Lessons from Jam: A Grizzly Bear's Wisdom

Jam, Yellowstone’s Grizzly Bear

There is something humbling about watching a wild animal go about its life, seemingly unaware that a human observer is nearby. During my recent visit to Yellowstone National Park, I had the opportunity to spend some time observing a grizzly bear the locals have named Jam.

Jam has a sister named Snow, although I didn't have the pleasure of seeing her during this trip. Jam, however, was very much present and busy with the business of preparing for winter. In doing so, she reminded me of three things worth remembering: preparation, predictability, and patience.

Preparation: Knowing When It's Time

Autumn in Yellowstone is more than a change of colors. For wildlife, it is a signal that a difficult season is approaching.

Grizzly bears enter a period of intense feeding called hyperphagia, during which they consume enormous amounts of food to build the fat reserves they need to survive winter. Jam was certainly doing her part. She spent her time digging in the earth, searching for grubs, pine nuts, and roots.

Nature seems to have its own calendar, and Jam was following hers. She didn't need a forecast or a reminder. The changing seasons told her what she needed to know, and she was responding accordingly.

Watching her brought to mind the value of preparation. Some seasons of life demand that we look ahead, recognize what is coming, and make the necessary preparations before the weather turns against us. The time to prepare is not when the storm arrives, but while we still have the opportunity.

Jam was doing exactly that.

Predictability: Some Things Are Worth Returning To

A friend had given me grid coordinates for a location where he had watched Jam the previous year. Armed with that information, I returned to the same area a year later, hoping for a glimpse of her.

And there she was.

Jam was doing much the same thing my friend had observed the year before: digging for food and building the reserves she would need for winter. Her behavior seemed remarkably consistent, guided by the same seasonal rhythms that had brought her to this place before.

Of course, wild animals are never entirely predictable. Their lives depend on weather, food availability, and countless other variables. There are no guarantees when we venture into their world.

Still, there is something reassuring about recognizing a pattern in nature. The seasons return. Wildlife responds to familiar rhythms. Places that seemed ordinary on one visit may reveal a remarkable story when we return.

For a wildlife photographer, that knowledge is valuable. Research, local knowledge, and an understanding of animal behavior can make the difference between wandering aimlessly and being in the right place when an opportunity presents itself.

Sometimes, the best way to discover something new is to return to a place where someone has already discovered something wonderful.

Patience: The Art of Waiting

Perhaps the most important lesson Jam offered was patience.

One might expect a large predator like a grizzly bear to spend her time pursuing large prey such as elk. Yet here she was, patiently digging for tiny grubs, searching for pine nuts, and uncovering roots. These small rewards might not seem particularly impressive to us, but they were exactly what she needed.

Jam wasn't in a hurry. She worked methodically, moving from one promising spot to another, finding nourishment in things that would be easy for us to overlook.

She was also patient with me.

I was keeping a safe distance, camera in hand, watching her go about her business. She certainly knew I was there. A couple of times, she looked in my direction. But I wasn't interfering with her meal, and she returned to digging and eating.

There was no dramatic chase, no sudden encounter, and no spectacular display of power. Just a grizzly bear doing what grizzly bears do.

And that was enough.

Wildlife photography has taught me that the moments worth capturing often come to those willing to wait. We can research a location, study our subjects, check the weather, and arrive with the best equipment available. But none of those things can make a wild animal appear on our schedule.

Sometimes we wait for hours. Sometimes we leave without the photograph we hoped to make. And sometimes, if we are willing to slow down and pay attention, we discover something more meaningful than the image we originally had in mind.

Patience is a lesson I seem to need to learn again and again. Jam offered me another opportunity to practice.

A Wild Animal, Not a Teddy Bear

There is one more thing worth remembering about Jam.

A photograph can make a grizzly bear appear almost cuddly. Her thick fur, rounded ears, and seemingly peaceful expression can make us forget that we are looking at a powerful wild animal.

Looks can be deceiving.

Jam was calm, and I was comfortable observing her from a safe distance. But calm does not mean tame, and a bear that appears unconcerned can still be dangerous. Respecting that distinction is essential for our safety and hers.

Caution is not a lack of appreciation. It is part of appreciating wildlife responsibly. Giving an animal space allows it to remain wild and allows us to observe without needlessly disturbing its life.

The photograph preserves a moment. Good judgment helps ensure there will be more moments to appreciate.

Looking Beyond the Photograph

I traveled to Yellowstone hoping to photograph its landscapes and wildlife. I came away with images, of course, but also with reminders that extend beyond the camera.

Jam reminded me to prepare for the seasons ahead, to recognize the value of familiar patterns, and to be patient with the things that cannot be rushed.

Those lessons were there all along, playing out in the life of a grizzly bear preparing for winter. I simply needed to slow down long enough to notice them.

That is one of the joys of spending time in nature. We go looking for photographs, but if we pay attention, we may discover that the experience has something to teach us as well.

And sometimes, the best lesson of all is a simple one: be still, be patient, and keep looking.

And now, through my lens, I invite you to see more than the bear. See the life behind the image.

When Lamar Valley Woke

Bison herd stretches out across the valley floor in the early morning at Hayden Valley.

Yellowstone Photography Adventure — Episode 1 of 5

Every morning in Yellowstone began much the same way. I would leave my campsite and make my way toward the Northeast Entrance, knowing that beyond the gate lay another day of photographic possibilities. The road would carry me into Lamar Valley, a broad expanse of grassland framed by mountains, forests, and the quiet presence of the wild.

But no two mornings were quite the same.

As the first light approached, the eastern sky would begin its transformation. The deep blue of night gradually softened into purple, then pink, and finally shades of orange that hinted at the day to come. The valley remained largely in shadow, waiting patiently for its turn.

Then the mountain peaks would catch the sun.

At first, it was only a touch of light along the highest ridges, a subtle glow that slowly spread across the landscape. The mountains seemed to awaken before the world below them. Trees, rocky slopes, and autumn foliage gradually emerged from the shadows, revealing details that had been hidden only moments before.

Finally, the light reached the valley floor.

Golden grasses stretched across the broad meadow. Yellow aspens brightened the edges of the forest, and scattered boulders broke up the open landscape. Herds of bison moved slowly across the grass, seemingly unconcerned with the spectacle unfolding around them.

For all their size, bison can be surprisingly easy to take for granted when you see them day after day. They are such an unmistakable part of Yellowstone's character that it is tempting to think of them as simply another feature of the landscape. Yet there is something remarkable about watching these massive animals graze in the morning light, moving through a place where their ancestors have roamed for thousands of years.

Of course, bison weren't the only wildlife on my mind.

Near the Northeast Entrance, I spotted mountain goats high on the mountainsides. Against that rugged terrain, they seemed almost impossibly sure-footed, moving through a world of steep slopes and rocky ledges that would challenge most of us just to look at. Finding them required looking well beyond the familiar scenery of the valley floor.

