This Newborn Alaskan moose was left alone and trembling. He hunched on the silt bar with bent back legs, unsure of how they worked. Water rushed around all sides. He chirped for his mother over the water’s din, but she didn’t come. Only a hungry bald eagle answered the call.

As the babe first stretched a back leg and then a front leg, I watched I awe of his first steps. Nobody taught him what to do. He just did it.  Instinct.

The babe came to the  water’s edge and paused, sniffing toward the shore opposite his mother. His next steps felt like a mistake. He walked with purpose into the water as we thought to ourselves, “Wong way! Go back!”

Just then, as swift, icy-blue glacial current carried him away. He rushed a quarter of a mile downstream as we ran to see through the trees. My heart sank with this sinking moose as only his nostrils rose above the surface. I stopped the camera and looked away.

Miraculously, the moose caught traction at another silt bar. Without getting tangled in the trees, he fought the current with every step toward shore and climbed the banks just beyond our view.

We ran along the roadside, slowing where we thought he was, and found him spent and wet in the low, narrow shoulder between the highway and the river. He stood stock still, ears back, calculating our next move. We feared startling him into traffic or back into the water. Noting his location and lack of injuries, we backed off and let him rest.

As he laid innocently in a patch of lime green horsetail under towering black cottonwood trees recovering from is ill adventure, our minds raced. The large black bear seen nearby worried us. Wolves and coyote were also threats. Would any one of them find the babe before his mama did? A single raptor couldn’t take him down, but a team was gathering. Three bald eagles now hovered on branches above — watching, waiting, hoping.

On our second rafting run of the day, while our guests floated down the river, Byrne and I checked on the little fella. He was napping in the soft, filtered light, no longer harassed by eagles. Sensing us, he rose to his feet, blinking with big, bright eyes. His coat had dried to a rich red color. Again, noting his progress, we backed off.

It had been hours without food or protection for the babe. If mom delivered a twin elsewhere, she might not come back. Those who saw her before we arrived say she looked inexperienced.

My guiding partner and I called a local rehabilitator. He was on board to monitor the situation. We all crossed fingers that mom would find her baby and all would be right with the world.

The following day, where the young moose had been, only an indentation in the grass remained. No signs of distress or struggle. No signs of bear, wolf, coyote or eagle. One can only surmise, and I choose to believe, that Momma came. Given that this little warrior learned to walk, swim, take shelter and survive in the very first hour of life, my hope is that he will have a long, happy and adventurous life ahead of him. (And my aching heart can relax!)

Alaskan Newborn Moose

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A tiny, fuzzy body tumbled toward me, unaware of my presence… and then another and another. Six little beasties were playfully pouncing about in the old hay bales like very young kittens. It took a minute for my startled mind to register what they really were… a litter of gray fox pups! I spent more time watching than shooting, and captured this sweet video as I stood stock still.

Having my all-too-short fill, I left so as not to distress the mother. I’m quite sure she kept watch over me as I kept watch over her young. It was time to let the wild get back to being beautifully wild as the animals reclaim discarded sheltering structures that no longer serve a dying way of human life.

Whistler

Three times in a week, the owl returns, cozying up to our feeders for several hours before sunset. The head slowly turns. Facial feathers hone in, gathering sounds of scrambling squirrels and curious cardinals. Interest takes hold but the mood is fleeting, set adrift like a feather on a gentle breeze as sleep settles in.

With each visit, the owl lingers longer, closer, allowing me to open the window, to speak, to photograph. My unyeilding attention is ignored but for my disruption of dinner, when I startle a curious chipmunk back into his snowbank – on purpose.

More than an occasional guest, we name the owl Whistler, welcoming this wise, beautiful spirit to sit in our Maple, always. Whistler’s visits are a tremendous gift and the extension of our invitation is a gift in its own right.

We aren’t always so eager to accommodate.

This herd is pretty giddy about a tree full of ripening apples.

The little fawn does a jig clear across the lawn and the rest refuse to be dissuaded by that odd looking deer, the mower (at least for the most part).

Horseshoe Crabs

We found these horseshoe crab shells on the Jersey Shore in early September last year. (Click each photo for a larger image.) Initially, my nephew, nieces and I thought the crabs had died. It wasn’t until an educational boat ride through the salt marsh that we learned these guys and gals were still alive – somewhere. (If only the same could be said for my camcorder.) They had simply molted and left this one-size-too-small armor behind.

Horseshoe crabs molt at least 10 times in their 20+ year lives. In fact, they go through 4 of these molts within the egg. While the crabs look as if they are related to crustaceans (think shrimp and lobster), they are, instead, closely related to ancient and extinct trilobites. Growing up in Western NY, my friends and I often found trilobite fossils in 18 Mile Creek. I’m as fascinated with these modern day relatives as I was the long gone ancestors.

Taking a lesson from the long-lived horseshoe crab, I’ll be sure to get my next camcorder protective, waterproof armor. Next year, I’ll be prepared to film the crabs underwater. For now, I’m off to gargle salt water – to clean my filthy mouth out.

