tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6679015883862006162024-03-05T20:29:16.882-08:00Dan Suzio PhotographyThe story behind the photos: encounters with snakes, frogs, lizards, bugs, birds, and other interesting critters.Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-3765889678163046132024-01-21T12:20:00.000-08:002024-01-23T18:26:59.375-08:00Patricia Caulfield<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5zJc3gBbGXfypdW6a5UZsIfDuWop657PXfAOOAoAzofe9J8uKP-Ac-lUdSXMK5n-Ci75bXoDMy9R-tHXXpKfgMtPAfIEx-KO57t2iqYSCE0mUK7ZhGmdysIgfx4RULKfQKU-V4mPEWxZQa-XVW1c_Qf6JNGMseO1H3avG-dngUvCpLceBwOmzML4rAc/s1000/IMG_6636.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1000" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5zJc3gBbGXfypdW6a5UZsIfDuWop657PXfAOOAoAzofe9J8uKP-Ac-lUdSXMK5n-Ci75bXoDMy9R-tHXXpKfgMtPAfIEx-KO57t2iqYSCE0mUK7ZhGmdysIgfx4RULKfQKU-V4mPEWxZQa-XVW1c_Qf6JNGMseO1H3avG-dngUvCpLceBwOmzML4rAc/w640-h460/IMG_6636.jpg" width="640" /> </a> <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I recently learned of the death of photographer and editor Patricia
Caulfield last September. (I'm surprised I missed it at the time.) Many people know her as the photographer who
successfully sued Andy Warhol for copyright infringement. But I remember
her for a much more personal connection. Though I never met her,
Caulfield’s work had a powerful influence on me, making me think about
photography in new ways.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TrdjWgTPQ79HPWU2_d0TOKI1TynDWEEVcvqQKI9gVS0KOswRCNtkMZGADVKH4TL67nSaw0HfRzXGfhLrBNnMzQvae0FCGVTMuPtGmxlMSk5vKDutsvEWfEDt2-HfkF9C9ms9ljeDc37seOXDUoSwKleaxRyA3kOFwIYyj8utdDuzskIuxBEW36tLbW0/s1000/IMG_6648.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="1000" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TrdjWgTPQ79HPWU2_d0TOKI1TynDWEEVcvqQKI9gVS0KOswRCNtkMZGADVKH4TL67nSaw0HfRzXGfhLrBNnMzQvae0FCGVTMuPtGmxlMSk5vKDutsvEWfEDt2-HfkF9C9ms9ljeDc37seOXDUoSwKleaxRyA3kOFwIYyj8utdDuzskIuxBEW36tLbW0/w640-h458/IMG_6648.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><p></p><p>Before her book on the Everglades was published in 1970, the
photographers I was most familiar with - people like Ansel Adams and
Edward Weston - were westerners, and their work reflected the western
esthetic of heroic landscapes and strong contrast, as well as the
commitment to maximum sharpness and depth-of-field they shared with
other members of Group f/64. Caulfield’s work was different, and not
just because it was in color. There was a sense of mystery in her photos
that was no less awe-inspiring than that of Adams, Weston, et al. She
photographed in every kind of light, day and night. She used sharpness
and depth-of-field in creative ways, and was not afraid of motion blur,
underexposure, or grain when it suited her purpose. (Given the iffy
quality of color film in the sixties, grain wasn’t always a choice, but
she made it work to her advantage.)</p><p>Was this a gender-based difference? Well, maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe
maybe. Group f/64 exhibitions included at least four women - Imogen
Cunningham, Sonya Noskowiak, Alma Lavenson, and Consuelo Kanaga - all of
whom shared a similar esthetic to the men in the group. Since then I’ve
seen so much variety in photographic styles that I don’t think it’s
possible to generalize about male or female photographers. (A photo
editor once described my photos as “very feminine.” I took it as a
compliment, but again I don’t think the description is really valid.
Better to say my work is compassionate, empathetic, or personal,
emotions that both men and women are capable of expressing in their art
and in their lives.) <br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmpW1DLCLBdkQi_LYqhk2gcwSpiG4Pnp-hEnrYJW4hH2W0NDnR-QXZTpFhdlqio27sf2izQSYYj8urETKTGjc42TChcaOTxhckkxcN5FPdW6lfyhwR2f0mkJFHF7pPpTjT8r8blYes8l2ocnxGEX6xFNgQef1e3f4631YEIy0-1HnZeFdY3e4E-TXDTI/s1000/IMG_6638.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="1000" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmpW1DLCLBdkQi_LYqhk2gcwSpiG4Pnp-hEnrYJW4hH2W0NDnR-QXZTpFhdlqio27sf2izQSYYj8urETKTGjc42TChcaOTxhckkxcN5FPdW6lfyhwR2f0mkJFHF7pPpTjT8r8blYes8l2ocnxGEX6xFNgQef1e3f4631YEIy0-1HnZeFdY3e4E-TXDTI/w640-h468/IMG_6638.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p> </p><p>The subject matter of that book also inspired me. The Everglades are a
habitat unlike any that we have in the west, and the fact that this
tropical wilderness existed in the United States was a revelation to me.
(I had actually visited Florida in the summer of 1970 but didn’t get a
chance to see the “real” Everglades.) It made me want to travel, to see
as many diverse habitats as I could.<br /><br />Patricia Caulfield’s work
made me think much more seriously about my photography and helped me
develop my own visual style. I will always be grateful for her
influence.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4GCyrnqSkYM41U9-HgK8C64Qs33iAG0I2l33OLv5ml5QZQKdcDdKFQcSI0gAzF-fQCIFB8dL4dKhYk5DaxRNR08TlOHIVGkx24aBbeMVFhIAqAAjaU7AbRA1QBa86yHv2lOk40o1CtZXxEogZfg6c5vT_kTUtGfWTXO3DyxwH3DBT5Syi0JuprVlVfg/s1000/IMG_6644.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="715" data-original-width="1000" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4GCyrnqSkYM41U9-HgK8C64Qs33iAG0I2l33OLv5ml5QZQKdcDdKFQcSI0gAzF-fQCIFB8dL4dKhYk5DaxRNR08TlOHIVGkx24aBbeMVFhIAqAAjaU7AbRA1QBa86yHv2lOk40o1CtZXxEogZfg6c5vT_kTUtGfWTXO3DyxwH3DBT5Syi0JuprVlVfg/w640-h458/IMG_6644.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> <p> <br /></p>Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-39137456421554346352023-04-04T18:26:00.000-07:002023-04-04T18:27:13.195-07:00One Big Capy Family<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000AlRjNJ0lS3g/s/500/I0000AlRjNJ0lS3g.jpg" /></div>
<p style="text-align: left;">It’s a rodent that can weigh as much as 150 to 200 pounds. Some people might be creeped out by that thought, but for me it was one more reason to go to Brazil. Along with the jaguars, ocelots, anteaters, monkeys, and macaws, I wanted to see a capybara.</p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000dINNnf2QeMw/s/500/I0000dINNnf2QeMw.jpg" /></div>
<p style="text-align: left;">As it turned out, capybaras seemed to be everywhere in the Pantanal. We found them at nearly every location we visited, sometimes walking on the dirt roads in front of our vehicle, and generally unperturbed by our presence. On our daily excursions we saw and photographed family groups of up to twenty or more in a variety of habitats - grazing in a meadow like a herd of deer, frolicking in a pond like a strange hybrid of hippos and otters, or just hanging out on a riverbank.</p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000DICsXmdOZFY/s/500/I0000DICsXmdOZFY.jpg" /></div>
<p style="text-align: left;">Capybaras may not be the most dramatic or awe-inspiring of tropical animals, but there’s just something special about them.<br /><br />
Want more? <a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/gallery/Capybara-Hydrochoerus-hydrochaeris/G0000ehMBxz4ipnE/C0000TC1eNvVktxA">Click here to explore the Capybara Gallery</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-61639897525416479992023-02-26T14:58:00.015-08:002023-02-28T09:49:20.658-08:00High-speed Hand-off<div class="separator"><p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000NfwOFlhkbyo" target=""><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000NfwOFlhkbyo/s/500/I0000NfwOFlhkbyo.jpg" /></a>
</p></div>
<p>One of the joys of moving to a new city, or even a new neighborhood, is getting
to know the local wildlife. Every ecosystem, no matter how small, has its own
mix of species. When my family moved from Berkeley to Benicia we saw a lot of
familiar backyard critters – Fox Squirrels, Scrub Jays, Lesser Goldfinches –
and, because our new home was close to the water and in a more suburban area, a
lot of different ones as well. For one thing, Benicia has more Northern
Mockingbirds than any other place I’ve been. We often see Canada Geese, Western
Gulls, and even Ospreys and an occasional Bald Eagle flying over the house. And, with the abundance of open space and grassy hillsides, we see far more raptors than we did in our urban neighborhood in Berkeley. Red-tailed Hawks, Red-shouldered Hawks, and Cooper's Hawks are the most common, along with an abundance of Turkey Vultures.<br /></p><p>My
favorite new neighbors were the pair of White-tailed Kites who built a nest just
four blocks from our house. When I first saw them in late March they were still
building and I was able to photograph them carrying sticks to the tree. Over the
next couple weeks, although I couldn’t see the nest itself, I photographed the
male bringing food to the female, who was presumably incubating their eggs. (In
kites it’s normally the female who cares for the eggs and hatchlings while the
male hunts. The sexes look alike so of course I can’t be absolutely sure this
couple was following tradition.)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000ZYXSxQoHZe8" target=""><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000ZYXSxQoHZe8/s/500/I0000ZYXSxQoHZe8.jpg" /></a></p>
<p>One morning in April it had all changed. A
half dozen crows were in the top of the nest tree with no kites in sight. I
waited for the kites to come back and chase them off but they never returned.
