petals that are deep red to purple.

Next summer, it will be interesting to revisit this location to look for some King’s Crown as well.

Sulfur Buckwheat (Eriogonum umbellatum)

While wandering the trails at Caribou Ranch Open Space, I stumbled upon this Sulfur Buckwheat. Even though it was past its prime, I was drawn to the color and shape of the flower heads.

Reading up on it, I discovered that this species serves as a host plant for a variety of butterfly larvae, such as Bramble Hairstreak, Mormon Metalmark, Rocky Mountain Dotted Blue, and Lupine Blue—a species that I spotted back in June at Soapstone Prairie.

Sulfur Buckwheat is native to western North America and grows in a wide variety of habitats, including sagebrush meadows, subalpine forests, and alpine areas above the treeline.

Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel (Callospermophilus lateralis)

This Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel greeted me on the trail from Lake Haiyaha one evening in late August. Golden-manteled Ground Squirrels occur throughout the mountains of the west in chaparral, scrub forests, meadows, sagebrush flats, and rocky terrain.

Golden-manteled Ground Squirrels feed on a wide variety of food, including pine nuts, mushrooms, acorns, insects, eggs, herbs, and shrubs. They also tend to beg humans for handouts whenever the opportunity arises—remember: don’t feed the Golden-mantled Ground Squirrels!

These ground squirrels are notable for the golden-red fur on their head and shoulders, as well as the distinct black and white stripe that runs down their back. They also have a ring of white or cream-colored fur around their eye.

Red-berried Elder (Sambucus racemosa var. microbotrys)

I came across this beautiful Red-berried Elder on the trail to Lake Haiyaha in late August. What caught my eye immediately were the beautifully colored clusters of red, orange, and yellow berries.

The fact that this shrub was in fruit yielded a further clue about its identity. There are two varieties of Sambucus racemosa that occur in Colorado. These varieties are difficult to distinguish unless the fruit is present. Red or yellow fruit indicates the var. microbotrys, while purple or black fruit of the var. melanocarpa.

The stems, roots, and foliage of Red-berried Elder are poisonous. The fruit can be toxic if eaten raw. The cooked fruit is said to be edible and was used in traditional medicine by Native Americans to treat various ailments (still, I wouldn’t advise ingesting it, cooked or not.)

Snakeweed Grasshopper (Hesperotettix viridis)

No one will ever convince me that insects don’t have full-blown personalities. I found this Snakeweed Grasshopper sitting proudly atop a Curlcup Gumweed flower in a field near my local library. As I photographed her (I’m pretty sure this is a female), she turned to face the lens and watched me as I watched her.

Snakeweed Grasshoppers live throughout much of North America, but within that range, their distribution can be patchy. They are more common in the west where they thrive in shrublands, grasslands, and fields. Snakeweed Grasshoppers feed primarily on shrubs belonging to the composite family (Compositae), such as rabbitbrush, broom snakeweed, burroweed, and western ragweed.

Adult Snakeweed Grasshoppers spend most of their time on or near their host plant. Females can be differentiated from males by wing length—males have wings longer than their abdomen, females shorter.

Grayleaf Willow (Salix glauca)

While hiking up from Brainard Lake toward Mount Audubon, I repeatedly encountered hearty thickets of Grayleaf Willow. This species is one of over thirty willows native to Colorado. It occurs at elevations of 7,500 to 13,500 feet, where it grows along streams, in forests, and above the treeline.

Grayleaf Willows serve as valuable food sources (especially during winter) for animals such as elk, deer, moose, and snowshoe hares. Native Americans used these and other willows for making baskets, bows, arrows, and medicines.

According to Professor Nancy Emery, Niwot Ridge Long Term Ecological Research scientists have observed Grayleaf Willow encroaching into tundra plant communities. This gradual expansion of the willow’s range into the alpine tundra is likely due to climate change underway in these fragile environments.

