Three days ago, I drove 70 dusty miles on winding, gravel, desert roads looking for these horses. I saw pronghorn. So many pronghorn. Using my car as a blind, I could observe and photograph them. Pronghorn’s defense is their speed. They run from danger. I’ve never encountered pronghorns that were okay with a stopped car so close. Not even in Yellowstone. What a treat!

Further along, I stopped to watch a coyote hunting rodents in the sagebrush. It’s one of my favorite sights; they stand stock-still except for their ears pivoting like a radar dish, twitching left and right, and then they cock their heads to pinpoint the source of the scurrying sounds. Then, like a lightning bolt, they arc high into the air, coming straight down on their prey. It’s a bona fide aerial ambush from a terrestrial hunter. This hunt was a success. I can’t tell what kind of mammal he has. It’s huge for a rodent here.

I drove on past the campground and the springs. I saw a herd of horses far from the road—a mirage of horses.

Cool, but too far off to watch their interactions or photograph them. I drove on, stopping at a Pony Express landmark and glassing the desert to no avail before heading home through the pronghorn gauntlet at dusk.

I really thought I could drive the main road, and the Onaqui wild horses would just be here. People who regularly visit say they see them every time they come out. I should know better about wildlife.

“I have yet to travel the 7 mile stretch from Simpson Springs to the Old River Bed without seeing numerous members of this herd — sometimes at binocular distance, and other times immediately beside the road. While most free-roaming horses are understandably shy and wary of encroachers, many members of this herd seem highly habituated to the presence of humans and their noisy machines. That said, you should never attempt to interact with these animals in any fashion. Even seemingly tame free-roaming horses are easily spooked, and can cause serious injury or death without warning or direct provocation. Additionally, your efforts to feed or pet these animals may condition them to allow others to approach whose intentions might not be as benevolent…”  – Robert Hammer, Wild Horse tourist.

Today, I am better prepared. I did some internet research. I found a side loop coursing around Davis Mountain that looks rewarding. First, I’ll check out the Pony Express route, where I saw the distant horses last weekend, keeping the Davis mountain track as my backup plan.

I hurried over the dusty, gravel lane stopping at the dry Simpson Springs watering hole to photograph a golden eagle and watch another coyote trotting through the sagebrush. Despite all of the pronghorn I saw a few days ago; I have not seen a single one today.

As I travel on, I pass horse dung piles on the road. Like they’re taunting me. The next spot to commonly find horses is utterly devoid of life. I drive up the hill and glass the rest of the road before turning back toward Davis Mountain. Maybe in the distance, that brown shape is a horse, not a bush. I quickly pull my binoculars to my face and see the large herd not far from where they were a few days ago, except they’re relatively close to the road! I hurry down to where they are, slowing as I get close so as not to spook them.

The first horses I encountered were three bachelors apart from the herd. I approached slowly and stopped, then waited for any sign of concern. They are completely ignoring me, which is the best-case scenario. I rolled down the car window. Still, no reaction as they slowly grazed along. I was smitten with this gorgeous roan known as Loki (OQ13brS).

The larger herd is still far away, slowly moving toward me. There are about 30 mustangs here, primarily stallions, an occasional mare, and one foal. The group is comprised of smaller bands that stay together.

Two stallions postured, pranced, approached each other, and then moved away, only occasionally coming to blows in a choreographed, ritualized display of their strength and prowess.

The other horses calmly shifted out of their way, never lifting their heads from the forage. It doesn’t involve them, and they know it. A third stallion poked the fire here and there but didn’t seem vested in the drama.

All the while, the whole group is grazing closer and closer to me. I’m still safely in my car. It’s still 100 degrees. These two buddies walked behind my car to join the three bachelors that I’d initially stopped to observe.

I’m fascinated by the stallions’ behavior (one moment sparring, the next moment grazing side by side) and surprised at the scarcity of females in the group. I’d expected to find this herd comprised of bands with a lead stallion or two and their group of mares.

I’m curious to learn more about wild horse behavior and get to know some individuals in the north Onaqui herd. Stay tuned.

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

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The post The Famed Onaqui Wild Horses appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

We arrived in June 2009 to a sterile, weedy landscape. Morning glory vines had overrun all of the landscape beds, their long tendril roots anchored firmly through the landscape fabric that smothered the soil. Transforming this property into an oasis of nature in suburban Chicago has been a labor of love so generously rewarded that I don’t even know where to start. Nature just needs a little space, a little relief from human pressure and control, and She will take care of the rest.