After checking again over the next few days it was clear to me that the crows
had eaten their eggs and the kites weren’t going to try again, at least at that
location. </p><p>Then in June I noticed an adult kite spending a lot of time in a tree
on our street and followed it to a nesting site just two blocks away. The new
nest was in a taller and denser tree that was even more difficult to photograph
than the first. Again I could watch as the adults flew in and out but there was
no way to see into the nest. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000ClXNGqTlzdA"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000ClXNGqTlzdA/s/500/I0000ClXNGqTlzdA.jpg" /></a><br /></p>
<p>My big break came in July when the chicks fledged.
After leaving their nest the two fledglings made their temporary home in a Coast
Redwood in the alley behind our house. I could literally photograph them from my
back yard. The short time they spent in that tree was a real privilege to
witness. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000MlF6zxvG6vk"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000MlF6zxvG6vk/s/500/I0000MlF6zxvG6vk.jpg" /></a></p>
<p>A chick would stand in the top of the tree and flap its wings, jumping
in the air, repeatedly practicing its takeoff and landing technique. Other times
the two of them would play tag, sometimes joined by one of their parents,
chasing one another across the sky, spiraling together, nearly colliding,
getting faster and more skilled with each passing day. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000VSnBlrZrRaM"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000VSnBlrZrRaM/s/500/I0000VSnBlrZrRaM.jpg" /></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000fJlBiKxjOTw"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000fJlBiKxjOTw/s/500/I0000fJlBiKxjOTw.jpg" /></a></p>
<p>At first the adults would
bring food directly to their babies but as the days went on they made them work
harder and harder for every meal. An adult would fly past the tree with a vole
in its talons, calling for a chick to come and get it. When one of the young
birds followed, the adult would let it get almost close enough to grab the
rodent, and then surge ahead in a surprising burst of speed, making the hungry
chick fly even faster. The successful hand-off you see in the next three photos happened on the third attempt. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000792yqA2WtEQ"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000792yqA2WtEQ/s/500/I0000792yqA2WtEQ.jpg" /></a> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000E6qjfuRAmJg"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000E6qjfuRAmJg/s/500/I0000E6qjfuRAmJg.jpg" /></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000Zwf6puUrGlc"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000Zwf6puUrGlc/s/500/I0000Zwf6puUrGlc.jpg" /></a></p>
<p>After about a week of these fantastic displays the family
moved on, probably for a few hunting lessons in the local hills before the young
birds were fully on their own. I was very sad when they didn’t nest in our
neighborhood the following year, and I’m hoping they will return in 2023. </p><p>Would you like to purchase a print? Click on the photos to see a variety of print sizes and framing options, or <a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/archive">click here to explore my photo catalog</a>.</p><p> </p>Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-26310703672894306482023-01-10T16:34:00.019-08:002023-01-12T10:22:38.172-08:00Jaguar Crossing<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I00008ILBalsvyR8"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I00008ILBalsvyR8/s/500/I00008ILBalsvyR8.jpg" /></a></p>
<p>Before every trip I spend some time thinking about what I want to photograph. It might be something general - “I want to find some eagles” - but it can often be very specific. For example, if I’m going to the southwest I might imagine a cactus wren perched on a cholla, with a little backlighting to emphasize the spines of the cactus. The more I think about specific compositions, and what it might take to make them happen, the more likely I am to get the shot that I want - or at least something like it. As we all know, nature often has other plans. Patience and flexibility are always key to successful wildlife photography.</p>
<p>When I started thinking about the Brazilian Pantanal, and more specifically about the jaguars I hoped to see, I imagined a variety of photo scenarios. There were the dream shots, of course. A mother with her newborn kittens. Two males fighting for dominance. A jaguar stalking and killing a caiman. Or maybe a jaguar eating an anaconda eating a capybara – the turducken shot. My imagination can run wild, especially when thinking about a place I’ve never been before.</p><p></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000_OTeXtoUZTY"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000_OTeXtoUZTY/s/500/I0000_OTeXtoUZTY.jpg" /></a></p>
<p>But the photo I imagined most often was a simple one: a wide view of a river, surrounded by jungle, with a jaguar swimming across in the foreground. I didn’t know how likely I was to find that scene, but I knew I was going to try.</p>
<p>Jaguars are the biggest cats in the Americas and the third largest in the world (only lions and tigers are bigger), and their population has declined by about 20-25% over just the past thirty years. Once common everywhere from Argentina to the southwestern United States (they were known from Monterey County, California, as recently as the early 20th Century), about half the total population now lives in Brazil, with smaller populations in Mexico and other Central and South American countries.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000RR3gLJNZQcI"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000RR3gLJNZQcI/s/500/I0000RR3gLJNZQcI.jpg" /></a> </p><p>The Pantanal, in west-central Brazil, is the largest tropical wetland in the world, and it’s home to the largest concentration of jaguars. It also attracts an ever-growing number of wildlife photographers. Every morning and afternoon dozens of small boats head out from the village of Porto Jofre to cruise the Cuiabá and Piquirí Rivers in search of big cats hunting along the banks. Our group spent three full days here, with about seven hours per day on the water. We photographed hundreds of birds, caimans, and capybaras while keeping an eye out for jaguars.</p>
<p>There are plenty of jaguars here but that doesn't mean they're always easy to see or photograph. The marshy riverbanks are lined with thick vegetation, and jaguars are masters of stealth and camouflage. I estimate that only about half of our jaguar sightings resulted in usable photographs. Not that I'm complaining, of course. I'm very happy with the photos that you see on this page, and it’s a privilege just to see these magnificent animals in their habitat. But let me tell you about the one that got away ... <br /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000c1HaP6PeL74"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000c1HaP6PeL74/s/500/I0000c1HaP6PeL74.jpg" /></a></p>
<p>One afternoon we watched as a jaguar killed a big caiman no more than thirty feet from our boat, while the only thing we could see was the violent thrashing of the marsh grass and an occasional glimpse of a leg or tail, as two of the world's most powerful animals fought to the death. The caiman never really had a chance, but it made the jaguar work hard for its dinner. As a photographer it was extremely frustrating; as a naturalist it was one of the most exciting moments I’ve ever experienced. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000OPB4K7SEXqk"><img src="https://m.psecn.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000OPB4K7SEXqk/s/500/I0000OPB4K7SEXqk.jpg" /></a></p>
<p>On our second day on the river, I saw my chance for the crossing shot when a young male cautiously approached the water. After a couple of false starts it walked into the current and swam across, with nothing to obscure the view from our boat, and I was ready for it. Among the thousands of frames I shot in Brazil, this one was exactly what I had hoped for. With all the no-shows, near-misses, and other disappointments that come with wildlife photography, it’s a real joy to celebrate a success like this one.</p><p> </p><p>Would you like to purchase a print? Click on the photos to see a variety of print sizes and framing options.</p><p> <br /></p><p> </p>Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-23854376430143250852015-05-06T16:10:00.002-07:002016-03-27T10:16:50.866-07:00Rebecca JackrelEarly in 2007 I attended my first <a href="http://nanpa.org/" target="_blank">NANPA</a> conference, in Palm Springs. It was an exciting time; I had just quit my day job to be a full-time photographer. I was also a little apprehensive, because I didn’t expect to know anyone there, and I’m not the most outgoing person in the world.<br />
<br />
There were no formal events the first night of the conference, so after checking in I went to the members’ photo exhibit. There was one photo in particular, of an Alaskan moose, that I kept coming back to. I don’t remember most of the details – just that its eyes were very compelling and I needed to stop and look at it for a few minutes. I noticed a woman standing next to me, apparently also entranced by the photo, so I said something to her about it. She told me it was hers, and she had been loitering nearby so she could hear what others had to say about it. Her name was Rebecca Jackrel.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.jmg-galleries.com/blog/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUsamNvbHyqFROD04PbtKdgHRUuZdmo2Lto905kCg1eh-dFJQbDBeHHUvGEOXhCCMOop7cbkyP8vewDO1vRD3XRcWf3nJl-PPEJFIYrTu_-91xQmkbuN2C_LTpUpQZQefRKdeGZkGtrc/s1600/Rebecca+Jackrel+by+Jim+Goldstein+JMG9825.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /> </a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rebecca Jackrel, photographed by Jim Goldstein</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Later that evening, Rebecca and I were part of a small group that shared a few beers in the hotel bar, followed by dinner at a nearby restaurant and much conversation about nature photography. We talked again several times over the next few days, and by the end of the conference I thought of her as a friend.<br />
<br />
Since that weekend our paths have crossed many times, though we’ve rarely seen each other in person. Her name seems to come up whenever two or more Bay Area nature photographers get together, whether at a gallery opening, a Bay Nature party, or, as happened last year, at a pileated woodpecker’s nest. She came to the opening for an exhibit of my photos in Berkeley, and when I published my book on Death Valley she wrote a <a href="http://rebeccajackrel.blogspot.com/2012_01_01_archive.html" target="_blank">review</a>. When her gorgeous book on the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0981581315/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0981581315&linkCode=as2&tag=deatvallphots-20&linkId=6XOPTGCPCTEFB4UF" target="_blank">
Ethiopian wolf</a> was in the planning stages, she asked me for advice on choosing a printer and other production services. Mostly, though, we stayed in touch on Facebook, where we admired each other’s photos and followed each other’s photographic adventures in Death Valley, Iceland, Ecuador, and other beautiful places.<br />
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It was also on Facebook that I learned of her struggle with cancer and, along with her many friends, worried about the bad news and cheered the good. When she reported, in 2013, that she had completed her chemo and was once again getting out to photograph birds, I felt a tremendous sense of relief.<br />
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But the news was not always good. There was progress and there were setbacks, and Rebecca posted about both, always with a strength, optimism, and grace that were an inspiration to her friends in both good times and bad.<br />
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On March 12, Rebecca posted an update that began, “Well my lovelies, they say all good things must come to an end. I know we all wish we could ride that roller coaster just one more time …” She went on to say that the drugs were not working, her body was used up, and she had simply run out of options. She planned to continue treatment for another month so she could visit Death Valley in the spring once more.<br />
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Rebecca never made it back to Death Valley. Her condition continued to worsen, and she passed away earlier this week. She was 43.<br />
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Rebecca was a remarkable person, a good friend to many, a passionate and tireless advocate for wildlife, and of course a great photographer. She made the world a better place for her friends and, through her work, for countless others as well.<br />
Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-24051845800007649662014-10-19T17:30:00.000-07:002016-03-27T11:13:46.568-07:00The tailless tanager<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In Tandayapa Valley, Ecuador, in 2013 we saw a lemon-rumped tanager that was missing all of its tail feathers. We wondered how a bird could survive with no tail - could it really fly well enough to escape predators?<br />
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Last month I was back in Tandayapa and the tailless tanager was still there, apparently doing just fine.<br />
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Will the tailless tanager still be there in 2015? <a href="http://www.dansuzio.com/ecuador.html" target="_blank">Join me in Ecuador</a> and find out for yourself!<br />
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To purchase prints or license images for use in your publications or products, just click on the photos above, or <a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/gallery/Featured-photos/G0000mCyqai2xS6I/2/1" target="_blank">choose from thousands of other photos here</a>.
