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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.....
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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.
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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!
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