Chinook salmon travel 1900 miles along the length of the Yukon River twice in their lifetimes, from their spawning grounds near Whitehorse, Yukon, to the Bering Sea and back again.

The first wave of Chinook salmon arrived at the Yukon River delta on June 12th this year, with half of the run expected to have passed into the river by June 20th. Ice, water temperature and wind affect the timing of the migration. The first Chinook passed through the Whitehorse fish ladder on August 5th, 2026.

The Whitehorse hydroelectric dam is the only human obstruction along the entire course of the Yukon River. It lies 100 km downstream from prime Chinook spawning habitat. The world’s longest wooden (!) fish ladder was built at the same time, rising fifty feet over its 1/4 mile length. Fish viewing windows (see the live stream here) allowed staff to count and sex fish as they pass through the ladder. In 2023, cameras were installed that now do this job 24/7.

The eggs (roe) that these fish lay will hatch in icy waters three to five months from now. The young fry will spend the next year in the freshwater of the Yukon River growing and gaining strength for their journey to sea. Once they enter the brackish, braided river mouth, they linger again, growing and adapting to the saltwater. They are called smolts now.

Adaptable & Resilient

After entering the Pacific Ocean, they travel north to the Bering Sea, even as far as the Chukchi Sea in Russia, feeding on the ocean’s bounty. They’ve been found swimming one thousand feet below the surface! It seems an odd adaptation to start and end life in a river, far from your adult home, if you’re going to be a predator big enough to need the expanse of the ocean’s buffet to sustain you. But they’ve been doing it for four to six million years!

After five to seven years in the ocean, the salmon return to the Yukon River. Nobody knows what prompts them to leave the ocean or how they find their way from thousands of miles out at sea back to the river mouth. Once they’re in the river and get “close” to their natal streams, their sense of smell guides their final journey. Each river tributary has a unique blend of minerals and organic materials that creates a distinct scent. That is what guides the salmon. (A bone in their ear, called an otolith, also holds this same unique chemical composition. If a researcher has the otolith, they can tell where that fish was born!).

Chinook salmon begin sorting themselves two hundred miles before the first major branch in the Yukon River. The fish that will go up the tributary start swimming on the left side of the river, while the ones that will continue on start swimming on the right. A small percentage of salmon stray. Usually, it’s the males. (Seriously!) Some find their way back to their route, and others spawn someplace new. This probably helps to maintain genetic diversity within the species.

Salmon Feed Forests

The salmon swim an average of thirty miles/day into the current and over rapids to their spawning grounds in a journey that takes two to three months in the river. It’s tiring just to think about it. The whole while, their bodies are deteriorating. They lose their steel color, turning bright red to deep purple. They don’t eat. Their muscles start breaking down when they leave the saltwater. The process speeds up once they reach their natal streams, and they die shortly after spawning. They pay the ultimate price to complete their journey.

In completing their life cycle, not only do they give life to the next generation, these salmon also deliver the nutrients of the sea to inland forests. In areas where soil health is poor, tree growth can depend almost entirely on nitrogen supplied by migrating salmon. Overall, 70% of nitrogen along inland streams comes from the ocean, transported in this incredible journey. That’s the answer to why an adult predator who needs the expanse of the ocean’s buffet is born and dies in a river far from their adult home. It’s all connected. We’re all connected.

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.

Subscribe here to receive an email whenever a new blog posts.

The post The Longest Salmon Migration in the World appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

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.

Life ran away with me early this summer. As life sometimes does. I was in this sluggish, muddy, gray mindset where tears came easily, triggered by memories big and small, as I drove down a country road at dusk on my way to a place that holds more love and loss for me than any other settled placewhen a black bear bounded across the road in front of me! I’ve been coming to this cabin on a small, quiet Wisconsin lake for most of my life. This is only the fourth time I’ve glimpsed a bear up here. It’s a sign.

The next morning, I woke at dawn to mist rolling over the mirror-calm water, swirling gently in the early rays of the sun. A wide, vivid rainbow arched across the sky on the far shore. I held the splendor of this greeting as I lay a while in bed. Another sign.

Hours later over coffee, the resident pair of loons cruised by with a pair of downy chicks in tow. Loonlings are a rare sight here for me.When heartache pulls me down, Nature is always there to say, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” Here’s a bear. A rainbow. Downy chicks. It’ll be okay.And so I spent the next week with nothing to do but watch these chicks grow, their parents feeding them, teaching them how to fish, and carrying them when they’re tired or need warmth.Both of the parents feed the loonlings, a seemingly endless task. Over the course of a week, the chicks grow noticeably; their fluffy chocolate down is replaced by shiny black feathers. There is no longer room for both chicks on one parent’s back – one of them drafts behind.Their parents repeatedly present perfectly sized, hobbled fish for the chicks to grab from the water. Invariably, the youngsters miss on the first stab. Fishing takes practice. The parent then snorkels to find the escapee and deftly presents it again. Over and over it goes.

