One of their more remarkable adaptations is their ability to play with sound. They deliberately combine wavering howls, staccato yips and rapidly changing pitches of yaps, bouncing their calls off of rocks, trees and hillsides. The effect is one I’m sure you’re familiar with. It sounds like a formidable pack of coyotes. When, in reality, it is likely just a mated pair. They are intentionally misleading all who can hear their voices. It’s a defense of territory, a bluster. “Don’t come over here, there’s a whole gang of us!”It’s part of their survival strategy. A very effective strategy. Most animals, humans included, have ways of avoiding confrontation. We all have differing tactics, but the intent is the same. Direct confrontation is risky.

The coyote’s sound engineering is an auditory illusion called the Beau Geste effect. A beautiful gesture. Birds, crickets and frogs also use sound this way.

The post Beau Geste: Wily Coyotes appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

I hear them before I see them. The high-pitched chirps and squeaks float out of the rock scree. The sounds can be mistaken for birdsong or chipmunk alarms. Pikas’ mottled gray-tan coats camouflage perfectly with the talus (large, broken rock debris) slopes they call home. It’s their movement that gives them away, hopping over boulders and scurrying into crevices.I was on the last steep push to a subalpine peak in the Cabinet Mountains of North Idaho when I heard the squeaky alarm calls. I welcomed the rest and sat down to quietly wait for the pika to resume her daily routine. Watching the rocky slope in front of me, I caught a flash of brown fur. My eyes followed a pika as he disappeared into the grass behind a boulder. I frowned. I thought that must be the main den entrance. She’s scared and has gone to hide.

A minute passes before she reemerges with a mouthful of grass! Boldly hopping over the rocks with an occasional pause to reassess, she is coming toward me. Then she drops down out of sight behind a rock pile three yards away. This is where her haypile is.A few moments later, she pops back out. She pauses, perched upon the rock pile above her den. She calls out. Then stillness. She calls again. And then she’s off, clamoring in the opposite direction. I watched her disappear into the vegetation and waited, poised for her return. A minute later, she appears with a cheeky mouthful of greenery. She bounds back to the rock pile above her haystack, confident and deliberate, stops, then drops out of sight. She is preparing for winter and will repeat this behavior all afternoon.Pikas, relatives of rabbits, cache greens in haypiles for winter forage. They selectively (smartly!) choose plants that preserve well and become more digestible as they break down. An individual pika will make thirteen trips per hour and up to one hundred trips per day stocking haypiles. The piles are often located in the sun where they can dry before being moved into dens below ground. This prevents the stash from molding in storage. These tiny (5-7 inches long) animals don’t hibernate and need to rely on their caches as their only food source for most of the winter.I watched this industrious little rock rabbit for some time before thanking her for being so tolerant of me and hiking back down through the fireweed fields on a gorgeous summer day.

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The post Haystacking Pikas appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

A quick history of how we got here

In the late 1800’s, European rabbits were brought to San Juan Island to farm for meat. Specific details vary, but the consistent story is that the market failed and thousands of rabbits were set free. And then they bred and spread like, well…rabbits. By 1930, they were causing severe ecological damage, even undermining Naval buildings on the island with their extensive warrens! Around this time, red foxes were deliberately introduced to help control the rabbit population. The foxes came from fur farms and game farms, and as a result, the San Juan Island red foxes are orange, silver, black and multicolored. In the wild red fox populations worldwide, black is a rare color mutation. On the island, black foxes are common. (Spoiler Alert: It didn’t work. By 1970, the National Park Service estimated there were one million rabbits on the island!).

For a long time, residents and visitors fed the foxes. They’re cute, curious and personable. It’s an understandable temptation. But no good comes from feeding wildlife. The tame, exotically colored foxes drew tourists and photographers from all over the world. The locals were not keen on the crowds. People would walk into the fields, stake out the fox dens and generally disrupt fox life. The islanders liked their quiet, secret paradise, and the “foxarazzzi” became a lightning rod for the disdain for growing tourism. In 2019, they formed the “fox brigade” to try to educate and police visitors. 