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<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-71851735516233982512014-08-26T12:53:00.002-07:002016-03-27T10:19:08.583-07:00Splish, splash ... <br />
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Beside a trail at Yanacocha Reserve, on the slopes of the Pichincha volcano northwest of Quito, was a little pool of water, no more than a foot wide and a couple inches deep. It didn't look like much, but it was pretty popular with the local birds. I sat for a while, and within a few minutes a glossy flowerpiercer approached the pool, waded in, and had a bath.<br />
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Half an hour later, a masked flowerpiercer did the same.<br />
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Over the next hour or so, two species of hummingbirds and an antpitta dropped by as well. The hummingbirds jumped right in, but the
antpitta was apparently a little more shy about bathing in public.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rufous antpitta</td></tr>
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<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-56514073386846810302014-05-26T17:18:00.001-07:002016-03-27T10:19:56.867-07:00A brand-new species, sort of ...<br />
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When you hear about a newly-discovered animal species, it might conjure up images of an intrepid 19th-century British explorer, dressed in a tweed suit and a pith helmet, hacking through the jungle with a small team of porters, going for weeks or months without contact with "civilization."<br />
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But these days, new species are more likely to be discovered in a DNA lab than an uncharted wilderness. That was the case in August 2013, when zoologists announced the discovery of the olinguito, <i>Bassaricyon neblina</i>, a solitary, nocturnal member of the raccoon family that lives in the cloud forests of Ecuador and Colombia. Olinguitos are not really new, of course – and in fact they have been observed, captured, and even exhibited in zoos. But they were always thought to be olingos, a slightly larger and lighter-colored animal that lives in similar, although lower-elevation, habitats.<br />
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In one notable case, an adult female named Ringerl was transferred to zoos in at least five U.S. cities in repeated attempts to get her to breed with a male olingo. She wasn't just waiting for Mr. Right – she was waiting for the right species.<br />
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Then one day Kristofer Helgen, curator of mammals at the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, was looking at some olingo skins and skulls at the Field Museum in Chicago, and found a few that just didn't seem to match the others. A thorough DNA analysis confirmed that he had, in fact, found a new species.<br />
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The olinguito's announcement came as I was preparing for a trip to the cloud forest myself, so naturally I hoped for the chance to photograph one – and in fact I did get that chance, one night in Tandayapa Valley, Ecuador.<br />
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<a href="http://www.dansuzio.com/ecuador.html" target="_blank">Join me in Ecuador</a> for a chance to see an olinguito yourself!<br />
<br />
To purchase prints or license images for use in your publications or products, just click on the photos above, or <a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/gallery/Featured-photos/G0000mCyqai2xS6I/2/1" target="_blank">choose from thousands of other photos here</a>.
Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-35481254415161804182014-04-15T08:51:00.000-07:002016-03-27T10:20:43.550-07:00El condor pasa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000rNQJevDDRZg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Carunculated caracara" border="0" src="http://cdn.c.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000rNQJevDDRZg/s/500/I0000rNQJevDDRZg.jpg" /></a></div>
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Four photographers are aiming our long lenses at a carunculated caracara, one of the signature birds of the treeless Andean paramo. It's a big raptor, about the size of the red-tailed hawks that we know from California. As we approach, we're surprised to learn that, rather than hunting from the air, it spends much of its time scratching in the dirt like a chicken, looking for worms, insects, lizards, and other small prey.<br />
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Suddenly we hear Jorge Cruz, our host and guide, shouting, "Condor! Condor! Condor!"<br />
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Four lenses swing around in unison. Shutters click furiously as the world's largest flying bird approaches, apparently curious about the latest visitors to its territory. The giant vulture soars over our heads, turns, and in less than a minute disappears over the horizon. I guess we weren't as interesting to the bird as it was to us.<br />
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Condors are vultures, and we've all seen plenty of vultures of various species. So you might think that seeing a condor would be much like seeing any other vulture. You might think that, but only until you actually see one. However you think about them – biologically, culturally, spiritually – condors are different.<br />
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The condor has been a part of indigenous Andean art and mythology for thousands of years, and is considered to be the ruler of the physical world. (The word condor is derived from the Quechua <i>kuntur</i>.) In modern times, every country the condor inhabits has adopted it as a national symbol, representing strength and power.<br />
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Physically, condors have an ancient, dinosaur-like appearance, which is only exaggerated by their huge size and the vastness of their mountain habitat. Watching a condor, it's easy to step back in time and imagine it competing with saber-toothed cats for the remains of a giant sloth. Condors soar with no apparent effort, their ten-foot wingspan carrying them up to 120 miles in a day as they search for food.<br />
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After our spiritual experience, we complain about the flat light, the featureless gray sky, and the difficulty of finding the proper exposure for the underside of a black bird. We're photographers, after all. But later, over a dinner of fresh trout, local potatoes, and beans that were picked that morning on the slopes of Mount Antisana, we all agree that photographing an Andean condor was one of the highlights of our time in Ecuador.<br />
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<a href="http://www.dansuzio.com/ecuador.html" target="_blank">Join me in Ecuador</a> for a chance to photograph a condor yourself!<br />
<br />
To purchase prints or license images for use in your publications or products, just click on the photos above, or <a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/gallery/Featured-photos/G0000mCyqai2xS6I/2/1" target="_blank">choose from thousands of other photos here</a>.
Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-57191942021481799182014-03-25T16:03:00.000-07:002016-03-28T11:07:17.211-07:00The bird whispererIn the pre-dawn darkness, Angel Paz leads our group down a steep,
muddy path into the Ecuadorian rainforest. At the end of the trail, we
plant our tripods behind a simple blind made of branches and point our
lenses at ... well, not much. We can barely make out the shapes of trees in the fog. So we wait in silence.<br />
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Before the first hint of daylight penetrates the forest, we hear them. It's a raucous, guttural sound that reminds me a little of scarlet macaws. After a few minutes we begin to see movement. Something's there, we just can't see what it is. So far it's mostly just swaying branches and occasional falling leaves. As more birds arrive, the noise level escalates, with grunts, squawks, and squeals that sound like nothing I've ever heard. My field guide to the birds of Ecuador says it sounds like pigs, and I guess that's as good a description as any.<br />
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With a little more light we can see flashes of white, black, and scarlet as the males fly from tree to tree, shaking branches and calling out to one another. They're competing for the best spot to show off for the females, who wisely stay out of sight. For a photographer it's frustrating, as the birds always seem to be partially or completely hidden by leaves. Finally a male lands on a branch with an unobstructed view. It's not an ideal shot, but with these birds and in this light, it's the best we're going to get. By sunrise, the birds have finished their display and disappeared into the forest.<br />
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The area we're watching is called a lek - a place where birds congregate during mating season. The bird we've come to see is the Andean cock-of-the-rock, one of the most difficult birds to photograph that I've encountered.<br />
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Brothers Angel and Rodrigo Paz make their living as bird guides, and they're remarkably good at it. Together they own and manage Refugio Paz de las Aves, 300 or so acres of protected habitat on the western slopes of the Andes. In recent years their refuge has become a favorite of serious birders from around the world, thanks to their ability to locate hard-to-find species using a combination of calls, feeders, and extensive knowledge of bird behavior.<br />
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After leaving the lek, we followed Angel on other paths into the forest, where our subjects included wood quail, fruit-eaters, guans, barbets, tanagers, and three species of antpittas – two of them on IUCN's Red List of threatened and endangered species.<br />
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One of the more memorable events came near the end of our visit. A small group, some with cameras and others with binoculars and notebooks, was sitting on a bench near a hummingbird feeder. We watched and photographed several species, including the booted racket-tail, green violet-ear, and velvet purple coronet. The star of the show, the one that everyone wanted to see, was the empress brilliant, a large, beautiful, and somewhat uncommon rainforest hummer. We kept seeing them, but they never seemed to stay in one place long enough for a photo, and the view was often obstructed by leaves, branches, or the feeder itself. <br />
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Eventually a gorgeous male landed on a branch, out in the open, with a clear view and a clean background. Just one problem – it was facing away from us. We could see its deeply forked bronze tail and the rich metallic green of its back, but we were missing out on the glittering golden-green of its face and belly, and the shining purple patch on its throat. A couple of us commented that it was facing the wrong way, and someone jokingly asked Angel if he could get it to turn around. As we laughed, Angel stood up and walked toward the bird. When he neared the branch, he raised a hand and made a swirling motion in the air. Right on cue, the bird turned to face us and we got the photos we had asked for.<br />
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Now, I could say a lot about Angel's knowledge of bird behavior. I can point out that he understands how to pique a bird's curiosity, and that he knows how close he can approach without turning that curiosity into fear and flight. But we all saw what happened: someone asked him to make the bird turn around, he waved his hand, and the bird turned around. <br />
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I'll just leave it at that.<br />
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Would you like to photograph birds with Angel Paz? <a href="http://www.dansuzio.com/ecuador.html" target="_blank">Join me in Ecuador!</a>
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To purchase prints or license images for use in your publications or products, just click on the photos above, or <a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/gallery/Featured-photos/G0000mCyqai2xS6I/2/1" target="_blank">choose from thousands of other photos here</a>.