Wolves were another matter. I did see them, but they remained so far away that they were little more than specks on the landscape, even through my longest zoom lens. There is a difference between seeing an animal and bringing home a photograph that conveys its presence. Sometimes the distance wins.

That is part of wildlife photography, too. The animals are not there to pose for us, and Yellowstone offers no guarantees. You can plan your day, choose your location, watch the light, and have the best equipment available. The wildlife makes its own decisions.

And sometimes, those decisions provide an unexpected gift.

One of my most enjoyable encounters came in Hayden Valley, where I found a small herd of pronghorn—often called American antelope, although they are a distinct North American species. I expected that any approach might send them running across the meadow. Instead, they seemed perfectly content to go about their day.

Buck keeps watch

as family rests and plays

The adults grazed and rested in the grass while the young played nearby. There was no apparent alarm, no sudden rush to escape, just a little group of wild animals enjoying an ordinary day in their own home.

I watched them, appreciating the opportunity to witness something so natural and unhurried. We often think of wildlife encounters as dramatic moments: a predator on the hunt, a herd thundering across the plain, or an animal emerging unexpectedly from the forest. Those moments are exciting, but this was a different kind of experience.

There was something special about seeing these animals simply being themselves.

As a photographer, I spend considerable time looking for the unusual moment, the right light, or the composition that will turn a scene into a memorable image. Yet encounters like this remind me that the story isn't always in the dramatic action. Sometimes it is in the quiet details—in the way the young play, the adults rest, and life continues without any regard for the human observer standing nearby.

That was one of the gifts of my mornings in Yellowstone. Every day offered the possibility of discovery, but the discovery didn't always come in the form I expected.

Before I reached my day's destination, Lamar Valley had already given me a reason to stop, look, and appreciate the morning. The light had transformed the landscape, the bison had filled the meadow with their quiet presence, and somewhere along the way, other encounters had reminded me how much of the natural world remains beyond our control.

Another Yellowstone morning had begun.

And there was still a whole day of photography ahead.

What Lies Beyond the Horizon?

Gold butte glows in the sitting sun in Canyonlands National Park, UT

There is something about a horizon that has always captured my attention.

Perhaps it is especially noticeable where I live. Out here on the Kansas prairie, the land doesn't always give us much to look at vertically. There are no towering mountains or deep canyons to stop the eye. Instead, the land stretches outward, sometimes seemingly forever.

And the sky becomes enormous.

I've noticed the same thing in the high plains and in the mountains. The farther the landscape reaches, the more the horizon seems to invite us to look beyond it.

A friend once made a comment about one of my photographs that stayed with me. He said that the horizon invites us to imagine what lies beyond.

I like that.

Maybe that's part of what draws me to photography in the first place.

A photograph can capture a moment, but it can also leave a question unanswered.

What is beyond there?

I took this photograph at Canyonlands National Park. The landscape itself is remarkable—the cliffs, the layers of rock, the colors—but what catches me most when I look at this image isn't simply what is in front of me.

It is everything beyond it.

The horizon seems to disappear into the distance. The sky opens above the landscape, and somewhere beyond those distant formations is something I cannot yet see.

And perhaps that's the point.

We don't always need to know what lies beyond the horizon before we decide to go looking.

In just a couple of days, I'll be heading west again.

I'll make one of my favorite stops along the way at Monument Rocks in west Kansas. I've photographed that landscape before, but I never seem to tire of it. There is something about standing among those ancient formations beneath an enormous Kansas sky that makes me want to keep looking.

And then I'll continue north toward Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks.

I'm hoping to photograph wildlife. I'll be looking for landscapes, changing light, mountains, water, and whatever unexpected moments happen to cross my path. I have plans, of course, but photography has taught me that some of the best photographs are the ones you couldn't have planned.

I don't know exactly what I'll find.

And that's part of the excitement.

Maybe there will be elk in the morning mist. A bison standing alone beneath a dramatic sky. A mountain reflecting in still water. Perhaps a landscape I've seen a hundred times in photographs will look completely different when I'm standing there with a camera in my hands.

Or perhaps I'll simply find myself stopping somewhere along the road because the light has changed and the horizon is asking me to look a little farther.

That's enough reason to go.

The older I get, the more I appreciate that there is still something beyond the horizon.

Something I haven't seen.

Something I haven't photographed.

Something I haven't experienced.

And sometimes, the only way to discover it is to accept the invitation and go.

So, in a couple of days, I'll be heading out.

Kansas will be the starting point. The horizon will be the invitation.

I can only imagine what lies beyond.

And I intend to go see.

Where Peace Broke Through the Pain

Castle Rocks, western Kansas — September 10, 2026

Every year, sometime before September 11, I go away.

It has become something of a tradition.

I find a quiet place, preferably somewhere remote, where there are few people, few roads, and even fewer reminders of the world I am trying to leave behind for a little while.

Some might wonder why.

For me, September 11 is not a day of history.

It is a day I remember too well.

I was assigned to the Joint Staff in the Pentagon when our nation was attacked. Another friend and I were away from Washington that morning, working on a major force study for the Secretary of Defense. We began the day with a morning run, then returned to our hotel rooms to get cleaned up before a full day of meetings.

Instead, we watched the television as the World Trade Center burned. I called my boss at the Pentagon. "Dan, you need to get back here. We have a problem."I began making arrangements to return to Washington.

Then the Pentagon was attacked.

The flights were grounded, so my friend and I took our rental car and drove through the night toward Washington. When we finally returned, there was work to be done. National security. Response. The people who were missing. The people who would never return.

We lost friends and colleagues.

And we went to work.

There are some days that become part of the story of a nation.

And there are some days that become part of the story of your own life in ways you would rather not revisit.

September 11 is one of those days for me.

So I leave.

Not because I have forgotten.

Not because I don't care.

Perhaps simply because, after all these years, I have no desire to spend another September 11 answering questions about something I would rather leave behind.

I need quiet.

This year, quiet took me to Castle Rocks in western Kansas.

A Place With Nothing to Distract You

Castle Rocks is one of those places that seems almost misplaced.

Three great chalk spires rise from the middle of the high prairie, surrounded by an enormous expanse of western Kansas.

There are no city lights.

No traffic.

No buildings.

No artificial noise.

Just prairie and sky.

After dark, the silence becomes something you can almost feel.

Crickets.

Frogs.

The wind moving through the rock formations.

And, every now and then, the distant voices of a pack of coyotes somewhere out on the prairie.

That is about it.

And that was exactly what I needed.

I arrived Thursday evening, September 10, and settled in as darkness came.

There was no moon that night.

Only the stars.

Then the Milky Way appeared.

It stretched across the southern sky, its faint band of light rising above the prairie and passing behind the great chalk formations. I had come late in the season for it.

The nights are already beginning to change. Before long, the Milky Way will disappear from our evening skies, and we'll have to wait until sometime next spring to see that familiar river of stars return.

But on this night, everything came together.

Clear skies.

No moon.

No clouds.