More drama ensued. People behaved badly. In 2022, the National Park Service closed the prairie to all foot traffic to protect the foxes. (American Camp, the most popular place to see the foxes, is part of the San Juan Island National Historical Park, formed partly to commemorate another animal drama. This one involving a pig).

Back to my 2026 visit

Given this context, I expected to see foxes on the roadsides, in town and in yards. Like deer. Not so. Therefore, I didn’t do any pre-trip research about where they are often seen. I had to set out deliberately at the right time (dusk) and the right place (American Camp), like any wildlife pursuit.

Choosing a spot next to a well-worn animal trail, I waited quietly, using my car as a blind. There is only one other vehicle in sight. A red fox appears. He’s trotting through the tall grasses that obscure his form.

Bouncing along, pausing to tilt his head and listen. He’s moving closer to me, towards shorter vegetation, when a silver fox races into sight from behind a hill. His ears are pinned back, coat blown back by the motion. The red fox is on his heels. They circle a small bush, the only obstacle in the sea of grass.

It’s a classic tactic to shake off a pursuer. I can’t tell if this is serious aggression, a casual shooing or real play.

They both could be moving faster, but they are the cats of the dog world, and cats are known for their low-speed chases.

The silver fox gains some distance and disappears over a knoll as quickly as he came. The red fox returns to his hunting and vanishes over the hill with the last light of day.

A Second Evening of Foxes

Two days later, as the day turns to dusk, I’m back along the same road. A fox emerges from the grassland, briefly hunts unsuccessfully and then quickly crosses the road and disappears into the coastal scrubland.

I wait. And watch. What’s the best way to find foxes in this vast, grassy meadow? Look for the rabbits. It turns out the rabbits serve as sentinels for the foxes.

They are on alert, up on their haunches, outside one of dozens of their underground warren entrances. A watched fox cannot sneak up on you. The foxes occasionally prey on the rabbits, but prefer easier meals, like rodents, insects and berries, which comprise the bulk of their diet. This fox stayed far off in the prairie.

Close Encounter

I walked up the road in a cold wind to scan the hill where I saw the foxes two days ago. A shaggy red fox is trotting through the grasses.

He turns, gracefully hops the fence and crosses the road in front of me.

I am way too close, but if I move now I’ll certainly startle him and alter his behavior. He’s paying no attention to me. I freeze as he passes to minimize my disturbance. Does this “I can’t move, or I’ll disrupt the fox” serve me? Absolutely. Can it also be true? Absolutely.After mousing around the opposite side of the road, the fox deftly hopped the split-rail fence once again, nosed along the mowed road shoulder and then crossed back.

I spent four days exploring San Juan Island from Roche Harbor to Lime Kiln to Cady Mountain to False Bay, Friday Harbor and American Camp. I only saw foxes in the area of American Camp and only within the 30 minutes before sunset.

A caveat – it is late April, a time when vixen foxes are in their dens nursing newborn kits. Only the males are out and about. Come May and June, the young kits will be out exploring their new world, playing and generally being adorable. Their parents will be constantly hunting to bring them food. Reports of foxes along the roadways and in yards will be common.

It wasn’t what I’d expected. It never really is, and that’s part of the appeal of adventure. I was glad to see the foxes (and rabbits!) living their lives without the paparazzi. Nature is resilient.

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The post San Juan Island Foxes appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

Which tour to take? The all-day ecosystem, whale and wildlife tour only happens a few times per year, with only one sailing in the spring. The coincidence that it falls during the four days of my trip removes any hesitation about which tour to book.

The Orca Behavior Institute researchers had recently posted about a trip with Maya’s Legacy, which is what brought me to their website in the first place. The Orca Behavior Institute‘s endorsement lends credibility for solid wildlife stewardship and success in finding said wildlife.

