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.

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

I didn’t expect to find myself in the middle of spring bird migration in Anchorage in late April. But that is exactly what happened. I guess when summer only lasts three months before the snow flies again, you’d better be here when it starts.

I arrived on April 19th for a two-week stay to piles of gray snow on the roadsides and the last of winter dripping off rooftops. It’s a late melt, but the birds don’t wait. The last week of April and the first weeks of May hold the most promise for varieties of songbirds and waterfowl coming home to summer in Anchorage or passing through to their arctic breeding grounds.

Waterfowl

In my quest to find moose, I visited many rivers, ponds, lagoons, and wetlands. I saw bird species I’d never seen before and witnessed elaborate courtship rituals. Birds take the prize when it comes to wooing techniques. First, their brilliantly colored, bedazzled breeding plumage lies in stark contrast to their drab, camouflaged winter look. Who else but humans adorn themselves so elaborately for a potential partner? Then there are the displays. The dances, preening, showboating, puffed out chests, and waving tail feathers. Ungulates roll in stink and spar with other suitors. Canids and bruins fight other males for the privilege of begging a female to accept them. Birds have a dance contest and then build a home singularly to please their mate.

These five male goldeneyes wooed and courted this hen almost the whole time I was at Westchester Lagoon. She did her best to play it cool. 

Just before I left, the chosen one chased off one last interloper, and the new couple swam off into the sunset together. They look quite proud.

Grebes rear up out of the water, paddling upright in a choreographed duet. These red-necked grebes were no exception. Their dance was short-lived. One of them abruptly flew off. There’s must’ve been an unseen faux pas.

Lesser Canada geese congregate at the pond’s edge, looking for handouts. They aren’t “lesser” than our well-known Canada geese, just smaller. Noticeably so – a petite version of our ubiquitous honkers.

A couple of ring-necks quietly paired off. 

A lone bufflehead takes a break from the social scene for a bite to eat.

Songbirds

Songbirds are here, too. Magpies are nest-building in every park – and in every parking lot where pine trees grow. This colorful corvid, related to ravens and crows, is highly intelligent and a delight to watch. Although living among us, they can often be too smart for their own good.

Warblers flit quickly through the treetops chasing insects and each other. Their manic movements through the branches and leaves make them tough to photograph (especially if you’re distracted by rusting dilapidated old cars).

Arctic terns, at the southern edge of their circumpolar summer range, shoot past where I stand at the edge of Potter’s Marsh. They successfully scoop tiny fish from the water’s surface without a hitch in their flight. They dip their lower bill into the water so subtly that I had been watching them for a bit before I realized they were snagging fish at almost every pass. Arctic terns have the distinction of having the longest migration of any animal on earth. Every year they fly from the Arctic Circle to the Antarctic Circle—a round-trip journey of about 30,000 kilometers (18,641 miles). I’ve never seen one before. I feel in the presence of greatness.

Along the Palmer-Moose creek trail chickadees are excavating nesting cavities just feet off this heavily trafficked path.  They aren’t disturbed by me, cyclists, joggers, or dogs.  They have work to do.  Popping out and flying off with a beak full of shavings to drop away from the nest and then back for another go.  The pairs take turns, each sharing in the work.

There’s always something new to be found in an adventure into the wilderness. Even when that wilderness is within the Anchorage city limits. Nature provides endless fascination. Don’t forget to stop and look.

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The post Spring Bird Migration in Anchorage appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

As the first rays of dawn appear, I begin to see faint gray forms in front of me. The morning chorus of the sandhill cranes had already started when I arrived.  Just a few voices here and there. I knew they were close by. Each moment that passes sheds a little more light on the scene unfolding in front of me.

I’m in a Rowe Audubon Sanctuary blind along the Platte River in Nebraska. It’s March 2009 and I’ve come to see America’s greatest migration. Each spring between the end of February and the beginning of April, a half a million Sandhills cranes, 80% of the world’s population, congregate along this 80 mile stretch of river on their way north.

There are several blinds operated by different organizations that allow people to witness this spectacle up close at sunrise or sunset. The birds roost overnight on sandbars in the shallow, braided river to safeguard from predators while they sleep.

An Early Start

I pulled myself from bed at 4:30 am and met my guide in a dark parking lot.  I followed in my car through a maze of country roads before parking on the shoulder of a narrow gravel road. We walked through the lumpy, barren crop field in the darkness of a rural night. Our final steps are guided by a few faint solar lights behind the blind. It’s a biting 20 degrees, and the shelter is a nice break from the wind. The blind is a rustic plywood shack with a cold bench and several two-foot square viewing doors that face the river. Once we’re settled and quiet, we unlatch these little doors and fold them down to view the river.  Or the dark of night.