No artificial light.

Just darkness—and the light of our galaxy.

I set up my camera and waited.

And for a while, I didn't think about September 11.

I didn't think about Washington.

I didn't think about the Pentagon.

I didn't think about the questions.

I simply looked up.

Peace in Creation

There is something humbling about standing beneath a sky like that.

The rocks that seem so large during the day become small beneath the heavens.

And the things that seem so large in our minds can become quiet for a little while.

I have spent much of my life traveling—to places far away and places just down a lonely Kansas road.

I've hiked trails.

I've crossed mountains.

I've sat beside rivers and watched wildlife.

But sometimes the journey isn't about getting somewhere.

Sometimes it is simply about getting away.

Away from the noise.

Away from the expectations.

Away from memories that have become too heavy.

And finding a place where you can simply be still.

That night at Castle Rocks, something happened that I didn't expect.

Peace broke through the space of pain.

Not by erasing the past.

Not by changing what happened.

And certainly not by making those memories disappear.

They are still there.

But for a few hours, beneath that enormous Kansas sky, they did not occupy all the space.

There was room for something else.

Wonder.

Silence.

Gratitude.

Peace.

I looked through my camera at those three ancient spires standing beneath the Milky Way, and I was reminded again why I keep doing this.

Photography is not really about the camera.

It is about noticing.

It is about slowing down long enough to see what is already there.

Sometimes it is a bird hidden in the grass.

Sometimes it is the last light falling across a prairie.

Sometimes it is three chalk formations standing alone beneath a sky filled with stars.

And sometimes, if we are fortunate, we discover something we weren't looking for at all.

A little peace.

I was thankful for the journey to Castle Rocks.

Thankful for the darkness.

Thankful for the silence.

Thankful for the stars.

And thankful that, for one September night in western Kansas, peace broke through the space of pain.

— Dan Nobles

Kansas Thru My Lens

The View No One Mentions | Appalachian Trail Virginia Triple Crown

There are places on the Appalachian Trail that everybody knows.

They have names. They have reputations. They have photographs covering the internet.

Dragon’s Tooth is known for its challenge. McAfee Knob is perhaps one of the most celebrated overlooks on the entire Appalachian Trail. Tinker Cliffs is quieter, but still earns its place among the Virginia Triple Crown.

For roughly 40 miles, this old trail through Virginia connects all three.

And I came here for one more long hike.

Perhaps my last.

I had bgun this journey thinking about the big three—the places everyone talks about and every hiker wants to see.

But somewhere along the way, I started noticing something different.

The trail has a way of doing that.

When you stop worrying about reaching the next destination, you begin to see what is happening around you.

The overlooks without names.

The small clearings between the trees.

The light filtering through the forest.

The places where the trail suddenly opens and gives you a glimpse of the mountains stretching toward the horizon.

Those places don't make the guidebooks.

They don't have the famous rock ledge where everyone poses for the photograph.

They are simply there.

And sometimes, they are every bit as beautiful.

The View No One Mentions

On my final morning, I stopped at one of those places.

It is simply known as The Cliffs.

There is nothing particularly famous about it. No iconic photograph that I knew I had to capture. No great destination marker telling me that I had arrived somewhere important.

But that morning, the mountains were wrapped in the soft light of sunrise.

Mist settled into the valleys below. Layer after layer of mountains disappeared into the distance. The granite beneath my feet caught the first warm light of the morning, and a solitary pine stood against the sky.

I stood there for a while and simply looked.

And I remember thinking:

This view is every bit as beautiful as the ones everyone talks about.

Perhaps more beautiful because I wasn't expecting it.

That may be one of the lessons I take away from this journey.

We spend an awful lot of time looking for the places we're told are worth seeing.

Sometimes we forget to look at what is right in front of us.

One More Journey

This trip was supposed to be a farewell.

After years of backpacking and long days on the trail, I had reached the point where I knew that my body was probably telling me something my mind didn't particularly want to hear.

This was intended to be my farewell journey to long hikes.

It probably was.

But I'm not sure I want to call it an ending.

Maybe it's simply a change in the way I travel.

I have spent years measuring a journey in miles—how far I could walk, how much elevation I could climb, and how many miles remained before reaching camp.

Photography has taught me to measure journeys differently.

Sometimes the most important part of the journey is the place where you stop.

The view nobody mentioned.

The sunrise nobody promised.

The quiet moment when you realize you don't need to go any farther.

You simply need to stand still and look.

And on this final morning of a 40-mile journey through Virginia, I found a view that reminded me of something I've learned many times on the trail:

The best view isn't always the one you're looking for.

Sometimes it's the one you almost walked past.

And I'm grateful I stopped.

Sunrise's Quiet Promise

There is something special about sunrise.

Night slowly surrenders to the morning light. Deep blues and purples begin to warm beneath golden rays as the sky quietly announces a new day. The change is almost imperceptible at first. Faint traces of light appear low on the horizon, yet the entire sky hints that something beautiful is about to happen—if we simply take the time to look.

As the sun peeks above the broad prairie, dew-covered grasses catch the first light and sparkle like countless tiny mirrors. The sounds of the night begin to fade. Owls and whip-poor-wills give way to the songs of meadowlarks and robins. Across the rolling hills, the bison begin to move through the same ancient grasslands their ancestors have crossed for centuries.

Even the air feels different. For a brief moment it seems cooler, almost as though it is gathering itself before surrendering to the heat of a summer day.

Then, almost without warning, the soft glow of dawn gives way to the full brilliance of daylight. Sunrise is over before you realize it.

Yet there is comfort in knowing it will happen again.

In a few short hours, daylight will quietly surrender to evening. Darkness will return, the stars will reclaim the sky, and somewhere beyond the horizon another sunrise will already be preparing for tomorrow.

There is something deeply reassuring about that rhythm.

The world continues its faithful cycle, reminding us that every ending carries the promise of another beginning. Perhaps that is why sunrise has always felt less like the start of another day and more like a quiet reminder that hope arrives one dawn at a time.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23

When the Bison Came to My Window

Joseph H. Williams Tallgrass Prairie Preserve – Pawhuska, Oklahoma

There are few places left in America where you can watch bison roam across an open prairie much as they did centuries ago. The Joseph H. Williams Tallgrass Prairie Preserve is one of those rare places. More than 40,000 acres of rolling grassland provide a home for one of the nation's largest free-ranging bison herds, and it is a photographer's dream.

Watching them from a distance, it's easy to underestimate these magnificent animals.

An adult bull can weigh as much as 2,500 pounds. Despite their size, bison can run nearly 35 miles per hour, maintain that speed for surprising distances, and even leap six feet into the air. They are incredibly agile, powerful...and wonderfully unpredictable.

That's why I almost always photograph wildlife from inside my vehicle.

Many wild animals pay little attention to a parked car. By using my vehicle as a photography blind, I can observe natural behavior without causing unnecessary stress or altering the animals' routines. It's one of the simplest and most ethical ways to photograph wildlife.

