Would you raise your hand for a swamp adventure in North Carolina?

 At first glance, maybe not. But let me show you why this is no ordinary swamp. Within a day’s drive of Washington, DC, lies a hidden realm teeming with life—home to the densest population of black bears in the United States and one of the rarest predators on Earth: the critically endangered red wolf. This wild paradise, nestled just west of the Outer Banks, is the Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge—a place where nature’s most elusive stories unfold.

Picture this: a maze of winding waterways, towering loblolly pines, and ancient pocosins—wetlands so distinct they defy expectation, their soils perpetually drenched despite their elevation. It’s a sanctuary like no other, brimming with life. Bobcats slink through the underbrush, alligators glide silently through blackwater canals, and barred owls call through the trees.

Venture just a mile off the highway, and you might spot a massive black bear lumbering across a cornfield. Some of these bruins can weigh up to 800 pounds, their sheer size matched only by their remarkable agility. Blink, and they vanish into the dense forest. But glance upward, and you may catch one reclining 40 feet high in the treetops—nursing cubs, napping, or simply escaping the summer heat.

And then there are the red wolves. Fewer than 30 of these graceful, ghostly predators remain in the wild, all of them here, in this refuge. Red wolves are elusive and wary, often seen in the open fields after harvest. Conservationists are racing against time to save these wolves, forging wildlife corridors to combat habitat loss and road mortality. Every success is hard-won, but each step forward is a tribute to the red wolf’s resilience and the humans who refuse to let them fade into memory.

While the bears and wolves steal the spotlight, they are only part of Alligator River’s spellbinding cast. Families wander off the beaten path, swapping beach vacations for sightings of prowling bobcats, sunbathing turtles, and the unmistakable sound of owls echoing through the forest. For photographers, the refuge is a dreamscape—a place where patience might reward you with the shot of a lifetime: a bear silhouetted at sunrise or the rare glimpse of a red wolf on the move.

Alligator River is more than a swamp. It’s a living, breathing mosaic of nature’s resilience and wonder—a place where wilderness and human ingenuity intertwine. It’s an adventure waiting to happen, an experience that will linger long after you leave.

So, who’s ready for a road trip?

Image copyright, Robin V. Robinson

The photo above is from my dear friend, Robin Robinson robinrobinson.com, who encouraged me to follow my wildlife photography dreams and taught me so much about art and conservation photography.  I am the diver on the left!

Someone always has to crack, “I love the smell of neoprene in the morning,” but this time, no one groaned. We were too charged with anticipation, the kind that makes your chest hum. Lugging our heavy air tanks and dive gear to the dock felt like a small price to pay for what lay ahead. The small blue-and-white boat bobbed cheerfully in the water, and our captain, grinning ear to ear, guided us out to the open ocean.  

The sun climbed higher as the boat bounced over the reef, each jolt making us grip the rails tighter. We fell into a quiet rhythm, watching the coastline disappear, replaced by the vast expanse of glittering water. The captain finally eased the throttle an hour out, and an eerie hush settled over us. The boat swayed on the waves, its creaks the only sound as we huddled around the fish finder. We scanned the monitor, willing it to show what we had come for.  

It took time—several repositionings of the boat—before faint light forms flickered on the screen. A surge of energy passed through the group. We pulled our wetsuits over our shoulders with fumbling hands, excitement bubbling over as tanks hissed and buckles clicked. The signal came. One by one, we fell backward into the ocean’s embrace, the chaos of the surface replaced by the hushed, dreamlike world below.  

Descending to 60 feet, we followed our guide into the blue. Then, like a curtain parting, they appeared—a shimmering, orderly column of silver Cubera Snapper. Hundreds of them moved as one, glinting in the filtered sunlight, their calm choreography mesmerizing. We hovered nearby, the anticipation nearly unbearable.  

And then it happened. One snapper turned black, its body angling upright, and chaos erupted. The school dissolved into a furious maelstrom of snapping jaws and flashing tails. A milky white cloud billowed through the water, spreading rapidly toward us. We instinctively paddled backward, staying clear of the spawning frenzy that had transformed the serene column into an unruly storm.  

That’s when they arrived. 