We pulled out the morning glory, the Japanese barberry, the privet, buckthorn, garlic mustard, and more. Over the years, I’ve planted natives in their place; Indian grass, little bluestem, prairie dropseed, spicebush, black chokecherry, birches, and oaks.  In the traditional landscape beds, beebalm, prairie smoke, blazing star, coneflowers, woodland sunflower, wild geraniums, and spiderwort bloom in the soil freed from the fabric.  Butterflies and caterpillars come in droves; monarchs, swallowtails, tussock moth caterpillars, dagger moth caterpillars, and swallowtail caterpillars. The songbirds raised brood after brood on this bounty (it takes 6,000-9,000 caterpillars to raise a nest of chickadees). Yet, somehow there were still enough for them to transform into moths and butterflies.

There are chickadees, wrens, house finches, sparrows (white-crowned, tree, white-throated, song, and more), catbirds, blue-grey gnatcatchers, cardinals, juncoes, orioles, goldfinches, nuthatches, downy woodpeckers, red-breasted woodpeckers, flickers, and more.  There are more than 50 species of birds on my backyard list.  Every year, someone new shows up.

I dug up part of the lawn in the front yard to plant ferns, Virginia bluebells, wild ginger,  side oats gamma (grass), butterfly weed, foxglove beardtongue, and New Jersey tea.  Our resident mallard pair nested here in its first year.  A song sparrow laid her beautiful spotted eggs in the low bush of the NJ tea.

Under the bird feeders at night, raccoons, skunks, opossums, and coyotes come out of the shadows the dine on the spilled seed. They were always respectful (even the raccoons!) and never caused trouble (my dogs might disagree).  Grey and fox squirrels planted peanuts in the most unusual places. I let a few plants grow and, in the fall, dug them up and put the new peanuts back in the feeder.

Deer wander through. A rare red fox was always exciting. Coyotes were regular visitors, befriending a couple of our dogs and figuring out the others (all bark, no bite).

We didn’t mow along the pond shoreline initially for erosion control. I started planting prairie grasses and forbs. Rob took to burning it in the spring.  Over the years, sedges and flowers took over and crowded out the turfgrass, morning glory, and canary reed grass.

Mallards and wood ducks came. A pair of geese have raised their family here every year for the last decade. 

Muskrats and beavers came.  American toads have populous spring mating gatherings despite the substantial population of large bullfrogs (they’ll eat just about anything they can get their mouths around).

We have a regular Great Blue Heron who, of all the wildlife here, raises the ire of my Vizsla, Bridger, like no other.  The Great Blue Heron ignores that crazy barking dog and just fishes the opposite shoreline. A pair of osprey have been nesting nearby, and for the last few years, our pond is a regular fishing spot for them.  They soar, hover, and then dive, piercing the water in a spectacle of stealth and power.

I could go on for pages telling the stories of all the ways this land has given back to me, all of the ways its saved me, inspired me, guided me and taught me.

I am writing  today from my front porch in the cool breeze a late March day, a blanket on my lap and my dog curled at my side. The spring sun is hot, warming the ground, spurring all that lies dormant through the winters. A cardinal song floats in from across the street. The bluebird pair is back, checking out their old nest box. A woodpecker calls from my right, always sounding urgent and alarmed.  The crocuses are ablaze in their bright purples and yellows, always the first to pierce the gray of the early spring landscape. The noise from gas-powered engines from distance lawn equipment intrudes into my peace. A house sparrow eyes me from the edge of a naked lilac bush chattering in a one-bird show just for the sake of her song. 

I get up and wander. I can’t help but pull the sprouting lawn grass from the landscaping and the creeping jenny that is so easy to control now, but if left unchecked, it will be a monoculture carpet by July. I do it for the land and for myself. To help whatever is in store next for this place.  A family of five is moving in. Will they be too busy raising little kids or, will they embrace this outdoor classroom. Will they feed the birds? Will they tolerate the coyotes, raccoons, skunks, opossums, and beavers long enough to see that they peacefully share the land. Whatever the future holds here, for a time, it was a thriving habitat, a respite for Nature in the middle of suburban Chicago.

There is something else out there calling me. A new place where I will thrive. A new relationship with the land and the wild to begin. But first, a stop in a rental house on a sliver of congested land. But I hear there’s a resident fox in the neighborhood. And so I leave this land that I love, but take it with me in my heart.

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The post Saying Goodbye appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

I often get distracted walking past my patio doors by the sights outside: songbirds eating, bluejays demanding their peanuts, ducks waddling in the lawn, a swimming muskrat, a foraging beaver, hunting herons, coyotes passing through, deer, geese, anything and everything.

My camera sits on the table right here, always ready. Today, I paused to watch the two Canada Goose families raising their goslings here. The kids are getting their downy grey feathers transforming from cute yellow fluff balls into ugly ducklings on their way to adulthood. They are nearing my garden. Over the last week, they’ve been venturing further from the safety of the pond as their goslings grow.