Despite the five-day forecast prediction for 50° and showers, the day of our adventure arrived warm and cloudless – a comfortable, gorgeous Pacific Northwest day!

The Adventure Begins

With three guides, two researchers and ten guests aboard, our first stop was Spieden Island, reliable for Steller sea lions basking on the rocks. Only the males haul out here. As we drift past cormorants and harlequin ducks, someone spots a family of river otters! They weren’t too comfortable with us stopping to stare, but soon settled back into whatever mischief they were up to when we spotted them porpoising along the shoreline.

Spieden Island

In 1969, Spieden Island was developed to be an exclusive hunting camp. Mouflon sheep from the Middle East, Asian Sika deer and European Fallow deer were imported. In 1970, the media were invited to tour the new posh operation. Outrage ensued. The proverbial “fish in a barrel”, stray bullets reaching inhabited San Juan Island. The business never succeeded. The sheep and deer remain.

Orcas!

Sailing north into Canadian waters, we came across a pod of six Bigg’s Orcas cruising with intention through Shingle Bay. We stayed parallel to their path, 200 yards away. Unlike so many other outfitter guides who, similarly, aren’t allowed to approach wildlife, so instead put themselves in the animals’ path, our captain and all the other whale-watching boats out here stay out of the orcas’ path. When the orca change course, so do we, always exceeding the minimum allowable distance. It’s refreshing, and in my experience, rare, to have a company practice what it preaches in this regard. There are countless individuals and entities protective of these whales, and there is always someone watching. It’s good for the whales. Also, I forgot my long lens at home.Hear the blow, see the spray, watch the dorsal fin arc out of the water and then sink straight down. The rhythm of the movement is comforting, mesmerizing. Using the unique shapes of their white saddle patches and white eye patches, our guides identified this group as T90 with her three offspring (T90B, T90C and T90D) and unrelated brothers T167A and T167B. The “T” is for transient; now, more appropriately called Biggs.

Decades ago, we thought there were resident orca pods and transient orca pods. This location-based designation didn’t hold up as our knowledge grew. Both of these orca species travel widely and can share the same waters, although they are culturally and genetically distinct. They don’t socialize, breed or intermingle at all. The number indicates the oldest known female, the matriarch, and the letters indicate her offspring in birth order.

At the Navy Channel, the orcas turn back. The captain cuts the engine, not quite sure which direction they went. They resurface a distance behind us. Based on their behavior and the lack of any sustained hunting or surface commotion during the hunt or kill, our experts suspect the pod caught a harbor seal. Bigg’s orcas are mammal specialists, feeding on seals, sealions, porpoises and whales.

And then, they play. Spy-hopping, tail-slapping, cavorting. It looks like the relief of success after hard work and an uncertain outcome.

People who live along this channel all stopped what they were doing to watch the orcas play.

They settled, then moved on past us, through the channel, passing in front of Mount Baker. We left them there to see what else the Salish Sea had to show us.

Social Structure

Orcas form matrilineal groups, called pods. Pods consist of the matriarch, the oldest living female, and her offspring. Each pod has their own dialect. Pods will temporarily join together, forming large groups of dozens of individuals.

Biggs tend to travel in small family groups of three to seven individuals, consisting of immediate offspring. When a Biggs daughter has her own calf, she will then soon start her own pod. Unique in animal social structure, males stay with their mother for life. They visit other pods to breed and then return to their mother’s pod. Resident orcas live in larger family pods that can include up to four generations. These are close-knit, highly structured families. The resident orcas are fish specialists and, in the Pacific Northwest, feed almost exclusively on Chinook salmon. There are three pods of resident orcas here: J pod (27 individuals), K pod (15 individuals) and L pod (34 individuals). These Southern Resident Killer Whales were listed as endangered in 2015 largely due to declining salmon populations. This population of orcas ranges from Northern California to British Columbia. (There is a thriving Northern Resident population off the Pacific coast of Canada. These two populations of orcas are genetically distinct and do not interbreed). The J Pod winters in the Salish Sea, while K Pod and L Pod travel to the waters of Northern California. In the summers, they all meet in Puget Sound, in a superpod to reconnect and feast on Chinook salmon. That would be something to see!