I strain my eyes wide trying to adjust to the dark and make sense of the shapes in front of me. Sandhill cranes are gregarious, social birds. Their morning greeting rituals are boisterous, loud and enthusiastic. The cacophony grows. Now I can see there are thousands of cranes standing in the river before me. Most are still asleep with their long necks contorted and twisted allowing them to tuck their head fully underneath a wing. The river is crusted over with a thin layer of ice. When the cranes begin to move about I notice rings of ice stuck to their legs where they froze into the river.

As the sun meets the horizon casting its warm, pink glow, the chorus builds. The cranes stretch their wings and jump around, leaping into the air.  Their rattling bugles continue.

This morning they will take to the air first a few at a time, then in flocks of 15-40 related birds until just a few, who are in no hurry to leave, remain.

Some mornings, an eagle will fly over or a coyote will approach and they will all lift off at once darkening the sky and deafening ears with the flapping of two thousand wings.

After a couple of hours, we left the blind, ate breakfast, and had a nap.  The rest of the day we drove the country roads of Kearney. Waves of cranes pass over all day long. The sunny day also has them kettling waiting for just the right warm wind to push them northward. Cranes are “opportunistic fliers” who rely on tailwinds and thermals to bolster their flight.  They travel up to 400miles in a day in their migration. The Platte River Valley has been their stopover for hundreds of thousands of years – or more – as they migrate from their winter homes in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and Mexico to their summer nesting grounds in the arctic. The Sandhill cranes arrive in Nebraska thin and will gain 20% of their body weight feasting on waste grain, frogs, insects, snails and snakes in the fields before they continue their journey north.

Family Bonds

The cranes spend their days in the fields of the fertile river valley feeding in extended family groups. They mate for life and family ties are strong.

They dance to deepen their bonds, when they are agitated (nervous energy), but not bothered enough to leave, to dissipate aggression, and to assess rivals. There is a sentry in every field keeping watch while the flock feeds. They are skittish and intolerant of people. Reasonably so, as they are still hunted throughout most of their range.

Evening Blind

As evening approaches, we head to a Nature Conservancy blind to watch as wave after wave of cranes returns to their sandbars to roost.  They will return to the same spot night after night, year after year. It’s their family spot where their offspring will return with them next year.

I love the way they parachute in. With their legs dangling down, they swing left and then careen right in a sort of crash-landing approach before gentling touching down.

It quickly becomes too dark for pictures. In 2009, I was using a Nikon D50, my first digital SLR camera, and a cheap telephoto lens. The combination had little capacity for low light…or focusing on fast-flying birds for that matter.

An Unexpected Treat

We had heard at the Crane Trust visitors Center that a whooping crane had been hanging around with the Sandhills over the last week. Both exciting (to hear of such a rare bird sighting) and sad at the same time. At that time there were only about 250 Whooping Cranes alive, a slow recovery from just sixteen wild birds in 1941. Thanks to habitat restoration and crane recovery efforts, the count now stands at more than 500. The Whooping Crane here was separated from his flock and would likely follow the Sandhills north.  In such a small recovering population, each individual is important to the recovery and this one would likely never rejoin and contribute to the wild whooping crane population. In the darkening sky above the blind, a swoop of Sandhills and one big white bird flew over. The whooping crane!

Update

Since my trip in 2009, Sandhills continue to migrate through Nebraska in steady numbers. What’s left in North America that is anything like this? It’s reminiscent of the sky-darkening, extinct passenger pigeon flocks and is only rivaled in numbers by the great migrations in Africa. They are an ancient bird, among the oldest living birds, surviving in their current form for ten million years. It is a sight to see. If you can brave Nebraska in March (a blizzard closed I-80 the week after I was there), its an experience of a lifetime.

Locally

Thanks to recovery efforts, the eastern sandhill crane population is flourishing. It has more than doubled over the last decade and is currently around 100,000 strong. A local naturalist opined that they would be as common as Canada geese here before long. This population of eastern sandhill cranes winters in Florida and migrates to and through the Midwest. Jasper-Pulaski State Park in Indiana is a popular stopover for them on their annual trip south. Around Thanksgiving, you’ll find ten to twenty thousand birds roosting in the fields there. Maybe one day, we’ll have half a million cranes come through here, too.

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The post America’s Greatest Migration appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.