The parents aren’t so discriminating about the sizes of prey they catch for themselves. Oftentimes, they swallow a fish whole as they surface, so I can hardly discern what they’ve caught. Sometimes, though, a bigger meal takes some finesse to get down.

Loons live twenty to thirty years, returning from winters along the Gulf of Mexico to the same lake each summer. So, like me, these loons have been coming here for decades. They know about their fans who watch quietly from shore. They know the predictable, benign patterns of anglers in their small trolling boats. They know about dogs on docks.They’re not bothered by any of it. They’ll swim right under the dock with me on it and eye me before taking their next dive – which can last up to eight minutes!But if I go out in the boat alone, just me and my camera, they keep their distance. In order to watch them for any amount of time, or to have close encounters (on their terms), I need a more effective blind. With my husband fishing by my side, the loons come right by – foraging, preening, intercepting interlopers. It’s a beautiful glimpse into the life of a loon family. I’m grateful that they accept me into their world this way.

At the beginning of the week, the chicks’ wings were little downy nubbins. Now they are beginning to resemble their adult form. It’s amazing how fast they grow, but not surprising since they hatch in mid-June and will be gone south by the time the calendar turns to September.Nature will heal you. Go outside. Find your peace.

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.

Subscribe here to receive an email whenever a new blog posts.

The post Wisconsin Loon Therapy 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.

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.

Subscribe here to receive an email whenever a new blog posts.

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

There is so much phenotypic (trait and characteristic) diversity within this one species that, at first, I thought I was seeing different species of banana slugs. It turns out that the Pacific banana slug is the only banana slug species in Washington. So, that helps with identification. As dogs differ in phenotype, Pacific banana slugs differ in color, texture, pattern and size. I later learned that their coloring relates to diet, light exposure, moisture levels, and sometimes, age.

On some trails, they’re everywhere, requiring careful attention to avoid stepping on them. Fortunately, because I want to photograph each unique individual, I’m not really moving too fast. It’s not a hike anymore; it’s more of a meander.

“Small, soft and vulnerable does not mean undervalued.”

– Chad Kirkpatrick, Hoyt Arboretum

I expected them to be slower-moving, what with all of the snail sayings (“a snail’s pace”, “slow as a snail,” “snail mail”). But when I see a banana slug through the window on a path, by the time I grab my camera and slip into my shoes, they’re off the path and almost disappeared under a plant!

I love the way their dorsal line becomes an artistic squiggle when they contract into their “I’m too big to eat” mode.

Fun Facts

• The Pacific Banana slug is the second-largest terrestrial slug in the world, growing up to nine and a half inches long!

• They live up to seven years – a surprisingly long time.

• They move at a pace of six and a half inches per minute. 

• They have four antennae: The top two are like eyes, sensing light and movement—the bottom two function as touch and smell sensors.

• The slime that covers and protects them is neither liquid nor solid, but rather a liquid crystal substance that can absorb one hundred times its volume in water!

  

The next time you’re out in the Pacific Northwest among the cedars, look closely at the edges of the trails and prepare to be impressed!

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.

Subscribe here to receive an email whenever a new blog posts.

The post Pacific Banana Slugs: The King of Snails 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.

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.

Subscribe here to receive an email whenever a new blog posts.

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.

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.

Subscribe here to receive an email whenever a new blog posts.

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

I’d consulted the tide chart to plan this trip, so it’s no coincidence that the lowest negative tides of the season are this week. I’d been craving the dark, sharp rocks decorated with the textures and colors of seastars, anemones, crustaceans and all manner of undersea life.

I got hooked on this glimpse of ocean life while tidepooling on the Olympic Peninsula two years ago. Endless fascination. I could’ve spent all day on those beaches. It was past time to go back. San Juan Island had been lingering on my ever-expanding travel list for longer than I’d like to admit. It has charismatic sea animals (big and small), rugged seascapes, tidepooling beaches, coveted spring wildflowers and controversial wild foxes.

Low Tide

I set down my pack, swapped my hiking shoes for water shoes and waded into the cool Pacific waters. This cove is a kelp forest. Prime sea habitat. However, when the water leaves, the rocks are covered in undulating ribbons of vegetation that hide and protect the treasures I’d come to discover.

However, the kelp and seaweed bring their own art to the low tide beaches.

Intricate Details

Two steps into the calm, shallow water, an aptly named decorator crab scuttles toward the cover of floating seaweed. If it hadn’t moved, I never would’ve noticed it.

Like caterpillars and caddisfly larvae, these animals camouflage themselves (i.e., decorate) with surrounding detritus.

Instead of an exploration of the larger, dramatic, colorful invertebrates, this is a glimpse into the tiny world of snails, shrimp and crabs. I was thrilled to find a nudibranch tucked in on exposed rock! Nudibranchs are exotic, brilliantly colored sea slugs (marine gastropod mollusks lacking external shells).