Emerging from the haze like ghosts, the first whale shark appeared, then another, and another—giants gliding with almost supernatural grace. Their immense bodies dwarfed us, their cavernous mouths open wide to draw in the nutrient-rich spawn swirling in the water. We exchanged wide-eyed glances, signaling to each other in disbelief. Twenty-five. At least twenty-five whale sharks, each the size of a school bus, weaving through the chaos with effortless majesty.  

We rose with the column, our awe swelling as we broke the surface, surrounded by spotted fins and tails, the ocean alive with their presence. They were so close, their curiosity palpable, yet we stayed respectful, moving aside as their immense mouths swept through the water.  

Then came the call.  

Tiger sharks. Bull sharks. The predators had arrived, their sleek forms gliding into the feast. The shift in mood was immediate—a sharp reminder of the ocean’s dual nature, both wonder and danger. We obeyed the captain’s urgent signal, climbing the ladder with shaking hands, reluctant to leave but knowing better than to linger.  

On the boat, my heart ached, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what we’d witnessed. A tear slid down my cheek, mingling with the salt spray. In that moment, I felt the humbling weight of being a guest in this wild, untamed world, where the ocean’s giants gathered for a timeless ritual. I knew I’d carry the memory of their presence—their power, their grace—for the rest of my life.  

There's something almost magical about apex predators—a mix of awe and fear that makes them utterly captivating. They command our attention, dominate our imaginations, and hold a unique place in our hearts. I recently found myself smitten with one such predator, the king of the Arctic, and the undisputed top of the food chain: the polar bear.

The polar bear is the emblem of the Arctic, a creature steeped in myth, celebrated by ancient cultures, and even immortalized in pop culture. Today, it has also become a stark symbol of climate change. Heading to the Arctic Circle, I braced myself for heartbreak, expecting to witness a stark landscape of loss. Instead, I came away profoundly inspired—awed by the tenacity of an animal that embodies resilience and strength.

I've always known polar bears were intelligent, but seeing one in its natural habitat was a revelation. For a moment, I wondered if it was truly an animal or some impossibly clever human donning a bear suit, thriving in this brutal environment to astonish us.

Our ship drifted to a stop amidst the Arctic's vast, shifting ice floes, and we settled into a card game, understanding that encounters with wildlife demand patience. Then, without fanfare, the captain strolled in and dryly announced, "Your 10:30 polar bear has arrived."

In an instant, the room transformed. Never have I seen a group of people bundled in so many layers move so fast. But before we could storm onto the deck, our guide raised a hand. "No noise. No sudden movements. And be mindful with those heavy doors." Chastened, we crept to grab cameras and extra layers, ready for a moment none of us wanted to ruin.

And there he was—a young male bear, distant at first but unmistakably majestic. He spotted us almost immediately, lifting his head to sniff the air, each cautious step bringing him closer. The tension was electric. Every click of a camera shutter felt like part of a whispered conversation between us and this wild creature.

As the bear circled our ship, we followed him around the deck, our breaths caught somewhere in our throats. I lowered my camera for a moment, compelled to simply be in the presence of this stunning creature. That's when I noticed the ship's entire crew—seasoned Arctic explorers—had joined us, their faces alight with wonder. This wasn't just another day for them but a moment worthy of reverence.

Then, as if performing for an unseen audience, the bear moved to the ship's side, looking at each of us directly. His curiosity was palpable. We laughed softly when he became so focused on us that he completely missed the seal surfacing behind him, the lucky creature retreating with barely a splash.

Time blurred. I don't remember how long we stood there, frozen in the icy air, entranced by this animal's sheer power and beauty. I remember the weight of the camera in my hands, the hundreds of photos I snapped, and the feeling of my heart leaping with every frame.

Encountering that polar bear wasn't just a wildlife sighting—it was a meeting with the wild itself, a reminder of the beauty and resilience that endures in the harshest places on Earth. It's a memory I'll treasure forever, always bringing me back to that frozen deck surrounded by ice and wonder.

A soft voice hums through the dawn, “Good morning, I have your tea.” The zipper rasps softly as your tent opens, and a tray of steaming comfort slides into the shadows. You mumble your thanks, still heavy with sleep, but the realization comes quickly—it’s time to venture out into the wild.