I started to photograph the families. The one gosling is about a week older and still subtly larger than the four from the other brood. Even though they hang out together, they never comingle. Suddenly, they flushed. The goslings ran as fast as their little legs would carry them, flapping their near-naked wings to speed them along. Their parents were running right behind. I thought that the dog next door must’ve come outside. A fence restrains her, but she takes delight in shooing the geese. The geese, not ones to take chances, always oblige.

The Pursuit

When I looked up, I saw a coyote coming full speed from the corner of the woods, closing the distance with every stride. The adults could’ve taken to the air and safely made it to the pond, but they wouldn’t leave their goslings running for their lives.   The last goose, an adult, tried to take flight as the coyote lunged into the air with her mouth open. Her jaws caught just enough of the goose to foil her escape. They continued dashing down the incline toward the pond and out of my sight. I could only hear all of the geese honking and squawking in panic.

The Catch

The coyote stopped at the edge of the pond, head down. I could only see her shoulders but could tell by her posture that she had caught one. I thought she’d seized the last gosling – the singleton, the lone survivor of his clutch. It seemed to me that an adult would put up a fight. This was over in an instant. The coyote intermittently looked up and around, feathers protruding from her mouth and sticking to her tongue. She looked like she was feasting right here.

I continued taking pictures, conflicted by the exhilaration of Wild Kingdom in my backyard, the gratitude that I had my camera in hand as this unfolded, and the sadness of empathy for these goose families that I’ve come to know.

The coyote sees me

I’d stepped just outside the door when I first saw the coyote but hadn’t moved any closer. In fact, I’d hardly moved a muscle. She had looked in my direction but didn’t see me until now. She gently gathered up her catch, and it was only then that I saw she’d killed one of the adults. She held a limp, lifeless Ethel in her teeth. The entire sequence lasted just two minutes. 

Canada Geese are surprisingly big birds. This will be a hearty meal. The huntress casually trotted off, turning back towards the scene one last time before disappearing into the woods. I like to think she has a den full of pups that are going to eat well today.

On the water, Fred is honking with his sole gosling by his side. The other family of six geese paddles silently nearby. He’s looking at the shore where he’d last seen Ethel as if waiting, hoping, for her to reappear. It’s heartbreaking to watch. Just a few moments later, Fred is silently preening. His gosling is doing the same. “Is this a displacement behavior?” I wonder. Then, all of the geese casually swim away.

Resilience

I saw them later that afternoon, resting in the adjoining yard. Three weeks have passed since then, and I haven’t seen any of them. It makes good sense. I wonder if Fred and a new mate will return to nest here next year. After all, Mama Duck keeps returning year after year to nest and lay eggs even though she’s never been successful. Having your eggs eaten must be equally traumatic.

That’s just how nature works sometimes. Next spring, I’ll be waiting to see who shows up.

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The post Backyard Drama: Coyote versus Geese appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

As we walked away, I paused to look back. The coyote was following us. When I stopped, he stopped. When I continued, he continued. He was closing distance when my back was turned and retreating when I faced him.

Further confounding this experience, my dogs were decidedly indifferent. These two, who have dedicated themselves to keeping our yard coyote-free, sprinting nose-to-ground tracking any interlopers, barking furiously, “Don’t even think of coming here!”, whenever the coyotes howl, yip or bark in the distance, could not have been more disinterested. Bridger acted as if the coyote wasn’t even there. “Why do we keep stopping to look behind?! Let’s get a move on!”

I monitored the last two pairs of bluebird boxes on my surveillance. All was well with the cozy tree swallow fledglings. The lone coyote was still following, but at a greater distance now. To warrant this much attention, he must be protecting a den in those woodlands. And pups! Oh, how I’d love to see those cuties. This coyote is politely escorting us away to safeguard his family.

Stepping out of the cool prairie grasses onto the sun-baked, limestone trail, I wondered how far was far enough for this coyote? The path is a symbolic step from the “wild” to the human-made, seemingly the edge of the coyote’s realm. Will the escort stop here and watch us leave, or go back to his family. A moment later, out loped our shadow.

A narrow footpath joins this main path to the road where I park my car. I slipped into the rough, waist-high grasses behind my dogs who led the way. I paused, somewhat hidden behind a shrub, and waited. Sure enough, the dutiful, quiet coyote came plodding up to the path. He caught one glimpse of me and scampered off. We got the full escort.

I love a harmonious wildlife encounter. However, I feel a bit irresponsible for disturbing this family and causing a coyote to expend precious resources needlessly. I also feel lucky to have had such an intimate wild adventure in the middle of the Chicago suburbs. When I come back here this summer, I will leave the dogs at home.

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The post Polite Suburban Coyote appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.