On our way back toward Friday Harbor, we passed some harbor seal haulouts. These are the puppies of the sea. Just look at those eyes!

And rhinoceros auklets. They are related to puffins and, in my opinion, among the more exotic of our seabirds. This was a special encounter for me!

Heading into the Haro Strait along San Juan Island, we came upon another pod of orcas. This is T123 with her three offspring. T123, Sydney, was born in 1985 to T46, one of the last killer whales to be captured in US waters, destined for life in depressingly small marine park pools.

This capture of the Budd Inlet Six led to legislation outlawing the capture of killer whales, and these six orcas were released back into the wild. T46 lived to be at least 57 years old, wild and free. I am watching these four orcas today only because of those protections. We’ve come a long way.

There was much to see and much to learn on this sunny, warm spring day out on the Salish Sea with Maya’s Legacy.

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The post Salish Sea Orcas appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

It’s the network of the oceans, much like mycelium is the network of forests. Twenty-five percent of the ocean’s fish depend on coral reefs for food, shelter, and nurseries for their young.

It’s easy to quickly pass by corals, dismissing them as responseless vegetation, a garden that fish, rays, and marine mammals cruise through. But the “plants” are animals! It’s all alive.

Isn’t the star coral beautiful!? All of these worms will tuck into a hole and disappear when predators (and snorkelers) get too close.

Now that I know, I slowly move over the coral, looking closely. I always find something beautiful, fascinating, and new to me.

Here’s what I’ve learned.

Hard Corals

Hard coral is composed of calcium carbonate (the rock-like stuff) that forms the framework for thousands of polyp colonies. These polyps are animals with a body and a mouth that feed on plankton and tiny fish. It is these colonies of polyps that form coral. 

The healthy coral we see is a result of symbiosis with algae, a relationship that benefits both organisms. The algae live within the polyps and are what give coral its color. Algae produce carbohydrates that the polyps use for food. The coral provides a protected environment for the algae and aids in its photosynthesis.

Soft Corals

Soft corals rely on a flexible, protein-based mesoglea (jelly-like core) reinforced by sclerites, tiny, spiky calcium structures for support. Look at all those tiny polyps on the purple stalks of the sea plume!!

Sea Sponges

Another marine invertebrate that you might not associate with the animal kingdom is the sea sponge. They are filter feeders, structured with canals, chambers, and cavities that enable water to move through the sponge for feeding, gas exchange (“breathing”), and excretion. Sponge larvae are flagellated and can swim; however, adults are non-motile and remain attached to a single spot.

There are flat sponges and tube sponges. They are all so unique in structure, color, pattern, and texture. There are over 5000 known species of sponges inhabiting all of the world’s oceans.

Other Atypical Reef Animals

Some of my other favorite animals in coral reef ecosystems are anemones and sea urchins. Anemones are predatory invertebrate marine animals related to corals and jellyfish. Their mouths are surrounded by stinging tentacles that enable them to prey upon small animals such as fish, crabs, shrimp, and jellyfish. They can be found in deep seas and the intertidal zone, too, where they contract and fold their tentacles into their bodies to avoid drying out until the water returns.

There are 950 species of sea urchins, who like anemones, live from intertidal zones to deep seas. Urchins crawl along on tube feet, feeding on algae and sponges. They come in a variety of colors, long-spined and short-spined, pencil-thick and needle-thin. These dramatic creatures are usually found tucked away within a reef, making them difficult to photograph.

Next time you have the opportunity to see a reef, either below water, from a dock, or tidepooling, stop and stare. You will be amazed!

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The post The Fantastic Life of Coral appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The post Sherman Peak Loop Trail appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

Here, Kitty, Kitty. Psspsspss.