Common Juniper (Juniperus communis)

The Common Juniper is a widespread evergreen shrub belonging to the Cypress family. It has the most extensive geographical range of all the woody plants and can be found throughout a vast circumpolar region in the Northern Hemisphere. In Colorado, it grows in aspen and spruce-fir forests at elevations of 5,500 to 12,700 feet.

Common Juniper is a low, spreading shrub that rarely tops 3 feet. It has short, sharp needles. The species is dioecious, which means that male and female cones grow on separate plants.

Female cones, or juniper berries, resemble round berries. They start out green and ripen over the course of 18 months, eventually turning purple-black. Seeds are dispersed by birds, who eat the juniper berries and digest the fleshy parts while passing the hard seeds in their droppings.

Male cones are tiny and located at the tips of branches. The male cones produce and release pollen at which point the cones disintegrate.

American Pika (Ochotona princess)

I’m always thrilled to come across an American Pika while hiking. I usually hear them long before I see them; they’re so well camouflaged. Even if I do eventually spot one, they’re usually on the move—a little furry blur.

The vocalizations of American Pikas are sharp whistles or bleating calls. Individual pikas stake a claim to a territory that they defend vigorously. They often sit motionless atop a rock and watch for intruders. They are common on rockpiles and talus slopes above the treeline. Their range encompasses the mountains of western North America.

American Pikas are herbivores that feed on many different kinds of plants—grasses, thistles, sedges, and fireweed. Some populations are declining, a trend attributed to habitat loss, global warming, and the pika’s intolerance of warmer temperatures.

Richardson’s Geranium (Geranium richardsonii)

Richardson's Geranium is a perennial herb that occurs in Colorado throughout moist meadows, along streams, and aspen forests at elevations between 6,000 and 12,700 feet. Beyond Colorado, its range extends throughout western North America from Alaska to New Mexico.

I found this Richardson’s Geranium growing in Moraine Park near the trail to Cub Lake in Rocky Mountain National Park. The flower of this geranium has five pointed sepals that sit beneath its five rounded petals. The petals are white or sometimes light purple, with veins of darker purple.

This is the second species of geranium I observed this summer, the other was the Pinewoods Geranium, which I came across while hiking at Caribou Ranch Open Space.

Creeping Mahonia (Berberis repens)

Another interesting plant I encountered while hiking near Cub Lake was Creeping Mahonia, an evergreen subshrub that boasts yellow flowers that give rise to blue-colored berries. This native species is hardy—it tolerates drought frost, and heat well and for this reason, is a popular species with gardeners who use it as an attractive ground cover plant.

Creeping Mahonia is a native inhabitant of the Rocky Mountains region and can be found throughout a wide swathe of the North American west.

Well, that wraps up my review of my summer of natural history observations. I’m already looking forward to logging new species this fall and continuing to expand my natural history knowledge and adventures.

Recorded in the late afternoon of August 30, 2022, at Moraine Park Campground in Rocky Mountain National Park. Elevation 8,180 feet.

MORAINE PARK, COLORADO - I recently spent a few days camping at Moraine Park Campground in the heart of Rocky Mountain National Park. It’s been two years since I last camped in the mountains, and I was thrilled to get back into the wilderness again, even if only for a few nights.

My campsite sat at the far edge of the campground near Beaver Mountain. It was a terrific site, with a small ridge of rocks that sheltered my tent. At dawn, I climbed the ridge to watch the first hints of sunshine wash over Gabletop Mountain and flood Fern Canyon.

The mornings were comfortably cool. I spent them hiking, taking photographs, and chatting with my campsite neighbors. The afternoons were ferociously hot, so that’s when I retreated to the shade of a ponderosa pine to relax and read a book.

During these sweltering afternoons, the fluttering wing clicks of grasshoppers filled the air—an iconic summertime vibe that I could not resist recording. This clicking, known as crepitation, is produced during the courtship display when male grasshoppers repeatedly snap their wings taut while flying to create an auditory performance that (hopefully) impresses the females watching on the ground below. I’m not sure which species of grasshoppers I recorded, but I believe it was some kind of Bandwing Grasshopper (Oedipodinae).