You shrug into your jacket, camera equipment in hand, and step into the crisp air where your guide waits—a quiet sentinel of the dawn, his readiness palpable.

On the equator, sunrise arrives not as a gradual unveiling but as a sudden flourish. The horizon flares briefly with molten gold before the sun surges upward, claiming the sky with authority. Its light spills across the camp, chasing the last vestiges of night. 

The morning comes alive with layers of sound: the insistent cries of the ring-necked dove, the distant bark of baboons, and the occasional haunting cry of a fish eagle. 

“See there,” the guide whispers and your eyes follow his outstretched arm. A dim shape moves through the half-light—a spotted hyena, its golden eyes catching the faint glow of the rising sun. Its loping gait is almost hypnotic, the creature’s body at ease yet purposeful as it makes its way home after a night of hunting.

As the light strengthens, the world around you sharpens. An elephant calf totters behind its mother, its tiny trunk swinging wildly, not yet under control. Not far away, a lion pride stretches lazily; golden coats streaked with the telltale signs of their night’s feast.

The savanna ripples with motion. Impalas explode into synchronized leaps, arcs of muscle and grace bounding through the grass. Nearby, zebras graze cautiously, tails flicking like pendulums. The landscape hums with energy and purpose, every moment unpredictable.

Ahead, a cheetah stands silhouetted against the horizon, her slender frame taut with focus. You watch her scan the distance, her gaze unwavering. Hours could pass like this, the anticipation electric. A crackle of static from the guide’s radio interrupts the stillness, and your vehicle lurches into motion. A great sighting awaits just beyond.

When the animals retreat into the heat of the day, so do you. Breakfast at camp is a feast of buttery eggs, warm pastries, and sweet tropical fruits that seem to hold the sun in their ripened flesh. Afterward, the tent is warm, the bed welcoming, and the world slows as you drift into a deep, restful sleep.

When you meet your guide for afternoon tea, the sun hangs lower, the air softened by a gentle breeze. You’re more at ease, joking about the morning’s surprises as the vehicle winds into the bush again.

Suddenly, the guide stiffens, his binoculars raised. His voice is low, urgent—a murmur in Swahili you don’t understand. The engine growls to life, and you surge forward, the horizon rushing toward you. A boulder shifts, and then you see it: a white rhino, massive and ancient. He lifts his head, his horn stark against the fading light, and for a moment, you lock eyes. There is wisdom there, a weary recognition of your presence.

When the engine cuts, stillness descends, and the rhino lowers his head, calm once more.

The day ends around a glowing campfire, its flames flickering like bush spirits. Cocktails in hand, you trade stories with fellow travelers, laughter mingling with the distant roar of a lion. Under the vast dome of a starlit sky, the wonders of the day seem unmatched, each moment etched into memory.

But as the fire dies down, you know the call of the wild will come again. And when the soft voice sings the next morning, “Good morning, I have your tea,” it will bring with it the promise of an even greater adventure.

I want to be clear: I use AI in my photography. Photo processing platforms have developed incredible tools that enhance creative possibilities. These tools, such as precise selection for editing or removing distractions, can turn an average image into something extraordinary. While I rarely use the feature that removes objects, it occasionally bridges the gap between good and great shots.

In recent months, I’ve received AI-generated videos of children and animals doing remarkable but entirely fabricated things. Friends—some highly knowledgeable about AI—were awestruck and genuinely believed these scenes were real. Their surprise when I explained that these were computer-generated underscored how convincing and pervasive AI content has become.

This discussion isn’t new. Years ago, National Geographic photographer Steve McCurry faced backlash for digitally altering one of his images. Critics questioned his credibility as a photojournalist, accusing him of distorting reality. That controversy, however, seems almost quaint compared to the challenges AI presents today.

AI is here to stay, bringing both opportunities and challenges. Remember the collective unease we felt when deepfake videos emerged? Many of us questioned what we saw, from manipulated celebrity stunts to altered political footage. Today, AI has moved beyond mere entertainment; it’s shaping how we perceive the world.

My concern lies in its impact on wildlife and conservation. AI-generated images of animals in fabricated scenarios, while captivating, could overshadow critical conservation messaging. They risk distorting public perception: either exaggerating problems or minimizing them, which can harm conservation efforts. Worse still, such images might embolden risky behavior, with social media influencers attempting dangerous stunts inspired by fictional AI scenes.