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<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-77708174812860458052014-03-04T11:41:00.000-08:002016-03-27T10:23:10.119-07:00Shining sunbeams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you've spent any time watching a hummingbird feeder, you know how aggressive those little birds can be. In my own backyard, I've watched as one or more Anna's hummingbirds tries to monopolize the feeder, forcing other birds to settle for a quick sip before they're chased away.<br />
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But nothing prepared me for Ecuador's shining sunbeam, <i>Aglaeactis cupripennis</i>, the most aggressive hummer I've ever seen. Larger than most, it chased away every other species that tried to approach. This got to be a little annoying, from a photographer's perspective – at the end of a full day of shooting, 70% of my photos were of sunbeams, with the rest divided between 4 other species. (Eventually I learned a couple of tricks to increase my chances with the smaller species.)<br />
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And when two sunbeams compete for the same feeder or flower, watch out. They don't just try to bluff or intimidate, they actually make contact – chest bumping, hitting with their wings, and grabbing tail feathers in their claws. The sound of their wings as they collided was surprisingly loud, and made me wonder how often a bird is injured in these competitions.<br />
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Sometimes both birds would tumble toward the ground, recovering at the last second to fly in opposite directions, only to return for a rematch. It's a wonder any of them was able to feed, but somehow they managed.<br />
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To purchase prints or license images for use in your publications or products, just click on the photos above, or <a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/gallery/Featured-photos/G0000mCyqai2xS6I/2/1">choose from thousands of other photos here</a>.
Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-17710433308994441642013-12-09T20:30:00.000-08:002016-03-27T10:24:17.795-07:00Aerial acrobats<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000w3fdg1UwsQo"><img alt="Black-tailed trainbearer, Lesbia victoriae" border="0" src="http://cdn.c.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000w3fdg1UwsQo/s/500/I0000w3fdg1UwsQo.jpg" title="Black-tailed trainbearer, Lesbia victoriae" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000w3fdg1UwsQo">Black-tailed trainbearer, Lesbia victoriae</a></td></tr>
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With more than 300 species worldwide, hummingbirds come in a wide variety of sizes, shapes, and colors. One thing they all have in common is their ability to amaze us with their acrobatic skills. A few of them, such as the trainbearers and racket-tails, have extra-long tails that act as counterweights, allowing them to make some remarkably fast mid-air twists and turns. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I0000eTaa4YXbDe8">Sparkling violet-ear, Colibri coruscans</a> </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I00002.IdudEGeSo">Purple-bibbed white-tip, Urosticte benjamini</a> </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/image/I000021aUgxFZius">Shining sunbeams, Aglaeactis cupripennis</a> </td></tr>
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To purchase prints or license images for use in your publications or products, just click on the photos above, or <a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/gallery/Featured-photos/G0000mCyqai2xS6I/2/1">choose from thousands of other photos here</a>.<br />
Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-29221287884563760912013-08-19T12:47:00.001-07:002016-03-27T10:30:41.776-07:00The bullfrog bluesWay back in 1969, folk singers Peter, Paul, and Mary recorded a song called "I'm in Love with a Big Blue Frog." It was a pretty silly song (with an important social message as well), as you can see from this verse:
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<i>Well I'm not worried about our kids, </i><br />
<i> I know they'll turn out neat. </i><br />
<i>They'll be great lookin' 'cause they'll have my face, </i><br />
<i>great swimmers 'cause they'll have his feet!</i><br />
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To a kid who had already spent much of his life in the company of frogs, it seemed even sillier, for reasons that should be obvious: Falling in love with a frog was one thing, but a big <i>blue</i> frog? I mean, c'mon. Everybody knows frogs come in green or brown, with maybe a touch of red or yellow on the legs and belly.<br />
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Later I learned about <i>Dendrobatidae</i>, a family of tropical frogs with skin secretions so toxic (in some species, at least) that Amazonian Indians used them to poison the tips of their arrows. In an adaptation known as aposematism, or warning coloration, these frogs have evolved bright colors, making them easy to see and giving potential predators a clear message that they are not to be messed with. They come in a variety of colors – reds, oranges, yellows, and, yes, even blue. But Dendrobatids are tiny, with most species less than an inch long. Maybe the song should be called "I'm in Love with a Little Blue Frog."<br />
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You can imagine my surprise, all these decades later, when I found myself face to face with a big blue frog.<br />
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(Note to my many friends who are photographers, printers, or graphic designers: Yeah, I know – the frog's not blue, it's cyan. Get over it. Of all the people who have seen these photos, or who saw the actual frog, I didn't hear even one of them exclaim, "Wow! Look at that cyan frog!")<br />
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Now, if you're thinking this encounter happened in some exotic, unexplored wilderness, you're wrong. It was right here in Northern California, and the frog in question was none other than <i>Rana catesbeiana</i>, the common American bullfrog. Commonly green, that is.<br />
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(OK, now a note to my friends who are biologists, copy editors, or just language geeks: Here in California, bullfrogs really are exotic – meaning they're not native. But calling such a common species exotic just sounds wrong to most people.)<br />
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So what's going on here? Why, in a pond with hundreds of ordinary green bullfrogs, would there be one that seems normal in every way except for its striking and improbable color?<br />
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The short, simple answer is that it's a rare mutation. How rare? I really don't know. I found one article that called it "one in a million," but that phrase is so overused that I just take it to mean "very rare," without any specificity. I do know that I've seen thousands of bullfrogs in my life, and this is the first blue one I've come across.<br />
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The details – how a frog gets its color – are surprisingly complicated. Frog skin has three layers of pigment cells, collectively called chromatophores. The deepest layer, the melanophores, contain melanin, which gives a frog its black or dark brown pattern and can make the overall color lighter or darker. At the surface are the xanthophores, which contain yellow pigment. In between are the iridophores, which don't really have any pigment at all – they contain mirror-like crystals that reflect blue light.<br />
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When light hits a frog's skin, it passes through the xanthophores to the iridophores, which reflect blue light back up through the xanthophores – having the effect of adding a yellow filter to the blue light. If you remember finger-painting in kindergarten, you know that mixing blue and yellow will make green, and that's more or less what's happening in a normal frog. Without the xanthophores' yellow filter, we would see the blue reflected by the iridophores.<br />
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In a blue frog, the xanthophores are missing – or maybe they're not. Scientists Michael W. Berns and K. Shankar Narayan analyzed the skin of normal and blue frogs in great detail, but their results were inconclusive. The blue frogs' xanthophores might never have developed properly, or they might have atrophied for another reason, or they could have been replaced by another type of cell. In spite of the obvious importance of this line of research, the question remains unanswered. <br />
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And it gets even more complicated. Biologists have always assumed that the blue mutation was genetic, but when researchers tried breeding blue and normal adults in various combinations, all they got was a whole bunch of little green frogs. That doesn't rule out the possibility of a genetic origin, but, as Berns and Narayan put it, "it appears that expression of the characteristic either does not follow simple Mendelian lines, or is greatly influenced by environmental factors (or both)."<br />
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Whatever the explanation, it all adds up to one very special frog. I think I might be in love.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.peterpaulandmary.com/music/f-08-09.htm" target="_blank"><i>Song lyrics copyright © Leslie Braunstein </i></a><br /><br />
<i>Thanks to Gary Fellers for finding the scientific publications. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Interested in publishing these or other photos? <a href="http://dansuzio.photoshelter.com/contact" target="_blank">Click here for more information.</a> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> </i></span>
Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-2650865770033107922013-07-22T21:16:00.000-07:002016-03-27T10:31:11.935-07:00It's a sheep! It's a bird! It's a ... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Most of my exploring in Arizona has been at lower elevations, in habitats dominated by saguaro, ocotillo, and cholla, and by now I usually know what to expect there. But one afternoon a few years ago, I went for a hike in the Santa Catalina Mountains. Although it's just a short drive from Saguaro National Park, it's a completely different ecosystem, one of Arizona's "sky islands" – small mountain ranges that are isolated from each other by surrounding low desert. As I hiked a trail in the upper part of Bear Canyon, I crossed an open area in the dry pine forest, where a powerful stream cascades down the mountainside, splashing over the exposed granite. Or at least that's what I picture happening in a rainstorm or spring snowmelt. At the time, the streambed consisted only of scattered boulders and a few downed trees. From the trail, I couldn't even see the tiny pools of water that remained in the canyon below me. <br />
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As I walked, I heard a distinctive sound – a sharp, staccato baa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa – that seemed to come from somewhere among the rocks below the trail. I didn't know whether any desert bighorn sheep lived here, but both the habitat and the voice seemed about right. If that was a bighorn, I wanted to find it. <br />
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I slowly made my way down the rocky slope, pausing every few steps to listen for another call. The echoes off the rocks made it hard to know exactly where the sound was coming from. I had to keep changing directions, triangulating, to zero in on the source. <br />
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After about a hundred yards I seemed to be very close. I was surrounded by nothing but rocks and a few small trees. There was no place for a sheep to be hiding, and yet it had to be nearby. By this time I had begun to think it might be a bird I was hearing, so I kept an eye on the trees and the higher slopes of the rocks. Still nothing. I kept moving, as slowly as possible, until eventually I was at a point where the source of that sound couldn't have been more than two or three yards away. <br />
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Finally I saw it. No, it wasn't a bighorn. It wasn't a bird, either. It was a canyon treefrog, the first one I had ever seen – or heard, obviously. After recovering from the shock of being fooled by a frog (after all, I'm supposed to be the frog guy), I refocused my attention and found there were several more within a few yards of me.<br />
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Every species has its comfort zone – or maybe I should say discomfort zone – an invisible circle that defines the area that, if you cross into it, you will usually cause the animal to flee. In a lifetime of watching reptiles and amphibians, I've learned how to cross that line with most of them. As I got closer to the canyon treefrogs, I discovered some pretty cool things about these little critters. <br />
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The first thing I noticed is that they can be pretty hard to see when they're not moving. The pattern on the frog's back blends in perfectly with the granite. I made a few shots showing the camouflage, and others with very shallow depth of field to isolate the frog from its background.<br />
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Even more interesting, and just as challenging to photograph, was the way the vibrations of the male's vocal sac send ripples out across the surface of the water. <br />
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Later that evening, I heard a chorus of hundreds of frogs, a truly impressive sound that echoed up and down the canyon and seemed to come from everywhere at once. (And it didn't sound anything like a sheep.) But it was that first encounter that I remember most vividly, the frog that confused me and reminded me that I really don't know all that much about frogs.<br />
<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-14954276592810611582013-04-02T07:14:00.002-07:002016-03-27T10:31:50.607-07:00Sidewinder races? Really?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I hope you enjoyed my April Fool's Day story! (Some of you may remember it from last year.) It sounds like a few people fell for it, others were amused by it, and some wanted to know how much "truth" the story contained. So, just for the record ...