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

Stuck in My Head

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

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

Here’s Your Sign

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still in Awe

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

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

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

If he’s wooing, he could use some pointers.

It’s dusky at the end of the day as I’m driving to my home for the night. When the mountains meet the prairie, cattle ranches and fields artfully adorned with round bales of hay become the backdrop. So, when I see a dark shape in the distance, I immediately think cow. But as I draw closer, the shape isn’t quite right for a cow. She turned broadside as I stopped at a pullout to look closer. Moose!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Antelope Island State Park

Antelope Island is a small rise of land, 4 1/2 miles wide and 15 miles long, within the salt flats and receding waters of the Great Salt Lake. It’s dusty and barren, but more comfortable than the thermometer would suggest. A light breeze is keeping the mosquitoes and brine flies at bay. The native grassland and sagebrush habitat here is perfect for nesting burrowing owls. These owls at Antelope Island are migratory, wintering in Mexico and returning here to breed each summer for eons. They share this landscape with bison, pronghorn, coyotes, badgers, and countless other bird species.

The Owl’s Burrow

After getting distracted by horned larks (a first for me!), singing western meadowlarks, a suspicious chukar, and a photogenic lark sparrow, I turned up a short spur road.

Driving slowly, windows down, camera in my lap at the ready, I’m scanning the hills and boulders. I spot a lone owl atop a grassy mound – a dark, soda-can shape in an otherwise linear gold landscape. I slowed to a stop to look more closely through binoculars. This owl is off the right side of the road. I slowly drove past, causing him to scrunch down and hide in place. 

A second owl is closer to the road, resting at the large opening of an underground burrow. I continued past her without stopping. Still, she recedes into the safety of the burrow. Further away, I turned around to come back and position myself parked on the opposite side of the road where I’d be able to watch from the driver’s seat of the car. I drove slowly over the gravel road, hugging the shoulder to give them space. Once in position with a clear view of the burrow, I turn off the car. I don’t look back at the burrow for several minutes. I’m allowing them time to get comfortable with my presence. I’m just here, not paying any attention to them. I read my messages, checked in for my flight home, and otherwise busied myself with my back to the owls.

Burrowing Owl Monitoring

Hawk Watch International monitors twenty-four artificial burrows on the island out of concern that the weight of roaming bison were crushing the natural burrows. Burrowing owls don’t dig their own nest holes. They use abandoned dens of other animals, like badgers and prairie dogs. Each successful nest hatches two to twelve eggs. In 2023, Hawk Watch International banded 81 owlets from 63 burrows. Last year, they banded 192 owlets! 

Burrrowing owls, like many birds, pair-bond for life. They both incubate and care for the owlets, with the mother staying at the burrow and the father standing guard from further away.

The Owl Family

After some time passed, I turned back toward the burrow and gasped! Four owlets and their mother stood outside the burrow!

Typically, nestlings don’t appear above ground until mid-June. Imagine my surprise and delight to see four wide-eyed, downy-feathered youngsters on June 2nd!

They interact like all the other juvenile species I’ve been fortunate to observe – bear cubs, puppies, lion cubs, mice, people, kittens, and more. They all behave in the same ways.

They pick on each other, pulling at feathers, stealing “toys,” and chasing one another.

Their personalities are evident. The most assertive owlet ranges a bit further from the burrow, spending a lot of time hunting insects.

A couple of them test their mom’s patience, poking at her, pulling at her feathers, and grooming her. She’s stoic through it all.

I was here two evenings ago, and only one owlet was above ground. She is noticeably more confident today, no longer scurrying underground at every little rustle or movement. 

Today, she only ducked for cover once, but reappeared rather quickly. The other three are not as comfortable with their new above-ground world. They hunker down at the burrow edge, peering out at their sibling and mother, who didn’t even flinch at the supposed hazard.

Over the next hour, I watched this family live their lives. There are likely more owlets in the burrow who have yet to venture out. This nest had nine owlets that fledged last year. These kids will spend the next four weeks here learning about life, and then they’ll venture off on their own.