Imagine someone cuddling a polar bear cub in an AI-crafted photo. It might look magical, but in reality, it’s deadly dangerous. If someone emulates such scenarios, the consequences could be disastrous for people and wildlife.

We need guardrails to harness the power of AI responsibly while protecting viewers from confusion. Some platforms are experimenting with labeling AI-generated content, but these methods remain inconsistent. While I can still identify AI in imagery today due to my hours spent scrutinizing real photos, that advantage won’t last as technology advances.

Our natural world is stunning and tells compelling stories that don’t require artificial embellishment. Yet, AI can amplify those stories if used ethically. Finding solutions to manage this technology’s impact is critical. We must develop systems to differentiate the artificial from the authentic while fostering public trust in imagery.

AI is a powerful tool, but with power comes responsibility. Let’s ensure we use it to celebrate and protect reality, not obscure it.

Unfortunately, wild animals are often labeled as pests. Majestic animals like elephants and lions are not welcome in villages that lose crops or livestock to their nighttime foraging. While some of us recognize these animals' essential role in ecosystems and work to protect them, many communities understandably struggle to see their value.

Our misunderstandings impact other animals severely. Take coyotes, a prime example of fear-driven, counterproductive reactions. When coyotes are killed, they respond with a "compensatory reproduction" effect, breeding even faster to offset the loss. Killing one coyote can lead to an equal or larger population within a year. As Stephanie Garcia Richard, New Mexico's Commissioner of Public Lands, explains: "Coyote killing contests as a measure of predator control actually do not work…for this species, wiping them out has the opposite effect, leading to population surges with devastating consequences.”

Consider wolves, another misunderstood species. Fear has led to their widespread hunting, creating a cascade of ecological disruptions. But when wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park, the positive ripple effect was remarkable:

• Balanced elk populations
• Healthier waterways
• Fewer cases of chronic wasting disease
• Even fewer elk-vehicle collisions

This is the profound impact one species can have on an ecosystem.

And then there's my favorite—the endearingly "ugly-cute" opossum. Often overlooked, opossums play a surprising role in our health and safety: they eat ticks, thereby reducing Lyme disease, don't carry rabies, and produce a protein used to create antivenin for snake bites.

Every species has a unique role in a complex web that ultimately benefits us. Our priority should be recognizing those benefits and finding ways to live harmoniously with all wildlife—even those we've been conditioned to see as pests.

I'm not going to lie—stepping into this experience, I was nervous. A bit more than a little! I wondered, How embarrassed would I be when the rangers delivered me back to my vehicle, laughing about the clumsy guest they had to keep an eye on all morning? But my fears faded as soon as a small group of very tall, long-legged men welcomed me to join them on their patrol through the Amboseli ecosystem.

I've been a huge fan—"stan," as the kids say—of the Big Life Foundation for a while. They do incredible work, supporting peaceful coexistence between wildlife and local communities in southern Kenya, near the Tanzanian border. Now, I was getting to experience a foot patrol with their rangers, the people making this coexistence a reality.

With just GPS-enabled radios and sturdy boots, we set out, covering what my Apple Watch swore was only five miles, though it felt like twice that. The group of rangers moved effortlessly across the rugged terrain while I hustled to keep up. As we walked, they shared their stories—some had once been poachers themselves, others had dreamed of protecting wildlife since they were children, and others saw it as a solid job with a purpose. Despite different paths, each shared a commitment to making a difference. Many left their families for long periods, with visits home sometimes taking days of travel. Each had extended family they supported with their work out here.

They shared tales of working alongside communities that'd had challenging encounters with wildlife—elephants raiding crops, lions preying on livestock. They told me about the bravery required to confront potential poachers, unarmed but determined. They even spoke about times they'd saved animals, giving them another chance at life.

I worked hard to keep my breathing under control as we walked and talked. Occasionally, a few rangers would break off, scaling a hill and scanning the horizon, directing our group in Maa, the Masai language, towards points of interest. We didn't see much wildlife—likely because of my noisy presence—but I caught glimpses of a new Africa: tracks and signs of life from the night before, stories of animals told in the millions of tiny mouse footprints in the sandy dirt, crisscrossed by the broad imprints of zebra hooves and rounded elephant tracks. I breathed in the fresh morning air as the sun climbed higher. And I felt how everyday people like these rangers could make such a profound impact on the world.