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<a href="http://www.panamintsprings.com/" target="_blank">Panamint Springs Resort</a>, the <a href="http://dvnha.org/" target="_blank">Death Valley Natural History Association</a>, <a href="http://www.furnacecreekresort.com/" target="_blank">Furnace Creek Resort</a>, and the <a href="http://timbisha.com/" target="_blank">Timbisha Shoshone Tribe</a> are all real organizations. I hope they don't object to my using their names. Bakersfield is a real place, too, or so I've heard.
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All of the historical figures I mentioned are real people. Death Valley Scotty was a well-known con man who I like to imagine would have staged a sidewinder race if he had thought of it. Albert Johnson was a Chicago millionaire who continued to fund Scotty's extravagant lifestyle long after realizing he'd been conned. His vacation home in Grapevine Canyon, which he called Death Valley Ranch, is now known as <a href="http://www.nps.gov/deva/historyculture/scottys-castle.htm" target="_blank">Scotty's Castle</a>. Shorty Harris and Pete Aguereberry were prospecting partners, until Shorty took credit for Pete's gold discovery and named the resulting town Harrisburg (it's now called Aguereberry Camp). <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0965652149/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0965652149&linkCode=as2&tag=deatvallphots-20" target="_blank">Father John Crowley</a> was a priest whose parish covered 30,000 square miles from Bishop to Barstow. He was well known to Death Valley's prospectors.
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<a href="http://www.peta.org/" target="_blank">PETA</a> (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) really does have an anti-fur campaign called "I'd rather go naked." I don't know how often, if ever, their protests have been stopped by a shortage of sunscreen.
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The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yosemite_Firefall" target="_blank">Yosemite Firefall</a> was a real event. Each evening during the summer tourist season, employees of the Glacier Point Hotel would build a bonfire and shove the glowing embers over the cliff after dark. By current standards it sounds like a pretty crazy thing to do in a national park - almost as crazy as holding a snake race in Death Valley.
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Turtle races, rattlesnake roundups, and other cruel forms of "entertainment" really do exist, and various people have tried to <a href="http://www.biologicaldiversity.org/campaigns/outlawing_rattlesnake_roundups/index.html" target="_blank">shut them down</a>. I hope they succeed.
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I can't be absolutely positive, but I'm pretty confident that the following two sentences are true: "The <a href="http://bancroft.berkeley.edu/MTP/" target="_blank">Mark Twain Archive</a> at the University of California has no record of the invitation," and "If you travel to Death Valley next spring looking for the sidewinder races, you're not likely to find them."
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On the other hand, you really can <a href="http://www.cafepress.com/frogphotos/8716473" target="_blank">buy a t-shirt or mug</a> as a souvenir of the fictional race.
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As for the photos - well, as Paul Simon might say, "Mama, don't take my Photoshop away!"
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<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-58578664524830102882013-04-01T08:22:00.000-07:002016-03-27T10:32:18.735-07:00A day at the races<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Excitement was in the air - along with the usual blowing sand - at the annual Stovepipe Wells Sidewinder Races, an event that stands out even in Death Valley, where quirky characters and unlikely occurrences are part of the local history. With a record number of entrants, this year's competition had to be extended to three days, although the party has traditionally lasted somewhat longer. The actual races take place only for about an hour each morning and evening, avoiding the oppressive daytime temperatures and leaving plenty of time for other activities.
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Most entrants this year were self-described "desert rats," although each of the park's major concessionaires and partners also sponsored an entry. Panamint Pete, representing Panamint Springs Resort, fared the best of the sponsored entries, edging out Rambo, the entry of the Death Valley Natural History Association, in the semifinals. Shorty Hairless, entered by Furnace Creek Ranch, and Timbisha, representing the Timbisha Shoshone Tribe, each made it to the quarterfinals. Scotty's Ghost, a rare albino sidewinder entered by a reptile collector from Bakersfield, also performed well but lost in the semifinals.
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In the end, the coveted Slithering Serpent trophy went to Creosote, the entry of a mysterious character who identified himself only as Gyro. After a quick thank you and a cold beer, he hopped into his pickup and slipped away before he could be interviewed.
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Origins clouded
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As with much of Death Valley's history, the origins of the race are clouded by legend and exaggeration. Most popular accounts credit Walter Scott, better known as Death Valley Scotty, with organizing the first race. Scotty was inspired (so the story goes) when he read Mark Twain's "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County," and saw the promotional opportunity in staging a similar event in Death Valley. In a letter to Albert Johnson, his long-time benefactor, Scotty claimed to have invited Twain to visit Johnson's Death Valley Ranch and document the race. Whether Scotty was unaware of Twain's death a decade earlier or had simply let his tendency to exaggerate go too far is not clear. The Mark Twain Archive at the University of California has no record of the invitation.
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Other historians, while acknowledging Scotty's unparalleled marketing skills and role in promoting the event, cite evidence that the idea for the race originated with Pete Aguereberry, the reclusive Basque miner. It was his one-time partner Shorty Harris, they say, who first promoted Pete's idea while claiming it as his own.
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Most accounts agree that the legendary "Desert Padre," Father John Crowley, officiated at that first race, presumably because he was the only observer sober enough to accurately judge the winners. Surprisingly, there are no reports of snakebite, fatal or otherwise, resulting from the race.
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The race was resurrected sometime in the 1960s or 70s - again, no one is really sure - and occurred sporadically over the next couple decades, becoming an annual event around 1996. In the past few years, what began as an informal gathering of desert rats and amateur herpetologists has blossomed into a major celebration.
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The last race?
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Not everyone, however, is celebrating. In 2007 a small group of animal rights activists, inspired by PETA's "I'd rather go naked" anti-fur campaign, attempted to disrupt the race while wearing only sandals and carrying a 30-foot-long inflatable snake. They had to abandon their protest due to a shortage of sunscreen.
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More recent criticism has centered on the safety aspects of handling venomous snakes, and especially on the appropriateness of holding the race in a national park, where all wildlife is protected by law. While the National Park Service has never officially sanctioned the race, rangers have always looked the other way and allowed it to continue. Critics compare it to the Yosemite Firefall - a summer tradition in which burning embers were tossed off Glacier Point - which was discontinued in 1968 because it conflicted with the mission of the national parks.
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Others argue that the race should not exist at all. Animal rights supporters consider it to be cruel and abusive to the snakes, and biologists point out the stress on individual snakes as well as on the natural ecosystem. Most of the snakes are released afterward, but participants don't always return them to the exact locations where they were captured, which can disrupt existing populations.
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In recent years, turtle races and rattlesnake roundups in Texas and other states have been the target of environmentalists and animal rights activists. For many years the Stovepipe Wells race escaped such criticism because it was not widely known, but all that has changed now. If you travel to Death Valley next spring looking for the sidewinder races, you're not likely to find them.
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Been there, done that, forgot to buy the t-shirt? <a href="http://www.cafepress.com/frogphotos/8716473">Get your official Sidewinder Race souvenirs here!</a><br />
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Update: Just in case you didn't notice the date on this post, <a href="http://dansuzio.blogspot.com/2013/04/sidewinder-races-really.html">here's the story behind the story</a>.
Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-43372823811020710342013-03-27T10:52:00.000-07:002016-03-27T10:33:01.346-07:00The cat that waited for me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After a miserable night at Red Rock Canyon – a howling wind that blew dust and whipped the tent all night, plus a too-bright moon and a migraine – Tuesday was a predictably lousy day. By mid-afternoon I was exhausted and just wanted to be home, or at least someplace familiar. So I headed for Wildrose Canyon, on the western edge of Death Valley.<br />
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I don't know why, but Wildrose has always felt like home. Maybe it's just because it was the first place I camped in Death Valley, more than thirty years ago. It's a wide canyon (or narrow valley, if you prefer) full of sagebrush and creosote, rocks and springs – in other words, it's much like any other canyon in the Panamint Range. But, as familiar as it is, Wildrose can still surprise me. In a wet year its hillsides are carpeted with wildflowers. In 2005 it was overrun with cottontails. I saw my first panamint daisy there, practically growing out of the pavement at the side of the road. Its springs are a haven for warblers, finches, orioles, and dozens of other birds, while the rocks are home to chuckwallas and collared lizards. And, while I tend to avoid the noise and crowds of official campgrounds, preferring the solitude of more remote areas, the campground at Wildrose seems to be ignored by most park visitors.<br />
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I arrived at the Wildrose campground at about 5:00 and was happy to see that my favorite spot was available. (In fact, twenty-one of the twenty-two campsites were available.) I immediately felt better, so I set up my tent and decided to look around.<br />
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At the far end of the campground is a trail that passes between a steep hillside on the left and a small spring, thick with mesquite, on the right. A few steps down the trail, I saw a bobcat on the hillside, just above my eye level and no more than ten steps in front of me. I stopped. It stopped. I took a step back; it took a step back. Neither of us knew what to do next. It was so close, and so unexpected, that it took me a few seconds to really understand what it was. I ran through a checklist in my mind: tufted ears ... short tail ... long legs ... spots ... twice as tall as a house cat ... this was definitely a bobcat.<br />
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Have I mentioned that my camera was still in the car, a hundred yards behind me?<br />
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For the next few seconds, while the cat and I stared at each other, I had two conflicting impulses. The first, of course, was to run back for my camera. The other was to stay where I was and enjoy the moment – I had never been this close to a bobcat before, and might never be again. And besides, did I really expect a bobcat to just sit and wait for me?<br />
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I decided to go for the camera. All the way to the car, and all the way back, I cursed myself. How could I be so stupid as to walk away from my camera in a place like Wildrose? I knew I'd never see the cat again, at least not that close.<br />
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I guessed the cat would go up the hill, so on the way back I went up the hill myself, coming over a low ridge a few yards above where it had been. I stood for a while, scanning the hillside as well as the trail and spring below. Nothing. Then I thought I saw movement behind a small shrub about twenty feet below me. Something was different about that bush; the ground behind it was the wrong shade of brown.<br />
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I aimed my lens at the bush, trying to focus beyond the branches on whatever might be behind them. When the cat's face popped into focus I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Yes, the bobcat had sat – literally – right where I had left it, and waited for me to return with my camera. Thank you, Mother Nature!<br />
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I moved left for a better view. The cat looked at me for a moment, then walked downhill toward the spring – and lay down in the shade of another bush. A minute later, it stood up and disappeared into the mesquite.<br />
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I stayed for two days and never saw the cat again. I had three photos, and one more surprise from Wildrose. <br />
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This story was published in <i><a href="http://www.deathvalleyphotographersguide.com/">Death Valley Photographer's Guide: Where and How to Get the Best Shots</a></i>, Nolina Press 2011
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<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-34551635385221585962013-02-06T21:12:00.002-08:002016-03-27T10:35:51.780-07:00Celebrating Death Valley, part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The story so far: After planning to be in Death Valley for the two-day grand re-opening of the Furnace Creek Visitor Center, I encountered <a href="http://dansuzio.blogspot.com/2013/02/celebrating-death-valley-part-1.html">one photographic opportunity after another</a> and missed all of Saturday's events. But I was determined not to miss a Sunday morning panel discussion with the park superintendent and three former superintendents, representing thirty continuous years of Death Valley management.<br />
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Yeah, I know what you're thinking: what kind of geek gets excited about listening to a group of National Park superintendents talking about management challenges? A Death Valley geek, of course. <br />
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Sarah Craighead, superintendent from 2009 through 2012, introduced the rest of the group: Ed Rothfuss (1982-1994), Dick Martin (1994-2001), and JT Reynolds (2001-2009). Each talked briefly about the major issues of his or her tenure, and then the four of them answered questions from a very interested and well-informed audience. Topics covered included the Desert Protection Act of 1994 – the decades-long political battle to pass the bill as well as the challenge of running a park that had grown by more than a million acres overnight. Dick Martin spoke about his efforts to make the Timbisha Shoshone tribe an equal partner in managing a park that is, in fact, their homeland. <br />
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JT Reynolds stressed the importance of being able to work with very different groups of people, each with its own ideas about what the park should be. It sounded at times like he was describing parenthood. "The previous superintendent always approved our events." "We've never had to pay for this before." "Mommy always lets me do this." All four agreed that, sooner or later, a superintendent has to be willing to risk his or her job by standing up for what's best for the park.<br />
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It was clear that these were people who have devoted their careers, and their lives, to the place they love. (They don't just work in the park, they live here.) In fact, there was an obvious affection for Death Valley on the part of each of the participants, and everyone in attendance as well. Every one of us, park employees as well as visitors, had chosen to be there because of our love for Death Valley. <br />
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I spent the next hour just relaxing in the courtyard at Furnace Creek Lodge, something I've rarely, if ever, done before. Normally, if I stop there at all, it's to fill my gas tank, get some ice for the cooler, maybe buy a book or get something to eat, and quickly be on my way. Today, though, felt different. This was a weekend of celebration, and that fact had definitely influenced my attitude toward the crowds. I read a book while listening to two guys with guitars holding an impromptu concert, then had lunch at the 49er Café. <br />
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After lunch it was time for the main event: the dedication, awards, and ribbon-cutting ceremony. The whole thing had a slightly hokey, small-town feel about it, and I say that in the most affectionate and positive way. There was nothing slick about it. Like all similar events, the speeches were a mix of inspiring and dull, polished and halting. One was predictably corporate; another sounded like it was written on the way to the podium. One or two were very moving. Each of the speakers, in his or her own way, expressed the same love of place I had been seeing all day. <br />
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The dedication by Timbisha elder (and former tribal chairperson) Pauline Esteves was especially powerful, though hardly anyone understood the words. Her prayer, in an ancient language now spoken by fewer than two dozen people, was a connection to the past and a reminder to all of us that we are part of a continuum of people who have found spiritual sustenance in Death Valley.<br />
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After the speeches it was time for cake and schmoozing. I chatted with a few people and then saw Alan van Valkenburg, a ranger I've worked with on some interpretive exhibits. We talked about the Visitor Center, the weekend, Death Valley, and our latest encounters with sidewinders. I was about to leave when he said he was leading a tour of the building and would be talking about its history and the challenges of updating it. How could I resist?<br />
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I'm glad I stayed for his talk. The story of modernizing this historic structure is one of conflicts, surprises, and flexibility, as the Park Service worked to balance the needs of historic preservation with modern standards of energy efficiency, water use, safety, and accessibility. That might sound a little boring, but Alan is an enthusiastic and entertaining presenter, and he brought the Visitor Center to life. <br />
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After the talk, I said good-bye to Alan and was ready to call it a day, but Death Valley had other plans. <br />
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Halfway to my car I looked up the road and saw twenty mules pulling a borax wagon, heading my way. It was not a replica. This was an original borax wagon, pulled by a team of twenty mules and accompanied by a handful of cowboys on horseback. I ran alongside them, shooting what I could from various perspectives, not really knowing what kind of photos I'd get. I felt like a little kid, with a big silly grin on my face, and when I looked around I saw the same expression on the dozens of faces that had suddenly appeared along the road. Everyone was smiling and laughing, making jokes about Death Valley Days, and just feeling thrilled to see a bit of living history. <br />
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What a perfect ending to this day of celebration.<br />
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<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-78528533090522295232013-02-05T12:06:00.001-08:002016-03-27T10:39:16.021-07:00Celebrating Death Valley, part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had been planning a fall trip to the East Mojave, so when I heard that the grand re-opening of Death Valley's Furnace Creek Visitor Center was scheduled for the first weekend in November, I decided to make that part of my trip. The decision felt a little out of character for me. I usually avoid people on my Death Valley trips, camping in remote locations and rarely stopping at the Visitor Center or the various museums, gift shops, and restaurants in and around the park. I always buy an annual pass, so I don't even have to stop to pay the entrance fee. <br />
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But this trip would be different. Talks, tours, and other events were scheduled all day Saturday and Sunday, with the dedication and ribbon-cutting ceremony on Sunday afternoon. I spent the previous week camping in Mojave National Preserve, and planned to arrive in Death Valley early Saturday morning. To make sure I arrived on time, I left Mojave Friday evening and spent the night in Baker, home of the world's tallest thermometer. (It's 134 feet high, to commemorate Death Valley's record temperature of 134 degrees.)<br />
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Driving into Death Valley on Saturday morning, I encountered the
typical photographer's dilemma: there was just too much to see and
photograph along the way. My first stop was Saratoga
Spring, especially beautiful in the warm light of sunrise.<br />
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Continuing north, I reached the little town of Shoshone just in time for their annual Old West Days celebration. Naturally I had to stop and browse the booths, pick up a couple of books from the Shoshone Museum, and enjoy a date shake from the China Ranch Date Farm.<br />
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Finally arriving in Death Valley around 4:00 pm, I had to stop for a couple of coyotes who were creating a traffic jam on Badwater Road. No complaints from me, of course – my only problem was that I had to run back to the car for a shorter lens. But I guess someone thought it was a safety hazard, because after a few minutes a ranger pulled up and used her siren to scare the coyotes off the road. They returned as soon as she left.<br />