A Measured Approach Pays Off

A minivan with four photographers I’d seen earlier turns up the road toward me. I pull my camera in as much to protect it from the dust as conceal my subjects. All of the owls retreat underground as they roll past. They turned around, as I had, and parked behind me. All a-chatter, two of them immediately get out. The driver even opens her door and leaves it ajar as she prepares to shoot from her seat. It’s inconsiderate of the owls and detrimental to their goals, too. Some time passes before the mother peers from the burrow entrance. I waited twenty more minutes. The owlets never did come back out. This is the difference between a conscientious, measured approach and an overzealous attempt to “get the shot.” It only takes a few minutes of patience, quiet stillness, and thoughtful action to be accepted. Instead, they remained outsiders to this burrowing owl family’s fascinating life.

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

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The post Burrowing Owls at Antelope Island appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

She and her two 15-month-old kittens are taking turns feeding on a guanaco kill. When one cat moves off to groom and nap, another moves in.

Petaka is another of Rupestre’s offspring from the same litter as Dania. Female kittens often stay around, sharing overlapping territories with their mother and sisters. Males disperse widely, leaving their relatives behind. This is how nature ensures genetic diversity.

The 15-month-old male was feeding when Petaka returned to eat. They fed together until there was some unseen infraction.

Petaka hissed. The kitten paused. Feeding soon resumed.

Moments later, Petaka cuffed him on the head with her paw. He shrank down low and did not move a muscle for several minutes in deference.

From over the hill out of sight, the sounds of arguing guanacos fill the air. It catches the kitten’s attention. They perk up, heads raised, alert, ears forward. They pause a moment as if to process what’s happening and then slink silently to the top of the hill and disappear from sight.

When Petaka leaves the kill this time, she does not cover it. They are done. She moves off to the right along the ridge, calling, calling, calling for her kids to follow. 

She can see the kittens who are out of my sight, off to the left, and down the ravine. Yet, they don’t respond.

After thirty minutes of persistent calling, she turns back to retrieve them. By the time I get to the edge where I can see them, the greetings – rubbing, head-bunting, purring – are over. I knelt down to watch.

Suddenly, Petaka, trailed by her two grown kittens, began coming right toward me. As she casually closed the distance. I lowered my camera to be fully in this moment. She never held eye contact, but she kept coming, making me wonder if she would brush past me or how this would play out.

At the last moment, she stepped off the trail and walked through our group, with her kittens in tow. All three of them indifferent to our small crowd.

It is the most intimate experience to be accepted and, simultaneously, ignored by wildlife. In their eyes, I’m not good or bad, not something to be sought out or avoided, just another part of their world. As it should be. Human beings are not separate from nature. We are nature.

The family moved to a seasonal stream for a drink, grooming, and a nap. It’s a distinct, lush, green oasis amid the brown landscape of fall.

The caracaras are chattering as they feed at the abandoned carcass. Even though she’s done with it, Petaka cannot help herself and goes back to shoo them off.

She pauses for the iconic “puma in front of the towers” photo. Of course, she does; she’s a superstar.

Then Petaka turns 90° and once again comes right at me. This time, she’s staring me in the eye as she pads toward me. “Nobody move”, the guide softly instructs. She gets to make all the decisions here. The last thing we want to do is startle her or become unpredictable in her mind.

Her posture is relaxed, her eyes soft, her movement fluid. So, despite her eye contact, it’s not unnerving like when a bear looks me in the eye, but it’s decidedly different than the previous encounter.

Again, she steps around us, uttering the softest of churs after she passes by. Oh! My! God!

Our guide, Diego,  jokingly asks to check my pockets for meat. I said, “My friend Jane Goodall told me they sense my spirit.”

“Ah, you come by it honestly, then,” Diego replied. “She smells your heart.” He gestured, inhaling deeply as he drew his hand from his chest towards his nose and outward.

I love that! She smells my heart.

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

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The post The Puma Petaka appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.