Safely delivered back to my driver, I listened to their banter in Maa, punctuated with good-natured laughter. When translated, they assured me they were impressed by my endurance and how much they enjoyed having me along. As we parted ways, they waved and disappeared, fading into the haze and dust like guardians of another world. Their sense of humor and camaraderie made me feel like part of their team, even if just for a day.

Conservation is a delicate dance, complicated by layers of culture, tradition, sovereign borders, government policies, human needs, and the often clashing forces of money and compassion. It's a constant tug-of-war: progress in one area is often hindered by obstacles in another. Nowhere is this tension more heartbreakingly clear than in the battle to save the African elephant.

Less than a century ago, these majestic creatures roamed Africa in the millions. Today, their numbers have plummeted to fewer than 450,000, with East African populations halving in less than a decade. The reasons for this decline are as complex as they are tragic: loss of habitat, human-wildlife conflict, and rampant poaching. While trophy hunting has been banned in many African nations, the shadow it casts is long and dark.

Many African governments have begun to recognize the irreplaceable value of elephants as vital players in their ecosystems and as cornerstones of tourism. In places like Kenya, strong protections have been put in place—trophy hunting has been outlawed, and anti-poaching laws are enforced. But just across the border in Tanzania, a dangerous divergence in policy is threatening a critically important elephant population.

For those who cherish the Amboseli ecosystem, this issue hits home. A special group of elephants here is known as the "super tuskers." These elephants carry the rare gene for tusks that weigh over 100 pounds—a symbol of their power and vulnerability. Kenya’s Amboseli and Tsavo regions are two of the last places on earth where these giants can be found, with Tsavo hosting ten super tuskers and 33 emerging ones. In Amboseli, all 10 of the park’s super tuskers are known by name. I’ve been fortunate to meet them all.

The super tuskers of Amboseli are gentle giants; their size matched only by their serene confidence. Years of coexistence with humans have made them almost fearless, and they are a highlight for anyone lucky enough to visit. One, in particular, has captured the hearts of many—Craig, known to locals as Namba Moja (Swahili for "Number One"), is the star of countless stories and social media posts. In their prime breeding years, these elephants are the hope for their species' future.

But here’s the catch: their natural migration patterns don’t recognize borders. Each night, they cross from the safety of Kenya’s Amboseli National Park into Tanzania, where they are no longer protected. Once a partner in elephant conservation, Tanzania has recently lifted its ban on trophy hunting in this vital corridor. In the past year alone, three of these extraordinary elephants have been killed for sport. 

But, this isn’t sport—this is betrayal. Accustomed to human presence, these elephants don’t flee when a vehicle approaches. They trust. And that trust is being shattered by hunters who argue their fees support conservation. Even if you accept this rationale, it’s hard to ignore the stark reality: these super tuskers represent a unique and dwindling gene pool. Once they’re gone, they’re gone forever.

Petitions with hundreds of thousands of signatures have been sent to the Tanzanian government, pleading for the reinstatement of the hunting ban in this critical zone. So far, these voices have been ignored. If Tanzania doesn’t listen soon, the super tuskers of Amboseli—the living, breathing symbols of Africa’s wild legacy—will become nothing more than a memory, a history lesson in what we chose not to protect.

I’ve had the privilege of spending time with the remarkable researchers of the Amboseli Trust for Elephants (ATE). This group of dedicated women ventured into Amboseli National Park in the early 1970s and has since meticulously documented the lives of over 3,500 wild elephants, inspiring awe and admiration.

ATE’s camp is tucked away in a stand of palm trees, hidden from curious eyes. As you round the corner, you’re greeted by rows of elephant skulls, each tagged with a subtle metal identifier, cross-referenced to names the researchers gave them, each associated with a specific family.

Every time I visit, I walk among these skulls, asking for stories about the elephants who once carried such wisdom within those massive heads. One story has particularly stayed with me.