In early July, I spent an evening at Brainard Lake Recreation Area recording the natural sounds I encountered. I stopped first at Mitchell Creek to record the gush of meltwater flowing into Brainard Lake. After being chased away by mosquitos, I hiked deeper into the valley, stopping in meadows and along trails to capture the evening chatter of birds.

The acoustics in the Brainard Lake area are enchanting. Sounds ring clearly through the cool, thin air and bounce back and forth off the surrounding mountain slopes. It’s a vast wild place, and yet you can hear soft echoes in such fine detail it feels cozy.

That evening, though, all went quiet early on. Maybe it was the heat, my poor timing, or that fledgling season had exhausted the birds and they were early to bed. Not to be deterred, I recorded several clips hoping to capture something of interest before giving up when dusk gave way to darkness.

Back at home, I quickly spot-checked my recordings and found them to be either dull or dominated by American Robins. As lovely as the American Robin song is, it’s not the unique alpine evening chorus I had hoped to capture. Disappointed, I shelved my recordings and moved on.

I went back to my recordings and listened to them more closely. I decided to upload the best clips to BirdNET for analysis and was surprised to discover there were bird species singing in the background that I had previously overlooked.

I trimmed the clips, verified them against eBird recordings, and ran them through BirdNET one more time to generate matching spectrograms. The results are below. I’m an amateur when it comes to birdsong ID, so please leave a comment if you would like to suggest alternative identifications.

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American Robin and Ruby-crowned Kinglet

The familiar, strident song of the American Robin (Turdus migratorius) is front and center in this clip. But if you listen carefully, you might hear the song of the Ruby-crowned Kinglet (Corthylio calendula) at 0:08 min.

Mountain Chickadee

The distant rush of Mitchell Creek is not mighty enough to dampen the piercing, melancholy Chicka-dee-dee-dee call of the Mountain Chickadee (Poecile gambeli) in this recording. By the way, the low-pitched sounds at 0:30 min are not birds but instead the voices of hikers echoing across the lake.

American Robin, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, and Red-breasted Nuthatch

In this audio clip, you’ll again hear the American Robin (Turdus migratorius) taking the lead, but if you listen carefully, you might also the following backup singers:

• Ruby-crowned Kinglet (Corthylio calendula) at 0:09, 0:36, and 0:47 min

• Red-breasted Nuthatch (Sitta canadensis) at 0:30 min

Before signing off, I thought I’d share with you a lovely video by Leslie the Bird Nerd that profiles the Ruby-crowned Kinglet. If you want to skip ahead to hear information about the Kinglet’s amazing song, go to the 3:25 min mark. But if you have the time, the entire video is a worthwhile watch.

Read more from The Art of Exploration:

Chaos Canyon, Rocky Mountain National Park - On June 28, 2022, a massive section of Hallett Peak dislodged, disintegrated, and shape-shifted its way down into Upper Chaos Canyon. The rockfall was captured on video by two people recreating in the area at the time. Ryan Albert recorded this remarkable clip while fly fishing at Lake Haiyaha. Meanwhile, William Mondragon witnessed the event while bouldering below the rockslide with some friends. Remarkably, no one was injured by the landslide. In a news interview, Mondragon described the experience of seeing a mountain slope sliding toward him as so intense that it reminded him of taking psychedelics.

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For me, not being there meant the event was far less memorable. I recall reading a handful of articles about the rockfall shortly after it occurred. But I missed Albert's and Mondragon's jaw-dropping videos, and I didn't fully grasp the magnitude of the rockslide until weeks later when some incredible images and accounts of a transformed Lake Haiyaha started popping up on social media.

Lake Haiyaha is one of my favorite destinations in Rocky Mountain National Park. You can reach the lake by various routes, but the Lake Haiyaha Trail is the most scenic (which might be why the trail is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.)