At least...that's usually how it works.

On this particular morning, I was filming a herd of more than fifty bison as they slowly crossed the prairie in front of me. My camera rested on the window, quietly recording as they passed one by one.

Then one of them stopped.

She turned.

And began walking directly toward my car.

As she drew closer, I decided it was probably wise to pull my camera back inside. Moments later, the camera lens was replaced by something considerably larger—her enormous nose.

She gently pushed her muzzle through my open window.

I'll admit, my heart rate increased a bit.

Not quite knowing what else to do, I cautiously scratched her nose and under her chin.

To my amazement, she closed her eyes.

Then came a deep, contented moan.

For several unforgettable seconds, this massive wild animal simply enjoyed the attention before pulling away, rejoining the herd, and disappearing into the sea of tallgrass as though nothing unusual had happened.

It was exhilarating.

It was a little unnerving.

And it was a reminder that wildlife is never completely predictable.

Experiences like this are exactly why I love spending time in wild places. Nature continually reminds us that these animals are not attractions or oversized pets. They deserve our admiration, our respect, and enough space to simply be wild.

Sometimes that respect means staying behind a camera lens.

And every once in a while...

it means finding yourself nose-to-nose with a bison.

A Mountain’s Farewell

Sunset from Mount Scott in the Wichita Mountains of Oklahoma

Some places ask you to linger just a little longer.

After days spent wandering among ancient granite peaks, watching bison graze the valleys, photographing prairie dogs, and exploring the remarkable story of the Holy City of the Wichitas, there seemed only one fitting way to end my visit—by climbing to the summit of Mount Scott to watch the sun disappear beyond the western horizon.

It was worth every mile.

The granite beneath my feet still held the warmth of another Oklahoma summer day as the light slowly softened across the landscape. The valleys below began disappearing into shadow while the western sky caught fire with layers of gold, amber, and crimson. Behind me, the mountain itself transformed as long shadows climbed its weathered granite face, revealing textures that had been hidden in the bright afternoon sun.

Standing there, I was reminded that sunsets rarely demand attention through spectacle alone. Often their beauty comes through contrast—the fading light against the growing darkness, the brilliance of the sky against the quiet strength of the earth below.

The Wichita Mountains have stood through countless sunsets like this one. Long before roads wound their way to Mount Scott and visitors gathered at overlooks, these ancient granite mountains watched the sun sink below the prairie every evening. They remain a quiet testimony to both the permanence of creation and the passing nature of our own moments within it.

As photographers, we often chase dramatic light, hoping for that perfect image. But evenings like this remind me that the greater gift isn't simply the photograph I bring home. It is the privilege of standing still long enough to witness beauty unfolding before me.

With the last glow fading from the horizon, it felt like the mountains were offering a quiet farewell. My time among the bison, rugged peaks, and historic landmarks had come to an end, but another adventure was already waiting.

The journey now turns north and east, across Oklahoma and into Kansas, where an entirely different landscape awaits. From granite mountains to rolling seas of native grass, my next destination is the Joseph H. Williams Tallgrass Prairie Preserve—a place where the horizon stretches endlessly, the prairie wind tells its own story, and another chapter of God's remarkable creation is ready to be explored.

Every landscape has a voice.

The Wichita Mountains spoke through stone.

The prairie, I suspect, will speak through the wind.

— Dan Nobles
Thru My Lens Photography

Quiet Confidence in the Evening Light

Bison rests in the open valley at Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge, Oklahoma

There is something deeply satisfying about watching a bison at rest.

After spending the day beneath the Oklahoma sun, this old bull settled into a field at the foot of the Wichita Mountains. As the evening cooled, a gentle breeze drifted through the valley, carrying with it the quiet promise that another day was coming to an end.

He wasn't searching.

He wasn't competing.

He wasn't anxious.

He simply rested.

Standing there with my camera, I found myself lingering far longer than I had planned. In a world that constantly urges us to do more, become more, and hurry to whatever comes next, this massive animal offered a very different lesson.

Strength doesn't always announce itself.

Sometimes it lies quietly in the grass.

The American bison has endured nearly unimaginable hardship. Once numbering in the tens of millions across North America, they were driven to the edge of extinction during the nineteenth century. Yet today, protected places like the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge remind us that restoration is possible. Their presence is more than a conservation success story—it is a symbol of resilience.

Perhaps that is why this scene spoke to me.

Freedom is often misunderstood. We imagine it as endless movement, constant adventure, or the absence of responsibility. Yet the bull before me suggested something altogether different.

True freedom is the ability to rest without fear.

To be fully present.

To exist without needing to prove anything.

There was no audience for this moment except the evening sky, the weathered granite behind him, and one photographer fortunate enough to witness it.

Nature has a remarkable way of slowing our pace. It reminds us that not every moment needs to be productive. Some moments are meant simply to be experienced.

As the sun dipped lower behind the mountains, I quietly packed my camera and left the valley exactly as I had found it.

The bison never moved.

He didn't need to.

He had already shown me everything I came to see.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." — Matthew 11:28

Perhaps that is one of creation's quiet invitations. In places where the wind moves through prairie grass and ancient mountains stand watch, we are reminded that rest is not weakness. It is often the evidence of trust.

Until next time, may you find moments to slow down, breathe deeply, and discover the quiet confidence that only nature can teach.

See you down the trail... and now, thru my lens.

Looking Through the Window of Time

Holy City of the Wichitas | Wichita Mountains, Oklahoma

View through the wall of the Holy City of the Wichitas

There are places that ask to be photographed.

Then there are places that ask you to stop, stand quietly, and simply look.

The Holy City of the Wichitas is one of those places.

Nestled against the rugged granite slopes of Oklahoma's Wichita Mountains, the weathered stone structures have stood for nearly a century. Built during the Great Depression by the Civilian Conservation Corps and the Works Progress Administration, the site was created as the backdrop for an annual Easter Passion Play. Today, its stone walls and narrow passageways remain long after the crowds have gone home, quietly blending into the landscape that surrounds them.

As I wandered through the empty courtyards, I wasn't searching for a specific photograph. I was simply exploring.

Then I noticed one of the small stone openings in the wall.

Instead of photographing the building itself, I stepped closer and looked through the opening. Suddenly, the landscape beyond became the subject. The rough granite stones framed a living scene of cedar trees, native grasses, and distant hills gathering beneath darkening clouds.

It felt less like looking through a window and more like looking through time.

The stone walls represent human hands—our desire to build, preserve, and remember.

Beyond the opening stands a landscape that has changed very little over countless generations. Long before these stones were stacked together, bison wandered these valleys, Native American tribes called these mountains home, and the granite cliffs quietly watched the passing centuries.

The photograph became more than an image of a historic structure.

It became a reminder that while our works eventually weather and fade, creation continues to tell its story.

As photographers, we're often tempted to focus on the obvious subject. Sometimes the better image is found by changing our perspective. Instead of looking at something, we learn to look through it.