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By the time I finished with the coyotes, the sun was setting. The obvious thing to do now was shoot evening reflections at Badwater. Oh well, there's always tomorrow.<br />
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After dark I checked in at the newly remodeled Stovepipe Wells Village. The new owners have done a good job of fixing it up – and of course it has a great location, just a mile or so from the sand dunes at Mesquite Flat. But it's still a motel, and it's hard for me to get excited about a motel room, no matter where it is or how it's described. (A "dune view" room faces the highway; a "mountain view" faces the other way. But why would anyone care about the view from their motel room? Just get out and experience the desert!) I had a late dinner in the restaurant, where, as is often the case in Death Valley, there seemed to be a different language spoken at every table. <br />
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Sunday morning I was up early, looking forward to the first event of the day, a panel discussion with the park superintendent and her three immediate predecessors. But that didn't start until 9:00, leaving plenty of time for a walk on the Mesquite Flat dunes. <br />
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The weather was beautiful, and had been all week, which is not necessarily the best time to photograph sand dunes. Without wind, any footprints will remain where they are. A good windstorm restores the natural ripples and textures of the dunes to the pristine condition that everyone wants to photograph. It was immediately obvious that I wasn't going to get that kind of photo. On this morning there were more footprints than I've ever seen, and they were everywhere. <br />
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Even a mile from the parking area there was still a ten-foot-wide path of footprints upon footprints, all making their way toward the highest dune. Off the main path, heading off in all directions, were individual prints of boots, sneakers, sandals, bare feet, hands, arms, legs, huge strides of children's footprints running across the sand, and wide troughs made by people sliding on their butts down the steep sides of the dunes.<br />
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I could have seen all these human-made marks in the sand as ruining my ideal photograph. Instead, I saw stories of exuberance and joyfulness, a celebration of and connection with nature. For someone who usually prefers to be alone in the desert, and was looking ahead with some trepidation to a full schedule of social events, all those footprints turned out to be a pretty good start to the day. <br />
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On the way back to my car I saw the tracks of a sidewinder crossing on top of the human footprints. That made it even better.<br />
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<a href="http://dansuzio.blogspot.com/2013/02/celebrating-death-valley-part-2.html"> Part 2: I finally make it to the celebration.</a>Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-24860080443644056942013-01-16T22:18:00.000-08:002016-03-27T10:40:37.010-07:00Evolution<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One thing you can say about natural selection is that it just doesn't care. It doesn't care about beauty, elegance, or simplicity of design – those are all things that we humans see in nature. As far as biology is concerned, if something works, it works. Never mind how it looks.<br />
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Take aquatic birds, for example. When you see a bird preening its feathers, it's not trying to make itself pretty – again, that's just our interpretation. What it's really doing is spreading oil over its feathers, keeping them clean and water-resistant. All birds have oil glands, and the more time a bird spends around water, the more oil it needs.<br />
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As you might expect, species that spend most of their lives on or under water – grebes and loons, for example – have evolved super-sized oil glands to keep them from getting waterlogged. <br />
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And then there are the cormorants. <br />
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When some distant ancestor of modern cormorants first ventured into the water in search of food, it must have been soaked when it climbed back onto land. So it spread its wings out to dry in the sun. That bird survived and passed its behavior along to its descendants, who never evolved the extra-large oil glands of other aquatic birds. Cormorants – which eat fish and nothing else – can only stay in the water for short periods of time. Then they have to get out and dry off before getting wet again. <br />
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Does this make sense? Would you buy a boat that wasn't waterproof, that had to be hauled out to dry every hour or so? Have cormorants really evolved the most beautiful or elegant solution to the problem of wet feathers?<br />
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Natural selection doesn't care.<br />
<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-62196757631916668712012-12-25T16:13:00.000-08:002016-03-27T10:44:46.101-07:00Remembering my father<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>I wrote the following in January, 2001, after our first Christmas without my father.</i><br />
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I made pancakes for my family on Christmas morning; it was probably the most important and most difficult meal I’ve ever cooked. Anyone who knew my father knows what I mean. <br />
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I learned to cook from my father, although I can’t remember him ever showing me how to cook anything. He certainly never gave me a recipe; I don’t think he ever used one. <br />
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My mother was the everyday cook in our family, making sure dinner was on time and school lunches were packed, day after day and year after year. She made the kind of solid, reliable, meat-and-potatoes meals that our generation now calls comfort food.<br />
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Dad was the special occasion cook. He would take over when we had fresh-caught salmon or trout; he made breakfast on holidays when the house was filled with relatives; and sometimes he cooked just because he wanted to. Some of his best meals happened when he wasn’t expecting to cook – on those rare days when Mom was sick, or even rarer days when she wasn’t home at dinnertime. He found great pleasure in improvising a meal, taking whatever ingredients were available and combining them into something special. Everyday foods became exotic when Dad was in the kitchen. And cooking for people he cared about, whether it was just him and Mom or a houseful of family, was clearly one of his greatest joys. It was that pleasure and creativity that I learned from him, and I feel his influence whenever I cook, whether I’m making a special dinner for guests or just making something new out of a bunch of leftovers.<br />
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Several weeks after Dad died, I had a sudden and stunning realization – that I would never again taste his cooking. It sounds so simple and obvious, but it hadn’t occurred to me before, and it took me to a whole new level of mourning. I started to dread the holidays. I asked myself, over and over, Who will carve the turkey on Thanksgiving? Who will make Christmas breakfast? I didn’t have an answer. <br />
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The night that he died, Dad was thinking of his mother’s cooking. He had asked Mom to buy some fresh spinach, and the next morning he planned to cook it with scrambled eggs, to recreate one of his mother’s specialties. I’ve wondered, since then, how often in the past 25 years he wished he could taste his mom’s cooking again, to savor her hand-made pasta, her perfect gnocchi, her endless variety of cookies. Nonna told me once that she only prayed for her hands, not for her eyes, her ears, or her voice, so she could continue making things for her family as long as she lived. When I was about 14, she gave me her secret pizzelle “recipe.” There was no written recipe, but I made pizzelles with her, carefully following her instructions and frantically writing notes whenever she turned her back. Like Dad, she never used a measuring cup; everything was done by sight, by feel, and by taste.<br />
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It’s been our tradition at Thanksgiving for Mom to cook the turkey and stuffing, and everyone else to bring a side dish. Dad would then carve the turkey at the dining room table. I tried to imagine someone else carving the turkey, but I just couldn’t see it. Nothing I could imagine was acceptable to me. When the day came, and the turkey was cooked, Becky volunteered to do the carving. I think she carved it in the kitchen, but I’m not really sure. I sat at the extra table in the living room, instead of my usual spot in the dining room. It was a relief to have a completely different view of Thanksgiving dinner, rather than the scene I had been dreading – the dining room table without my father.<br />
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As Christmas approached, I found myself thinking constantly of our traditional family breakfast. There’s usually a variety of foods, but Dad’s pancakes have always been the centerpiece of the meal. Anyone who was lucky enough to taste them said Dad's pancakes were the best they’d ever had. Family friends have told me they don’t like pancakes, and never eat them – except at my parents’ house. Whenever someone asked how he made them, Dad would just answer that he used Aunt Jemima’s buttermilk pancake mix. Which was true, sort of – he did start with a box of Aunt Jemima’s – but anyone who thought they could get the same results by following the directions on the box would have been very disappointed. Knowing what brand of mix he started with was about as useful as knowing what kind of spatula he used to flip them.<br />
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I asked Libby and Annie how they felt about having our traditional breakfast, and they were both in favor of it. Mom also wanted it, but she seemed to want to leave it to chance, expecting a spontaneous meal of eggs and pancakes, without a real plan to make it happen. Eventually I realized that if we were going to have pancakes, I wanted to make them. I didn’t know how my brother and sisters would feel about my taking over, but I was willing to take a chance. <br />
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What I remember of Christmas morning is a collection of unconnected moments. I stayed focused on the pancakes, and I remember beating the eggs, scalding the butter (one of the secret ingredients – don’t tell anyone!), and almost forgetting the molasses. Mostly I remember the family all crowded into the kitchen, cooking the eggs and slicing the ham, and offering help and support while I tried to imitate one of Dad’s most admired creations. I was the one mixing and pouring, but I felt like we were all making those pancakes together. And I remember his presence in the room; I think every one of us felt it.<br />
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The pancakes? Mom said they were great.<br />
<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-25830712451140693092012-10-18T11:38:00.000-07:002016-03-27T10:45:28.130-07:00Crossing Mesa ArchEvery trip seems to have its defining moment, the one detail that's remembered long after everything else has become a blur. It might be a <a href="http://dansuzio.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-cat-that-waited-for-me.html">close encounter with a bobcat</a>, or my first glimpse of a rare species. Or it could be a memorable quote from a local character, like the waitress in Montana who had lived in a tent for three years: "It was the seventies, I thought I was Sacagawea." Or Sam, the tow truck driver near Baker: "I been out in this desert twenty-five years and ain't seen one God-damn flyin' saucer." In Canyonlands National Park, it was Laurie.<br />
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Even if you've never heard of Mesa Arch, chances are you've seen a photo of it. It's not the tall, flat-topped one that's pictured on Utah's license plates – that's Delicate Arch. Mesa Arch is long and low, and curves gracefully out over the canyon below. What makes it unique – and attracts a crowd of photographers every morning, each of them planning the perfect shot – is the way the rising sun lights up the underside of the arch.<br />
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As a Californian, I've grown accustomed to having my wilderness experience punctuated by warning signs and guard rails, the result of too many people in too little space. But the parks in Utah are different, and nowhere is that difference more apparent than at Mesa Arch. There might be a caution sign at the trailhead, but once you get to the arch you're on your own. You're expected to know what gravity is, and how to avoid getting too much of it.