When a special matriarch from the EB family, Echo, who had led her herd for nearly sixty years, passed away, the herd paid her the ultimate respect. In keeping with tradition, her tusks were removed, but her skull was left in place in the park for the herd to acknowledge her death. After a year of mourning, Echo’s skull was brought to camp to join her extended ghost family. One morning, the researchers awoke to a herd moving into the camp, making a beeline for a single skull. The elephants identified their fallen matriarch Echo’s skull, seemingly no different than others, without hesitation. They caressed her bones and paid silent homage, a display of reverence that is deeply moving. This wasn’t an isolated incident; the herd returned time and again, each time gravitating toward their mother’s skull, spending quiet moments in her presence.

So, I leave you with this thought-provoking question: Is this merely a fable?  Or do these creatures combine their instincts with a level of humanity, perhaps surpassing our own? It's a question that challenges our understanding of animal behavior and invites us to explore the depths of their emotional and cognitive capacities.

Now, that movement is severely restricted. Fences, roads, and walls block animals from reaching the habitats they need to survive. Cars and trains speed along, striking wildlife trying to cross, while others are left stranded in areas where food is scarce. Without the ability to roam freely, animals face the threat of both immediate and a slow death, weakening populations and increasing undesirable interactions between humans and wildlife.

While we can't halt human progress, we are faced with a critical question: How do we continue to build for a growing population while preserving the wildlife that is so essential to our ecosystem? The answer lies in finding a balance, in creating a world where human development and wildlife preservation can coexist harmoniously.

One answer to this dilemma is the creation of wildlife corridors. These specially designed pathways reconnect fragmented habitats, allowing animals to safely cross roads and developed areas. Scientists meticulously track animal movement to determine where these corridors should go, ensuring they align with natural migration routes. Wildlife corridors can take many forms—tunnels beneath highways, bridges over roads, or strips of land between fences that guide animals to safety. In North America, they help wolves, deer, and mountain lions avoid collisions with cars. In Africa, elephants travel through corridors to avoid busy roads and farms, continuing their long migrations while staying out of human-occupied zones. These corridors are not just pathways, they are the threads that weave a harmonious coexistence between human development and wildlife preservation.

Wildlife corridors are a win-win solution. They protect animals by providing safe passage while also reducing the risk of human-wildlife conflict, from car strikes to crop raiding. But their significance doesn't end there. Animal movement, which these corridors can now facilitate, plays a crucial role in ensuring pollination and soil fertility. As human expansion continues, these corridors offer a hopeful solution: a way to coexist with nature rather than pushing it aside. They are not just about animal safety, but about the very health and balance of our ecosystem.

We didn't waste a second. Dust flew from the tires as we sped across the savannah, weaving through herds and landscapes toward the location. Upon arrival, we spotted the baby standing close to its mother and a protective auntie, their stances tense, their eyes watchful. No more than three weeks old, the calf was heartbreakingly small for an elephant. As we drew closer, the mother and auntie tried to nudge him away, but something was clearly wrong. The baby could barely walk, stumbling with each painful step. His back leg was injured, and he couldn't keep up.

Our team quickly radioed Kenya Wildlife Services (KWS), and the wheels of action began turning. KWS employs rangers and vet teams for moments exactly like this, and they work alongside the Sheldrick Wildlife Trust, which brings helicopters and mobile units into the field. Meanwhile, the Amboseli Trust for Elephants researchers arrived, their deep knowledge of the local herds proving invaluable. But, as is often the case in the wild, things take time. We waited. Hours passed, and we stood vigil, protecting the mother and baby from curious tourists and wildlife alike.

Then, suddenly, it was "go time." Things moved in a blur. The rangers positioned their vehicles to drive the auntie away, though she didn't leave without protest. She trumpeted furiously, charging at the vehicles, desperate to stay by her family's side. But eventually, she was moved a safe distance away.

Now, it was the vet team's turn. Enter the vet—an impressive Kenyan woman with a commanding presence, her long, manicured nails glinting as she took charge. Instantly, the entire operation fell under her command, and our admiration for her was instant. She gathered the intel, coordinated the teams, and within moments, the sniper had his tranquilizer gun loaded and aimed. One shot—perfect accuracy. The dart hit the mother.