That small opening in the wall became a frame—not only for the landscape but for a different way of seeing.

One of the greatest gifts photography has given me is the ability to slow down. The camera has taught me that beauty rarely announces itself. It waits patiently for those willing to pause, observe, and notice.

This photograph is a reminder that every journey offers more than a destination. Sometimes the most meaningful discoveries come when we stop looking for the grand vista and begin paying attention to the quiet details along the way.

Over the next four weeks, I'll be sharing photographs and stories from my journey through the Wichita Mountains—rugged landscapes, incredible wildlife, historic places, and unforgettable moments beneath Oklahoma skies. I hope you'll come along.

Through My Lens

As I stood behind that weathered stone wall, I couldn't help but think of the words of the psalmist:

"The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork." — Psalm 19:1 (ESV)

Sometimes God's handiwork is revealed in sweeping mountain vistas.

Sometimes it is found through a small opening in an old stone wall.

Either way, the invitation is the same:

Slow down.

Look carefully.

Wonder.

Because the world has far more to say than we often take the time to hear.

Every photograph tells a story.

Some reveal breathtaking landscapes. Others capture fleeting moments in the lives of wild creatures. All of them invite us to slow down, look closer, and rediscover the wonder woven throughout God's creation.

Thanks for joining me on the journey.

I'll see you down the next backroad.

The Machinery Beneath the Stars

Kansas has a way of revealing its character after dark

During the day, the wheat fields stretch toward the horizon beneath an endless sky, and the rhythmic nod of oil pumps blends into the landscape as naturally as windmills and grain elevators. They are part of the working heart of the prairie—quiet reminders that beneath the fertile soil lies another resource that has helped shape the history and economy of the region.

On this particular night, I found myself sitting alone in a wheat field, camera pointed toward an aging oil pump silhouetted against a crystal-clear sky. The air was still. Not a breeze stirred the wheat. The usual sounds of the prairie seemed muted, as if the land itself was holding its breath.

As darkness deepened, the stars emerged one by one until the heavens were crowded with light. Then came the moment I had been waiting for. Rising slowly from the shoulder of the pump jack, the Milky Way climbed into view—a luminous river of distant suns and galaxies stretching across the sky.

The contrast was striking.

Before me stood a machine built by human hands, designed to draw resources from deep beneath the earth. Above it stretched a cosmos so vast that the mind struggles to comprehend it. One represented industry, ingenuity, and progress. The other represented mystery, eternity, and wonder.

Yet they seemed perfectly at home together.

The oil pump moved steadily through its endless cycle, drawing from unseen depths below while the galaxy arched overhead, revealing unimaginable depths above. In that moment, the scene felt like a visual bridge between two worlds—the practical and the profound, the temporal and the timeless.

Photography often begins with finding interesting light, but sometimes it becomes something more. Sometimes a photograph becomes an invitation to simply sit and witness. No rushing. No agenda. Just presence.

The experience was breathtaking not because it was dramatic or loud, but because it was so quietly magnificent. Beneath billions of stars, surrounded by open prairie, I was reminded how small we are—and how fortunate we are to experience moments like these at all.

Monk Reflection

We spend much of our lives digging downward.

We search for success, security, answers, and purpose. Like the oil pump reaching deep beneath the Kansas soil, we labor to uncover things we believe will sustain us. There is value in that work. It provides, strengthens, and teaches us perseverance.

But every so often, life invites us to look up.

The stars remind us that there is more to existence than what we can produce, accumulate, or control. Beyond our daily pursuits lies a universe of beauty, mystery, and grace that asks nothing of us except our attention.

Wisdom is found in holding both truths together.

Keep doing the work before you. Draw from the depths of your experience, your faith, and your character. But don't become so focused on what lies beneath your feet that you forget to lift your eyes to the heavens.

Sometimes the richest discoveries are not found by digging deeper, but by looking higher.

The Quiet Watcher of Gove County

A Burrowing Owl sits alone

There are places in western Kansas where the horizon feels endless and the roads seem to disappear into another time. On this particular afternoon in Gove County, I had driven mile after mile along a lonely gravel road, dust rolling behind my CR-V like a prairie storm. No traffic. No noise. Just the hum of tires on limestone and the open silence of the plains.

Then I noticed him.

Perched on an old weathered fence post beside the road was a burrowing owl — small, upright, and impossibly alert. At first glance he almost looked misplaced, like a forgotten ornament standing against the muted earth tones of the prairie. But those bright yellow eyes gave him away immediately. I slowed the car and carefully rolled alongside him, staying inside the vehicle and using it as a blind. Resting my 600mm lens on the open window, I began photographing one of the most fascinating birds of the Great Plains.

What surprised me most was his calmness.

He never startled. Never flushed. For nearly an hour, it felt as though we simply shared the same stretch of quiet Kansas earth together. Out there, with no passing vehicles and no distractions, time slowed to the rhythm of the prairie wind. The owl would occasionally tilt his head, scanning the grasslands with patient precision, then settle again into stillness. It was one of those rare wildlife encounters that cannot be forced or manufactured. It simply becomes a gift.

Burrowing owls are wonderfully unique creatures. Unlike most owls, they spend much of their lives on the ground, nesting in abandoned prairie dog burrows and hunting insects and small prey across open country. Their long legs and upright posture often make them appear more curious than intimidating. Yet they are perfectly designed for this harsh and beautiful landscape.

As I sat there alone with this feathered companion, I realized how few places remain where silence still feels untouched. Places where wildlife can exist without hurry and where a person can sit long enough to truly notice the details — the texture of feathers, the movement of wind through grass, the golden light reflecting in an owl’s eyes.

Moments like this are why I keep returning to the back roads.

Not simply to photograph wildlife, but to experience the stillness that comes with it.

Monk Reflection

The prairie rarely shouts for attention. Its beauty is quiet, patient, and easily overlooked by those rushing through it. Yet when we slow down long enough to truly see, even a small owl on a weathered fence post can remind us how much wonder still exists in the ordinary corners of creation.

The Acrobat of the Prairie

A quiet encounter with a scissor-tailed flycatcher.

There are some birds you admire from a distance, and then there are birds that seem almost impossible to truly see. The scissor-tailed flycatcher belongs in that second category. Long before you notice the details of its soft gray feathers or the faint salmon color beneath its wings, you notice the movement. They dart through open fields like living streamers, twisting and turning in pursuit of insects with breathtaking speed and precision. Their signature tail feathers act almost like a rudder, allowing them to pivot sharply in midair before disappearing across the pasture once again.

For years, I’ve tried to photograph these incredible birds. Like many wildlife photographers know, admiration does not guarantee opportunity. Scissor-tailed flycatchers are constantly moving, naturally cautious around people, and surprisingly difficult to track through a lens. More often than not, my images ended in frustration — wings blurred, focus missed, or the bird gone before I could react. Sometimes nature seems determined to remind us that beauty is not always easily captured.