The trail begins at Bear Lake, climbs up past Nymph Lake, and then on to Dream Lake. Next, it enters Tyndall Gorge and turns south into Chaos Canyon. From there, it ascends to the tree line and arrives at the eastern edge of Lake Haiyaha.

Most day hikers (including myself) venture no further than the lake. To the west, Upper Chaos Canyon looms large—a vast jumble of boulders and scree. It's terrain that makes hikers cringe and retreat—and rock climbers drool and carry on.

Navigating the bulky rocks that border the eastern edge of Lake Haiyaha is challenging enough for me. When I finally arrive at the water's edge, I traditionally snap a few photos, have a snack, and relax before heading homeward.

It's been several years since I last visited Lake Haiyaha. I'd been planning a return hike in August when I stumbled across images showing the now-transformed (post-rockfall) Lake Haiyaha. Instead of its usual dark blue-green, the lake was a milky emerald. The images were surreal and stunning. I was anxious to see it for myself.

The following afternoon I hopped in the car, headed for the Bear Lake Area, and set out along the Lake Haiyaha Trail.

Just before arriving at Lake Haiyaha, I came to Chaos Creek, where it was immediately apparent that something unusual was underway. The shallow creek was a shimmering turquoise color, a preview of coming attractions. I snapped a few photos as I crossed over the bridge and then continued towards the lake.

I arrived at Lake Haiyaha at about 6 p.m. The sky was overcast, and dusk was setting in. And yet, despite the dwindling light, the lake gleamed a rich jade color.

I lingered and took pictures for as long as possible before I started my hike back to the trailhead.

After my hike, one nagging question remained: why did a rockfall high above Lake Haiyaha so drastically change the color of the waters below? To answer this question, I read up on rockslides, glacial deposits, and alpine lakes. I even pulled out my Essentials of Geology textbook.

Chaos Canyon, like all of Rocky Mountain National Park, is a terrain shaped by glaciation. As such, the canyon contains pockets of glacial till—heterogeneous mixtures of rocky sediments of various sizes. 

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The rockfall exposed some of this glacial till, and subsequent rains washed the finest sediments (called glacial flour) into the lake below. Glacial flour is so fine that it doesn't sink to the bottom of the lake. Instead, it becomes suspended in the water, causing it to change color and take on a milky appearance.

And so, to turn Lake Haiyaha turquoise, all you need is a rockfall up-valley, some glacial flour, a spot of rain, and a bit of time. Then hey presto! You've got yourself a mesmerizing, photogenic, glowing jade-colored lake!

References

• Witness the New Color at Lake Haiyaha by Dawn Wilson (Estes Park Trail-Gazette)

• Glacial Till and Glacial Flour (National Park Service)

• Essentials of Geology by Frederick K. Lutgens and Edward J. Tarbuck. 2015. Pearson Education Inc.

Dawn. Cool air from the sparse alpine land above fills the valley. The sky glows dimly at first, then brightens to violet, powder blue, and pink. Three mule deer tiptoe on delicate, silent hooves through campsites and between the black huckleberry and mountain ash. The doe stops to inspect the new day, her fawns pause at her side.

Busier creatures begin to stir. Juncos, chickadees, and nuthatches scratch and nibble. A thin chatter of birds warms up, a tiny orchestra tuning for their concert. As the sun crests the ridge to the east, the chorus begins.

Morning. The warming light wakes the landscape and casts a fresh contrast throughout the campground. Campers rustle and yawn as they unzip sleeping bags and tent flaps. The smell of campfire smoke and freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air.

Breakfast is grand, indulgent, and necessary—fuel for hiking. Eggs, hash-browns, sausage, beans, and toast cook fast over open flames. A golden-mantled ground squirrel scampers up a tree and sits on a low branch, watching, waiting, hoping for a handful of granola to hit the ground. A quartet of elk amble through the tent sites and disappear into the cool forest.