Colony-forming anemones cover the wet sand. Between the anemones, barnacles, chitons and slippery mosses, it’s slow going as I carefully pick my way along the sharp, rugged shoreline, trying not to squish anyone. I covered some stranded red rock crabs to protect them from the sun and the lurking gulls and crows, who know the tide schedule better than anyone.

There were plenty of crabs under the water, too. They’re small and would be hard to find if they weren’t always on the move. 

And other scurrying little critters. I thought this was a school of minnows before I looked closer. So many shrimp! 

Chitons are ancient, armor-plated mollusks. They adhere themselves so tightly to the rocks when the tide goes out that they cannot be removed with bare hands. I’d never seen the underside of one before. This one was alive, so I righted him and set him on a rock.

Reefs Exposed

There were anemones. So many small anemones. I photographed many underwater between swells and waves of obscuring kelp, in rhythmic time when the colorful animals were revealed.

And then there’s the coral reef life exposed. All the things that I enjoy while snorkeling, some, like sponges and tunicates, look the same, others, like the featherduster worms, required some help to identify.

A Surprise Encounter

As the tide began to draw the curtain on these treasures, I stood marveling at how quickly the sea returns (the ebbing tide is comparatively slow), when I caught motion from the corner of my eye. My first split-second reaction was, “Fox!” (There are so many here, and the size is right), but then my brain caught up to what I was seeing. A river otter loping over the rocks just yards in front of me.

Without a sound, he slipped into the water. Once he was out of sight, I stepped back just far enough to see around the massive boulder between us. Without acknowledging me, he swam directly to the shore fifty feet to my right, bounded across the beach and disappeared into a dark, treed ravine strewn with deadfall.

I’m delighted by this random glimpse of an otter living his life. Grinning ear to ear, I walked along the shoreline until I came to otter prints exiting the surf. The prints are closer to me than I’d thought, but it all happened so fast. I didn’t question it.

I followed the trail up the beach, crossing the deer tracks that I’d noticed earlier, curving near my pack and shoes (thankfully untouched by this curious, playful creature!).

That’s when I saw the other otter tracks! This is the trail from the otter I’d seen, exiting the water further away from where I was, as I’d suspected. Both tracks disappeared into the same drainage. This must be their home.

While marveling at the otter tracks and piecing together what had happened while I was absorbed in the tiny sealife at my feet, I saw that this first set of otter tracks crossed a trail of fox prints! The fox traversed the beach parallel to the water without deviation in pace or path.

I am ecstatic that all of this wildlife activity took place in proximity to me and without regard to me – even if I didn’t know it at the time. Being seen by wildlife as a normal, acceptable part of their environment is one of life’s greatest pleasures.

False Bay

The next day, I tidepooled at False Bay, where I saw another river otter swim past me, lope up a beach and disappear into a similar drainage. The timing relative to the tide was the same as the day before.

So the following day, using the tide as my guide, I brought a cooler down to Granny’s Cove to tailgate and wait for an otter to appear. It was a peaceful, gorgeous way to spend a couple of hours. But no otter. 

Above the Water

Stay tuned for the foxes and orcas of San Juan Island.

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.

Subscribe here to receive an email whenever a new blog posts.

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

Local lore says that morels grow exceptionally well the first year after a fire. Burn scar morels grow in relationship with conifers lying dormant in the soil for decades, just waiting for this opportunity. The fire removes competition and feeds the soil, creating a nutrient-rich environment for the morel mycelium to fruit. With last summer’s fire so close, it’s easy for me to check it out.

As I enter the burn scar, there are no mushrooms on the first south-facing slope: no morels, no little brown mushrooms, nothing. I’m not surprised. Three-quarters of the way along the next slope, I see one. The tiniest little morel I’ve ever seen. Just the size of my thumbnail. I note the location and move on, excited that I was able to find one so small.
A few paces further, a pair is pushing next to a boulder. I will come back to this spot after a day or two of warm spring sunshine. The soil has to warm to about 50° for morels to start fruiting. That usually requires a combination of days in the 60s and nights in the 40s. It’s not been that warm at night yet.

Around the side of this same hill, the ground is covered with stalked bonfire mushrooms. Where they grow in the char, morels are likely to be. And there they are – tiny ones, but the more I look, the more I find.

My husband says, “They’re so small, how do you even find them?!?” Enthusiastically, I replied “I’ve been training my whole life for this!”

So now I know they really are there, and they prefer the pine needle-covered charred earth. I go back two warm days later. There are more, but still too small. Another two days and another doubling of the wrinkly coneheads pushing up.

And then, it rains.

This is just the thing to make them explode! I go back and fill my basket. Mushrooms have never tasted so good!

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.

Subscribe here to receive an email whenever a new blog posts.

The post Patience is a Basket of Morels 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!

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.

Subscribe here to receive an email whenever a new blog posts.

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