That is why this moment felt different.

I had been sitting quietly near the edge of a field, simply watching and waiting, when this flycatcher suddenly landed in a nearby tree. For just a few moments, the chaos stopped. The bird rested calmly among the branches while sunlight filtered through the green leaves around it. Its long tail hung beneath the limb like a ribbon, and the subtle colors that are so easy to miss in flight finally became visible. It was close enough for me to study the delicate feather patterns and appreciate the elegance of a creature I usually only experience as motion.

Wildlife photography often teaches patience more than photography itself. We spend hours preparing, traveling, waiting, and observing for moments that may only last seconds. But sometimes those brief encounters become gifts. Not because the image is technically perfect, but because the experience stays with you long after the shutter closes.

This photograph reminds me that nature does not slow down for us very often. Yet every now and then, if we are quiet enough and patient enough, we are invited into a fleeting moment of stillness. And when that happens, it feels less like taking a photograph and more like receiving one.

Monk Reflection

The older I get, the more I realize how much of life resembles this scissor-tailed flycatcher. We rush from place to place, constantly moving, constantly chasing the next responsibility, opportunity, or distraction. Rarely do we slow down long enough to truly rest. Rarely do we allow others to see beyond the motion.

Yet some of the most meaningful moments in life happen in stillness.

This flycatcher spent most of the morning racing across the fields, impossible to follow for more than a second or two. But the photograph only became possible when the bird finally paused and settled quietly into the tree above me. In that brief stillness, beauty that had been hidden in motion became visible.

I think people are much the same way.

When our lives are constantly filled with noise and activity, it becomes difficult to notice wonder, gratitude, or even the presence of God around us. But when we slow down — even briefly — we begin to see things differently. We notice light filtering through the leaves. We hear the wind. We recognize blessings that were there all along.

Nature has a way of reminding me that stillness is not weakness. Sometimes it is in the quiet moments that the deepest beauty is finally revealed.

— Wandering Monk Photos

A Quiet Witness in the Cornfield

There are moments in wildlife photography when the grand spectacle gives way to something quieter—something more intimate. The sandhill crane migration near Kearney, Nebraska is often described in sweeping terms: hundreds of thousands of birds filling the sky, their calls echoing across the Platte River at sunrise. It is a breathtaking scene, and one that draws people from all over the world.

But this photograph is not about the sky.

It is about what happens after the noise fades.

On this particular morning, I left the riverbanks and followed the cranes to the surrounding farmland, where they spend their days feeding. The energy shifts here. The chaos of flight settles into a slow, deliberate rhythm—heads dipping into the remnants of last season’s corn, feet stepping carefully through the field, always alert, always aware.

Rather than stand above the scene, I chose to lower myself into it.

Lying in the grass at the edge of the field, I let the landscape rise up around me. The foreground softened into a gentle blur, the dry stalks becoming a veil rather than a distraction. Through that veil, one crane came into focus—calm, composed, and undisturbed. My presence, for once, did not alter the moment.

And that is what makes this image meaningful.

We often approach nature as observers from a distance, standing tall, looking out. But there is something transformative about choosing a lower perspective—about meeting creation at eye level, or even below it. It requires patience. It requires stillness. And, perhaps most importantly, it requires a willingness to let the moment come to you.

This crane wasn’t performing. It wasn’t part of a dramatic formation or silhouetted against a painted sky. It was simply living—feeding, moving, existing within the quiet rhythm of its day.

And in that simplicity, there is a kind of beauty we often overlook.

For me, this image serves as a reminder that not every powerful moment announces itself with grandeur. Some of the most meaningful encounters are found when we slow down, lower our vantage point, and pay attention to what is right in front of us.

The migration is extraordinary.

But so is this.

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Monk Reflection:
Sometimes the clearest view comes when we choose to lower ourselves—physically, mentally, and spiritually. In the quiet places, beyond the spectacle, we often find what we were truly looking for all along.

Sandhill Crane Migration at the Platte River: A Pastel Evening in Flight

Sandhill Cranes fly toward the Platte River

A Pastel Crossing on the Platte River

There are moments in nature when everything softens—the light, the wind, even the rhythm of your own breathing. This photograph was taken during one of those moments along the Platte River near Kearney, as the day gave way to evening and the sky dissolved into gentle shades of pink, lavender, and gold.

Three Sandhill Crane silhouettes move across that canvas—quiet, deliberate, and timeless. They are just three among more than half a million cranes passing through this narrow stretch of Nebraska, yet in this frame, they carry the full weight of the journey.

A River That Becomes a Refuge

Each spring, the Platte River transforms into one of the greatest gathering places in the natural world. Cranes arrive from their winter homes in Texas and Mexico, drawn here by something ancient and unchanging. For a few short weeks, this river becomes a sanctuary.

By night, they stand in the shallow braided channels—close together, watchful, protected by the open water. At dawn, they rise in great waves, their calls echoing across the prairie as they head to nearby fields to feed. And by evening, like breath returning to the body, they come back again.

This rhythm—rest, rise, return—has played out for generations beyond counting.

The Beauty of the In-Between

This image lives in the in-between space.

Not the drama of thousands lifting at sunrise.
Not the thunder of wings at full migration.

But something quieter.

Three cranes. A fading sky. A moment easily missed.

And yet, this is where the story becomes personal. Because the grandeur of migration is not only found in vast numbers—it is revealed in the stillness of a single passing group, in the hush between movements, in the space where you are simply present enough to notice.

Monk Reflection

There is a wisdom written into the lives of these cranes.

They do not rush the journey.
They do not skip the resting place.
They return, again and again, to what sustains them.

Watching them, it’s hard not to wonder how often we move through our own seasons without pause—pushing forward without honoring the need to rest, to gather, to simply be.

The cranes remind us:
Even the longest journeys are meant to be lived in rhythms.

And sometimes, the most meaningful moments are not found in the spectacle…
but in the quiet crossing of three birds against a painted sky.

Check out the video of this adventure and subscribe to my YouTube Channel, “Monk Reflections.” Here is the video link -

Sandhill Cranes at the Platte River — Here's What 500,000 Birds Looks Like

https://youtu.be/wxUrHNbASa4

Bald Eagle Migration at Loess Bluffs: A Winter Wildlife Reflection

Witness over 1,000 bald eagles and thousands of waterfowl at Loess Bluffs, Missouri—an unforgettable winter wildlife experience and reflection on patience in nature.

A solitary bald eagle perched high in a bare cottonwood, overlooking a marsh filled with thousands of geese and swans below. Morning light brushes the scene with gold, while the water shimmers beneath the restless movement of wings.

There is always one moment in the field that stays with me longer than the rest. Not the loudest or most dramatic—but the one that quietly anchors everything else. At Loess Bluffs, it was this: a single bald eagle perched in stillness above a restless world. Beneath him, the marsh churned with life. Snow geese lifted in great, swirling clouds. Canada geese called out in steady, familiar rhythms. Trumpeter swans moved like drifting light across the water. And yet, above it all, the eagle remained unmoved—watchful, patient, grounded.