Afternoon. A piercing, deflating heat now forces campers, magpies, and cottontails into the cool shady patches of ponderosa. It’s time to sit, snooze, and pine for the relief of sunset.

The thick clatter of bandwing grasshoppers fills the air—crepitation, I think it’s called. It’s a sleepy, hot summertime sound. Up and down, they jump and click, males snapping their wings together again and again, hoping to impress the females who shelter amongst yarrow and dogbane leaves below.

Dusk. Campfires crackle, and children run free. The clatter of pots and pans crescendos as families prepare their evening meals. The sky darkens, but the air remains comfortably warm. Campers clip headlamps to their hats and walk the trails around the campground.

Mule deer rustle as they bed down in the shrubs. A bull elk bugles, and his cry echoes along the valley. An ancient sound that declares the arrival of the new night.

Nightfall. The campfire hisses and pops and burns itself out. At last, a cold bucket of water poured over top extinguishes what remains. Quiet voices mumble nearby, campers up late, immersed in some wild conversation. A gentle breeze touches the tent, the nylon puffs and deflates with the moving air. Toasty warm under a blanket, in a sleeping bag zipped tight.

Finally, the primitive sounds of the night. The quiet crunch of some large creature pawing through the campsite. A hollow thump at the food storage locker. A black bear checks the lock. Defeated, he wanders off to test the next.

A gentle air current washes through the treetops. Cool air descends once again. A calm, brushing, soothing sound. Now I sleep.

On August 21, 2017, a total eclipse of the sun cast a shady path 70 miles wide across the United States. It stenciled a line from the Pacific to the Atlantic, progressing west to east over Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming, Nebraska, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, and South Carolina. Four short hours after the celestial show had started, it was over.

I had never witnessed a total solar eclipse, so in preparation for the event, I inspected my map and selected the closest, most interesting viewing spot I could find within the path of totality. And that’s how I found myself staring skyward outside the Cavalry Barracks at Fort Laramie National Historic Site in Wyoming on the morning of August 21, 2017.

I waited as the moon edged in front of the sun. The cottonwood leaves filtered sunlight like pinhole cameras, casting crescents onto the lawn, the sidewalk, and the canvas of a covered wagon. As the eclipse progressed, the light dimmed as if clouds were gathering. I peered through my solar glasses and studied the sun’s changing silhouette.

Then finally, totality arrived. A chilly wind kicked up, and the temperature dropped degrees in seconds.

I took off my solar glasses to see the solar corona, visible only during totality. Great wisps of solar plasma rippled outward—a living halo, moving, reaching, and flowing across a wide western sky. The sun felt suddenly close, the moon alive, the earth fragile, the universe complete. It was one of the most astonishing things I had ever experienced. In that moment, in those four minutes of totality, I realized how very little I knew of the universe.

As a graduate student in the early 1990s, I attended the School of Public and Environmental Affairs at Indiana University. My area of study was Applied Ecology—a flexible curriculum that allowed me to learn from some superb scientists who cared deeply about the natural environment. I worked part-time as a research assistant in a wetlands biology lab and spent the rest of my time taking courses such as aquatic chemistry, landscape ecology, earth science, and wetlands biology. I loved all the classes I took, but one course stood out as my favorite: ornithology.

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The ornithology course was a blend of lectures and field outings. The lectures introduced me and my fellow students to avian biology, behavior, anatomy, and evolution. The field outings taught us how to identify birds by appearance, behavior, flight patterns, and vocalizations.

Unfortunately, I didn’t keep up with my birdwatching hobby after leaving university, but I do remember the fun and challenge of identifying birds by their songs and calls.

That’s why this past spring I signed up for the Birdsong Essentials: Enjoying Songbirds This Spring webinar when it was hosted by the American Bird Conservancy.

Watching this webinar reminded me of my fascination with birdsong identification, and rekindled my desire to develop this wonderful skill.

I hope you get as much out of this webinar I did. I also encourage you to contribute the American Bird Conservancy to support bird conservation and enable seminars like this to continue.