The rangers sprang into action, holding onto the mother's tail and pushing on her side as she staggered. The last thing we needed was for her to collapse onto her baby. For a few agonizing moments, she tried to run, but the sedative took over. She swayed, then crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud. We rushed to insert a twig into her trunk to keep her airways open while others fetched water to cool her down. In the brutal heat of Amboseli, elephants flap their ears to regulate their body temperature, but now that she is sedated, we need to keep her cool.

All the while, the baby became frantic. He let out the most heart-wrenching cries as we gently restrained him for the vet to examine. His leg, swollen and painful, was dislocated. The vet wasted no time, administering pain relief and antibiotics and then working the joint. It wasn't easy—she pushed and pulled with all her might. The baby screamed in pain, and at that moment, my heart broke. I knelt beside him, his tiny trunk barely thicker than my thumb. I know it wasn't much, but I stroked it softly and whispered lullabies, reassuring him that his mom was nearby and that everything would be okay.

With a final, excruciating cry, the leg popped back into place. Relief washed over all of us. As the baby calmed, we watched closely as "wake-up juice" was administered to the mother. Slowly, she stirred, rolling onto her knees, and with each movement, our hearts pounded. At the last possible second, we released the baby and ran to the safety of our vehicles, waiting for the moment we'd all been holding our breath for.

And then it happened: the baby bolted straight to his mother, immediately latching on to nurse. The reunion was perfect. We watched in awe as they walked away, the baby's limp already improving with each step. Then, from the distance, we heard a triumphant trumpet. Finally released from her "time-out," Auntie came charging back, racing to join the little family as they headed off to rejoin the herd.

As we packed up, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the experience. Witnessing such fierce loyalty and the unbreakable bond between these animals and seeing so many humans working together for their good filled me with pride. On that day, we all did something good and, in the smallest of ways, made the world just a little better.

Yet, amidst this breathtaking beauty, I witnessed the fragility of our planet. The glaciers are melting faster than ever, some retreating at ten times the pace of recent years. Just 600 miles from the North Pole, we could not reach the pack ice that was once a regular sight a mere decade ago. Polar bears, once spotted throughout the Svalbard archipelago, now hide deep within the drifting ice, and bird populations are dwindling as warming seas disrupt their food sources.

As we sailed from open waters to serene coves, our diverse group of twelve whispered the word “privileged” in hushed tones, acutely aware that this wonder may not be here for future generations. We often discussed what we could do to protect this icy frontier, grappling with the overwhelming scale of the challenge. Yet, we recognized that twelve individuals held the potential for unique contributions tailored to our own skills and passions. We pledged to advocate in the ways that suit us best, building awareness and inspiring action.

I invite you to join me on this journey. Let’s cultivate a more profound love for our fascinating—and sometimes humorous—natural world. With each step, we can spark a movement to cherish and protect the wonders surrounding us.

On Monday, I walked in with an empty pad of paper, prepared to talk about f-stops, shutter speeds and ISO.  On Friday, I left with a full heart, ready to capture images that told a story and made a difference.

For a week, I rubbed shoulders with the best in the business, able to ask any question, whether it be technical, or about how they lived their lives, how they met the unique challenges that professional photographers face.  I made friends with people with similar hopes and dreams for a hobby that might shift to a profession – and if not, would occupy a significant part of our lives.  Sleep was pushed to the side, as the opportunities were endless and interesting and packed into every minute of every day.

Every evening, the lights dimmed and I was captivated by personal and emotional stories of lives spent capturing iconic moments in time.    The sports photographer who became a part of an Olympic athlete’s family.  The woman who spent time studying elephant vocalizations and who now finds a quiet place to watch and wait for smaller animals to frolic for her camera.  The reporter who followed his heart, and now follows water in his quest to solve planet-level problems.  The quirky otter-loving photographer who splashed about in the viscera of animals to get the perfect shot of an unloved scavenger.  Each night, I hoped the lights would not come up before the tears that had welled up in my eyes dried.

Reviews of my portfolio included the expected constructive recommendations, and less-expected genuine appreciation and praise.  Surprisingly, the reviews also shifted to conversations about hope and beauty – and how to tap these basic human values through photography to raise awareness and solve problems that resonate deeply.