I remember raising my camera, then hesitating.

The instinct is always to shoot quickly when everything is happening at once. But something about that moment asked for restraint. The eagle wasn’t hunting—not yet. He was observing, waiting, reading the movement below with a kind of quiet authority. So I slowed down. I watched the way the morning light caught the white of his head against the dark branches. I waited for the subtle turn, the slight shift that would bring the scene into balance. And when I finally pressed the shutter, it felt less like capturing an image and more like entering into the rhythm of the moment itself.

Photography often teaches me what I’m unwilling to practice elsewhere.

I rush. I anticipate. I try to force meaning instead of allowing it to unfold. But standing there, beneath that cottonwood, I was reminded that clarity rarely comes through urgency. The eagle did not need to chase the moment—it would come in its own time. Strength, in that space, looked like stillness. Awareness. Trust.

When I look at this photograph now, I don’t just see a bird above a marsh. I see a posture—a way of being I am still learning. To be present without striving. To observe without controlling. To wait without anxiety. The world below may surge with noise and motion, but there is always an invitation to rise above it, to find a quiet place of perspective.

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is simply watch…and be ready.

How to Take Better Nature Photos Without Expensive Gear | Sunflower Field Story

Plains of sunflowers stretch across the prairie. Taken at Lake Scott State Park, Kansas.

There’s a common belief in photography that better gear leads to better photos. Bigger lenses, newer cameras, sharper glass. For a long time, I thought that mattered more than anything else.

But somewhere out in western Kansas, standing before a vast field of sunflowers, that idea began to fade.

The camera in my hands wasn’t anything special. Nothing about it would impress a gear list or spark a debate online. But the scene in front of me didn’t need anything more.

Rows of sunflowers stretched across the land, each one turning toward the light like it knew exactly where to look. The wind moved through them in soft waves, and for a moment, everything felt still—even though nothing was actually standing still at all.

That’s when I was reminded: better photography rarely begins with better equipment. It begins with attention.

Slow Down Before You Ever Press the Shutter

Standing at the edge of that sunflower field, it would have been easy to start shooting immediately. Wide shots, close shots, details—move quickly before the moment changes.

Instead, I paused.

I watched how the light touched the tops of the flowers first, then slowly worked its way down the field. I noticed how the rows created natural lines that pulled the eye into the distance. I waited until I felt like I understood the scene before trying to capture it.

That small decision changed everything about the photos I took.

Learn Light Instead of Chasing Equipment

In western Kansas, light can feel wide and honest. There’s little to block it, nothing to soften it unless the sky decides to do so.

On this day, the sun sat low enough to cast a warm glow across the field. The sunflowers weren’t just yellow—they were glowing, each petal catching light differently depending on its angle.

No lens can replace that kind of light. But any photographer can learn to recognize it.

Get Closer (Physically and Emotionally)

A sunflower field is naturally impressive from a distance. It’s tempting to keep it all in frame—to show the scale and the sweep of it.

But the strongest images often came when I moved closer.

One flower leaning slightly away from the rest. A cluster of petals catching backlight. A single stem standing just a bit taller than the others.

The field became less about size—and more about presence.

Work With What You Have

There was nothing special about the gear I used that day. No secret lens. No technical advantage.

But limitations have a way of focusing your attention.

Instead of thinking about what I couldn’t do, I focused on what was right in front of me: composition, light, and timing.

Those three things will always matter more than specifications.

Be Patient—Nature Works on Its Own Time

A sunflower field changes constantly. Clouds shift. Wind passes through. Light moves across the land like it’s never going to repeat itself—and it won’t.

I stayed longer than I originally planned. I waited for moments where the wind softened, where the light settled just right, where the field seemed to pause between movements.

Those are the moments you don’t rush.

They arrive on their own.

Focus on Meaning, Not Perfection

When I look back at that day, I don’t remember camera settings or technical details.

I remember the feeling of standing in a field that seemed to stretch farther than it should. I remember the quiet rhythm of the wind moving through the flowers. I remember how small I felt in the best possible way.

And that’s what the photo carries forward.

Not perfection—but presence.

Final Thoughts

Photography has a way of teaching you how to see again.

Not just to look at a scene, but to notice it.

That sunflower field in western Kansas didn’t need expensive equipment to be beautiful. It only needed someone willing to stop long enough to pay attention.

And that’s still where the best images begin.

Driving Industry

Behind the Camera

Recently, I completed the project planned for this year. The goal was to visit twelve historic sites that would highlight the story of Kansas’ history. The sites ranged from prehistoric land that sat at the floor of a large, shallow intercontinental ocean to the modern age of technology and industry. I photographed each site at night, most with the beautiful Milky Way galactic core rising above the landmark. Those photos have been used in my new calendar for 2026. That calendar is pretty good, if I do say so myself.

As I traveled there was one photograph that I was looking to discover. One photograph to summarize the story of the project. One photograph that I never discovered. That is until after the calendar was completed and sent off to the printer.

Those jewels of nature often pop up in the most unexpected times and places. This was no different. I was driving from my home in southeast Kansas to the Honda service center in Bartlesville, Oklahoma. It’s only about a 45-minute drive. I was still in Kansas when I saw an old oil pump in the middle of an open field.

That may not sound exciting, but I am learning that when something grabs my attention then it’s time to stop and explore a little more. Pulling the car off the highway, I noticed several things. First, the position of the pump. It seems that most pumps face the east and west. I don’t know why that is, but it just is. I look for subjects that face north and south (preferably north), because the Milky Way rises in the southern sky. Second, I look for the background. Cluttered backgrounds are more challenging to photograph the night sky. Especially if the scene needs a panorama (A panorama is several photographs taken side-by-side and stitched together as a single image). Finally, I like to set the camera low and aim the lens upward to catch the subject and the sky.

This particular oil pump checked all the blocks; facing north, open field behind, and the gravel road leading to the pump was perfect for the high angle composition that I was hoping to find. Also, a new moon was only days away and the moon would rise a couple of hours after the Milky Way. The coup de grace was that tonight’s weather forecast was for clear skies!

Taking note of the location of this gem, I continued to my car appointment. In the evening, I returned to this site for a wonderful reward. The only downside was the small community airport sat off to the southwestern edge of the scene. The light beacon of the control tower turned and flashed through the lower sky. I didn’t notice this during the daylight and I’m glad. Otherwise, I may have been tempted to keep looking for another candidate.

I decided to set up and take the shot anyway. I’m so glad that I did! This was the image I was looking for. The timeless beauty of the Milky Way over the prairie leading to the oil pump that helped to drive the industrial revolution in Kansas.