I had no idea what this was at first, but I found myself captivated by its beautiful markings, the lacy transparency of its wings and its largess. It appeared to be dead, but closer inspection revealed the slow kick of a single rear appendage. I watched as those beautiful wings fluttered, nary a movement as much as a slight vibration. The final death rattle.

My thoughts returned to this being many times throughout the day. I photographed it to preserve, in my memory, the curious life that once was. Here I sit at  5 a.m. writing about the experience without knowing why.

This is a Dog-Day cicada, a variety which emerges during the dog-day heat of summer.  2,500 species of cicada are prevalent the world over and, of course, I have heard of them as well as heard their hum. Strangely, in my 39 years traveling the globe, I have seen only one other. I thought, perhaps, the rarity of the event had me mesmerized. The reality is, I am pondering death … and life.

In Japanese and Chinese culture, the cicada is exemplary of regeneration, rebirth and immortality. The shedding of its shell symbolizes the many stages of transformation required of a person before all illusions are broken and enlightenment is reached. With death on my doorstep after the loss of a friend and with the passing of a family member looming over the days ahead, I would never have thought comfort could come on the wings of a cicada.

I felt your beauty,
your struggle,
your passing,
your peace.
I felt you, if it matters.
It matters to me.

-Kim

So, what makes for a great road trip? For us it was good company and a white Mustang convertible, heavy on the Mustang. (We can get the good company at home.) I am not a car person (What is it I drive again?) but this baby rocked. Able to pass 3 cars on a winding road boasting a 40 degree grade, all while ocean waves crashed 3000 feet directly below? Booyah! I was all, “Do it, Tim. You can take ’em! Get those cars out of my photographs!” This is a far cry from my experience in Tim’s Passat where I grab the Oh Shit! Handle on thruway exits. What can I say? That Mustang corners like it’s on rails.

… Dear Hertz, I really miss that car.

We drove through every climate imaginable, from 90 degrees in the valley where the scent of strawberries clung to our skin up to where the crisp blue sky met a glacial snow-pack. When the temperature dropped, we layered clothing over layers of sunburn, cranked the heat and kept driving — top down. Squandering a single moment in that car was not an option, even if that moment was downright frosty.

Along the way we met many animal friends, from the rambunctious sea lions at San Francisco’s Pier 39 to a lone mountain lizard near Yosemite. I made the first 911 call of my life for an escaped calf running in the highway (she was rescued by officers) and we stumbled upon a pair of fluffy, young owls perched with their mom outside a coffee shop in Bridgeport. Below you’ll find a few of our favorite photos.

California Road Tripping

We’re gladly back home with our furkids now. At least we think that’s the case. The kittens grew so much while we were away, when we picked them up we had to ask, “Are those OURS?” We’ve missed the cats and dogs terribly and we’ve missed you too. So let’s get back to it!

Now, I know this is a common story but I tossed a nut on the ground about 5 feet from where I sat and I waited. The squirrel padded his way over, stepped back, stepped closer, stepped back again and then braved it out, quickly snatching the nut and running up the nearest tree to eat in safety. I tossed another nut about 3 feet away. He came back. We did this again and again.

In a short span of time, we taught each other mutual benefits of patience, trust and respect. Mr. Peanut, as I started calling him, eventually came to my hand. Growing more confident in the weeks to come, he’d come to tap my foot or leg while I was doing yard work. I looked forward to his daily visits and started keeping a canister of nuts in the garage to satisfy his fix. On winter days when I was at work, he’d watch for me to come home and jumped from my roof to my shoulder as I keyed into my house. I started keeping cashews on the interior window sill so I could reach in, give him a few and send him on his way.

1995.06 Mr. Peanut

When Mr. Peanut befriended my rescue cat, Kringle, that summer, I knew that he had become true family. The two would hang out with me in the yard and chase each other in fun. I always kept an eye on the situation as this was an odd relationship, indeed, but there never seemed to be a deadly motive on behalf of the cat.

One day, my neighbor hurriedly approached me to ask, “Did you see your cat tree Mr. Peanut?”

My heart skipped a beat. Had their relationship changed?

He went on, “Well, it was the funniest thing. The two are up there, each runs down, and Mr. Peanut turns the tables. He races around the backside of the tree comes around the backside of Kringle and then trees your cat!”

It seems I wasn’t the only one fascinated by this squirrel’s choice of friends.

1995 Squirrel, Kim and Kringle

Mr. Peanut, June 1995

We lived like this (and apparently with this bad hair) throughout the summer, fall and winter. I don’t know how old Mr. Peanut was when we found each other or when they reach maturity, but one day he didn’t come back. It was a sad day when I realized he had been gone a whole week. A month passed, and another, until a squirrel who looked like Mr. Peanut came down the split rail fence toward me. Unfortunately for me, he thought better of it. I can’t even say for sure if it was him. I had no nut to entice him closer.

I’d like to think Mr. Peanut came into maturity and was off to do what squirrels naturally do that second spring. I hope he met a kind lady squirrel and the two of them raised lots of happy babies — leaving humans behind for the call of the wild.

I’ll never forget this funny little guy and I’m reminded of him often by the squirrels who eat from my feeders. He will always be a fond memory and I’m grateful for the chance to have formed this amazing relationship with such an unlikely friend.