I joined the workshop in search of images of a majestic mountain range and the wildlife that inhabits it.   Instead, the workshop fed a sense of purpose, sparked a renewed energy to make a difference, and showed me the most amazing examples to follow to make the world a better place.

Should you be interested in attending one of these workshops, the information can be found here:

The Summit Series of Workshops 

Nature Workshop

www.photographyatthesummit.com

As a photographer, I was struck by the photographers who shot iconic images of that day — and almost to a person when interviewed, said they had put the photos away and never looked at them again.  So deeply were they impacted by being a witness to the events, that they didn’t dare to open their hearts to the horror again.  Some were just now beginning to find the stomach to open their files and review work that they wish they had never made.

In this era of cell phones and snapchat, we are inundated with images.  Seemingly nothing is exempt from being captured.  But even as we are saturated with photographs, the professional photographers continue to make an impact on they way we view and remember our lives.  Their images, more carefully tuned and curated than in the past, rise above the noise and do more than capture a “share of eyeball”.  They continue to give us hope, enrage us, move us to action or make us fall in love.  

I have a purpose and am focusing my photography on supporting that purpose.  Are you?

One of those busy times is coming up.  In less than three weeks, I leave for a two week trip to Kenya.  I will be hosting a couple who are celebrating their 10th anniversary.  I was lucky to be with them when they married on the South Pacific island of Palau - alongside Jeff Probst and the cast of Survivor Palau (just by chance, but what a great wedding story).  Back then, I photographed both underwater and on land and presented them with a book to remember the trip.  Don't tell them, but I'll do it again this trip!

I have packed, repacked, cleaned and organized my equipment many times in anticipation of this trip.  I have made a shot list and have studied other photographers' work, as well as brutally assessed my own.  But no matter how much I plan, wildlife photography always presents exciting surprises, and I cannot wait until I find out what those are.

There will be lots of elephants on this trip, so I leave you with a sweet baby.....

AeordynamicA baby elephant in Amboseli pins his ears to his head as he focuses on his meal.

This is a larger group than the Southern Herd and, when we had a chance to compare the two in the holding pens, they seemed bigger and stronger.  Part of that might be the influence of three (and several more) magnificent stallions:  Surfer's Riptide, Ajax and Ace's Black Tie Affair.

Above you see Riptide (left) and Ajax sorting out how they can co-exist in the small holding pens.  Riptide, born in 2009, is son of the famous Surfer Dude.  He is absolutely breathtaking, and I am convinced that some Saltwater Cowboy secretly sneaks him to the side and grooms his magnificent blond mane.    Ajax is a little older, born in 2007, but is no less imposing and certainly is making his mark on the Northern Herd.

Every little girl loves a black stallion, and Ace will win my heart every time.  Another 2007 baby, he has four white legs and a small white spot behind his left elbow.

The ponies get to chill for a couple days in the holding pens before they are driven into the Assateague Channel and brought to the carnival grounds.  They all seem happy to have lots of fresh water and fresh hay - a nice change after foraging in the salt marshes.

This week, there may be a few more posts than usual because I am here for a series of events that have been taking place for the last 89 years.  And I'd bet they have changed very little over those 89 years.

Here in Chincoteague, the story is unique, but contains elements of other large scale conservation programs.  First you need to understand this community.  It is a small town in every sense of the word.  There is nothing slick or fancy about Chincoteague, and, if you didn't notice the mopeds and late model SUV's you'd assume you had stepped back in time 50 years.  The local theatre is playing "Misty", a story of a pony that made this island famous. The fireman's carnival is the same as our grandmothers attended.  And, frankly, the house I'm staying in hasn't been renovated in many many years.

This is Pony Penning week.    Two herds of feral ponies are rounded up from Assateague Island each July.  Mid-week, the volunteer fire department's Saltwater Cowboys, a scrappy group of good old boys riding in big western saddles, herd the ponies into the channel where they swim to Chincoteague.  The next day, new foals are auctioned in a fund-raiser for the fire department.   This keeps the number of ponies around 150, which is what the island can support.

Yesterday, the southern herd was rounded up and placed in a corral on Assateague National Wildlife Refuge.  Enjoy a few shots from the roundup, and of the Saltwater Cowboys doing their job!