Now I am going on a new adventure to walk an ancient path in Spain. As you read this, I am walking the Camino de Santiago. Be sure to watch with me on my YouTube channel at www.YouTube.com/@monkreflections

Geek Speak

This was a fun photograph that includes blending several foreground photos and a photo exposed for the night sky to get the rich Milky Way core. The foreground photos were taken with a Sony a6700 camera and a Sigma 16mm, f/1.4 lens. This image is actually six photographs taken with a shutter speed of 15 seconds at f/5 to get the greatest depth of field possible. This helps with overall sharpness. The ISO was set to 800 and the white balance was 3800 kelvin.

With the settings as described, I began “light painting” different parts of the ground and the pump. Shining my headlamp on its lowest setting while the shutter was open, it a technique to highlight the details of the foreground. This takes a little experimenting, but soon the image takes shape. After shining the light from the right and left sides (never directly from the position of the camera), shadows can be eliminated or accentuated to taste. The photos are then blended in post editing.

Turning to the sky, I used my faithful settings of f/1.4, shutter speed of 10 seconds, ISO of 3200, and white balance at 3800 kelvin. These setting pull in the stars, but darken the foreground (which is replaced with the other images).

In post editing, I use Affinity Photo 2, the images are blended together to create this view. I hope you enjoy it.

Beautiful Badlands

Beautiful Badlands

 Behind the Camera.

I am convinced that beauty can be seen in every place. Sure, some require a little more searching, a little more effort to discover the hidden treasures, but somewhere there is a spark, a glitter, a jewel waiting to share its splendor to the explorer, its reward to the one who seeks it out. This belief in beauty motivates me to venture out of the comforts of home and into the wilds of nature. What about you? Is there a seed of desire, perhaps deeply planted in the core of your soul, yearning to discover hidden beauty?

This wanderlust, as its sometimes called, led me to western Kansas. I visited this place three years ago. I had read about some unique rock formations near Lake Scott State Park. After driving nearly 400 miles across Kansas, I came to Little Jerusalem Badlands State Park. Little Jerusalem sits between Oakley and Scott City. It is a geological marvel and a historical landmark.

Some say that this place got its name because from a distance it looks like the ancient walls of Jerusalem. George Custer once settled in the area. Native people roamed the area and a battle between people led by Chief Little Wolf and Colonel William Lewis was fought in the area. Wagon trains and stagecoach lines transited through here. They called the formations “Castle City.”

Apache, Commanche, and Kiowa traveled through this land. Before people lived here, this was home to a very different environment. Part of a vast intercontinental ocean, these formations were formed from sediment on the ocean floor. Fossils of prehistoric sea creatures remain throughout the area. Fossilized sharks teeth and mollusks have been discovered in road cuts.

The land itself is call “badlands” but what I witnessed was beautiful badlands. The open plains of western Kansas is like a large flat floor. Suddenly, the floor opens and there in an unexpected canyon the great chalk-stone pillars reach upward. As if they are attempting to claw their way to the sky.

When one looks at the clear night sky, filled with billions of stars, the reason for the upward reach of these strange rocks becomes more apparent. It is too beautiful to remain at the canyon bottom. Even the rocks look upward to see the beauty of the Milky Way as it streaks across the sky over Little Jerusalem Badlands.

Geek Speak.

I tried to get this photo once before. Unfortunately, the clouds obscured the galactic core and I tried to do too much with the composition. I tend to make things more complicated than they need to be, and it shows in the final product.

However, this night the sky was clear. A full moon was preparing to rise and threatened to blow out the sky, but there was a narrow window of time for the photograph. So, I setup my Sony a6700 camera on a tripod. Using a Sigma 16mm, f/1.4 lens, I planned a single exposure. My settings at this 16mm focal length were an aperture of f/2.2 and ISO at 3200. The shutter speed was set to 8 seconds.

With the lowest light setting on my headlamp, I set the timer for 10 seconds. Triggering the shutter, I ran about 10 feet to the right of the camera and “light painted” the grass in the foreground. I then took a second image, this time turning the light setting on my headlamp to its strongest setting. Once again, I ran about 10 feet to the right and painted the rock formations down inside the canyon. Back at the studio, I blended these photos and the result was this image of the Milky Way extending over the park. This is “Beautiful Badlands.”

Little Things That Stretch Our Limits

Barn Swallow

Behind the camera.

It’s good to push yourself, stretch your abilities, and try the seemingly impossible. That is the story of this photograph. This is a barn swallow. It’s one of hundreds that were flying about, darting in and out of the building that I had come to photograph on this trip.

To get a feeling of this challenge, go to a baseball game and try to photograph a curve ball thrown from pitcher to catcher and get a clear, sharp image. Well, these birds are about the size of a baseball, and they dart around extremely fast. I sat and observed to see if there was a flight pattern that would help me predict how they would fly, but I couldn’t observe any sort of pattern.

After an hour of just observing, I realized the swallows were hunting. They were catching flying insects and darting about to snatch other flying things out of the air. So, that added to the fascination and the challenge to photograph the birds.

I had come to this place in search of an old church building. A photo of the building was posted on Facebook. Directions were vague. I knew that it was in Phillips County, Kansas and somewhere north of the small town of Agra. Agra is a 5-1/2 hour drive from my home in southeast Kansas. The town is less that 15 miles from the Nebraska border. However, the photo showed the church deteriorating and I knew that it would not be around in the future. So, it was a mission to photograph the church. I hoped to photograph a sunset and the Milky Way extending over the old building.

The local farmer who owns the land where the church is located, was working his fields. I spoke with him and with his permission, stayed the night to take photos. When I sat up my gear inside the building, I discovered at least twenty barn swallow nests along the ceiling. There was stillness interrupted by a flurry of swallows flying through the window openings. They were bringing their insects to feed the young in the nests.

The swallows fly around checking me out, but soon they realized that I was no threat and they ignored my presence. It was fascinating to watch them through the evening.

I returned outside to sit and watch and try to photograph these little darts. It was a challenge to just acquire the birds in the camera’s viewfinder. Tracking a bird long enough to take the photo was another level of difficulty. Then to get a photograph with the right lighting, distance, and stability was nearly impossible. However, persistence pays off sometimes. Out of forty-five photographs that I took that evening, this one is worth sharing. It isn’t perfect, but it feels like success.

Geek speak.

If you read the story of this photograph, you know this was a challenging experience. I was using my Sony 200-600mm, f/5.6-6.3 G lens on a Sony a6700 camera. With the focal length set to 350mmm and the aperture at f/6.3, I could set the shutter speed to 1/3200 of a second to freeze the motion of the birds and still have enough light exposure to get the details. All that I needed was for a bird to fly toward me at the right height.

As I wrote earlier, I took forty-five photos that evening. Some only captured part of a bird as it suddenly darted out of the frame. Some were flying away and were just uninteresting. Others were too far or too near or flying into the setting sun. However, this one was just right. Flying about 30 feet away, it was curious about what I was doing and turned to fly over my head. As he did, I got this photograph. It isn’t perfect, but I had been pushed to use my limited photography skills. It certainly stretched my abilities. And I had captured what seemed at first to be impossible. I hope you enjoy it.