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The arch is located at the edge of the mesa, on a cliff that would make Wile E. Coyote nervous. On my topographic map of the area, all the contour lines between about 5,000 and 6,000 feet are squished together into one solid band. In other words, if you were to stand at the edge and drop a rock held out at arm's length, it looks like that rock would fall about 400 feet before hitting anything, and then roll for another 600 vertical feet before finally coming to rest a thousand feet below you – and still less than a quarter mile away horizontally.<br />
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Now that I think about it, if you were to stand at the edge for any reason I'd have to congratulate you, because that's something I wasn't able to do. I've never thought of myself as being afraid of heights – I've scrambled up and down some pretty steep slopes – but whenever the distance from my feet to the edge of the cliff was roughly equal to my height, my legs would just quit working. The only way I could look over the side was to lie on my belly, keeping my feet as far from the edge as they would reach.<br />
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Geologically speaking, it's a pothole arch – a piece of rock that is eroding away from the rest of the mountain, and will eventually land in a pile of rubble at the base of the cliff. The south end looks like it's barely holding on, an illusion created by the way it attaches to the cliff face about twenty feet below the edge, leaving a four-foot gap at "ground level." The north end, on the other hand, appears firmly attached, and in fact a person could walk from there right out onto the arch – that is, if a person really wanted to walk across a narrow, uneven strip of slippery rock with a thousand-foot drop on either side.<br />
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And that's where we met Laurie.<br />
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My cousin Jeff and I had shot a few photos and were mostly just enjoying the grandeur of it all, when suddenly we saw her. She walked from the north end, moving with long, confident steps, neither hesitating nor hurrying. At the center of the arch she paused to look over her shoulder at her boyfriend, and then continued to the south end, where she turned around and walked back. As she turned around, Jeff turned away, saying he just couldn't watch. Meanwhile, I was in emergency shooting mode, running and crouching here and there, looking for the best angle and background for a moving subject. In less than a minute, she was back on solid ground.<br />
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Well, what could we say? She was either the bravest or dumbest person we had ever seen, so the least we could do was show her the photo on my camera's monitor (and ask her to sign a release, of course). And for the rest of the trip, whenever our hiking brought us to a particularly challenging situation, we asked ourselves, "What would Laurie do?"<br />
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We already knew the answer: She'd go for it.Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-43697748171116451072012-10-09T11:15:00.000-07:002016-03-27T10:46:27.557-07:00Déjà vu<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm always cautious about thinking I can identify an individual animal, especially where reptiles or amphibians are concerned. In the absence of some clearly unique characteristic – often the result of an injury – two snakes or frogs of the same species and the same age will generally look the same. It's especially hard to tell them apart when they're young, before they've had time to accumulate scars or other differences that come with variations in diet and experience.<br />
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But when I revisit a location and find a snake of the same rare species and the same size, in exactly the same spot on the same log – I'm pretty confident in saying I've found the same snake. In this case it happened on Mount Diablo, where an Alameda whipsnake was hunting for lizards on a fallen tree. <br />
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Whipsnakes can move with impressive speed when they need to, but rely on stealth and patience to catch their prey. When dealing with a potential predator – or a pesky photographer – a whipsnake will use whichever tactic fits the situation. This one demonstrated the advantages of moving slowly.<br />
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As I approached for a photo, I only had a partial view of the snake, without a head or tail to tell me which way it might be going. The lateral stripes and slender build gave me no visual cues, so I couldn't even be sure it was moving – until the tail passed by, at which point the snake just seemed to get thinner until it disappeared. A minute later, it reappeared about twelve feet away, at the other end of the log. I approached again and saw the same disappearing act, followed by another reappearance in the original spot.<br />
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A week later I was back at the same log – and the snake was still there, right where I had left it.<br />
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<br />Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-42862807799839078212012-08-21T15:35:00.001-07:002016-03-27T10:47:32.254-07:00Can we still experience wilderness?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A recent op-ed in the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/14/opinion/when-gps-leads-to-s-o-s.html" target="_blank">New York Times</a> described the proliferation of PLBs – personal locator beacons that send a distress signal along with GPS coordinates so the user can be rescued – and how they have led to an increasing number of unnecessary "rescues." Some of the examples were stunning: in 2009, a group of backpackers in Grand Canyon National Park used their PLB three times in four days. Each time they were met by a rescue team in a helicopter.<br />
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At Half Dome, hikers routinely ignore warning signs and/or storm clouds, then use their cell phones to call for help when they find themselves atop a slick granite dome in a lightning storm – and are shocked to learn that helicopters can't fly in that weather.<br />
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My first response to the article was that people who abuse PLBs, or otherwise waste the time and money of emergency services, should be billed for the cost of those services – or prosecuted for calling in a false alarm. But the more I think about how that would work in real life, the more complicated it becomes. For those of us who have spent our lives hiking and backpacking, it's easy to say some people are just too stupid to venture off the sidewalk – but of course that won't stop them.<br />
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I'm really curious about those guys at Grand Canyon. Had they never backpacked before? Did they not understand the concept of wilderness, the purpose of a PLB, or the definition of an emergency? Were they prone to panic attacks? Did they grow up in extremely wealthy families where calling for a helicopter – and then changing your mind about needing it – was considered normal?<br />
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But the Grand Canyon guys are outliers, or at least I hope they are. What about the cases that aren't so clear-cut? Who gets to decide what's a real emergency? When someone calls 911 and says, "I'm having a heart attack," the paramedics respond immediately. If, after a bunch of tests at the ER, the doctor says it was only indigestion or a panic attack, does that mean the 911 call was unnecessary? What kinds of mistakes are forgivable, and which ones should be punished?<br />
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I've been hiking since I could walk, and I know how to take care of myself on the trail. But I can think of plenty of times when I've made careless mistakes that could have ended in tragedy.<br />
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Twenty years ago at Point Reyes, I climbed down a steep cliff to photograph harbor seals on the rocks below. Halfway back up, I got stuck. Each time I moved a hand or a foot, I felt myself slipping as the cliff started to crumble out from under me. How long did I stay in that position? Five minutes? Half an hour? I really don't know. Eventually, somehow, I found my footing and was able to continue. If I'd had a PLB, or even a cell phone – if they had existed then – at what point would I have used it?<br />
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One afternoon in Lundy Canyon I parked at the trailhead and took what I intended to be a short walk, a look around to see if I wanted to take a longer hike the next morning. Before I knew it, I was a couple miles up the mountain, with no water or food, not even a long-sleeved shirt – and I could see storm clouds gathering. I headed back to the car. If I had twisted an ankle, or been struck by lightning, I could have been in serious trouble to say the least.<br />
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Last year I hiked to Thimble Peak, in the Grapevine Mountains, for the first time. It was a perfect day for hiking – temperature in the low 70s, a light breeze, blue sky, puffy white clouds, a view of Death Valley that goes on forever – one of those glorious desert spring days when nothing could possibly go wrong. And, in fact, nothing did. But as I was scrambling over loose shale, up the last couple hundred feet to the peak, I did have a few thoughts about the consequences of a careless mistake. How long would I have lain at the bottom of that canyon before someone discovered my body?<br />
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If any of those situations had turned out differently, I can easily imagine what people would have said about me. How could such an experienced hiker do something so stupid?<br />
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Well, the truth is we do it all the time.<br />
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Raise your hand if you read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307387178/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0307387178&linkCode=as2&tag=deatvallphots-20" target="_blank">Into the Wild</a> and thought, "That could have been me."<br />
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A recent blog post by <a href="http://arcticglass.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-consequences-of-experience.html" target="_blank">Jill Homer</a> sums it up: as we gain experience with potentially dangerous situations, we become more confident. As we become more confident, we take more chances. Nothing bad happened last time, so everything should be fine this time. If we want to continue to enjoy the wilderness, and survive for our next adventure, we need to be vigilant against overconfidence and the carelessness it produces.<br />
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Back to the question of all those electronic gadgets that keep us connected 24/7. What really bothers me is not that they get abused, but that they have led to a generational shift in the definition of wilderness, and how we relate to it. Inappropriate use of PLBs, 911 calls from Half Dome, or just checking email on the trail – they're all part of a world in which we're never really alone.<br />
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Hiking has always been a kind of meditation for me. I seek out wild places because of the isolation, the solitude, the distance from the everyday stresses of modern life. I know a lot of people share my perspective, while for others the wilderness is a place to test their limits, whether by climbing, kayaking, or simply surviving in a difficult situation.<br />
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Can you really experience that sense of isolation or challenge when you know you're carrying a device that will instantly put you in touch with a rescue team, standing by with a helicopter and all the medical supplies you might need? Or, for that matter, a device that puts you in touch with your boss, your family, and a Nigerian prince who wants to give you $43 million?<br />
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John Muir wrote, "Only by going alone in silence, without baggage, can one truly get into the heart of the wilderness."<br />
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Is that journey even possible anymore?<br />
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Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-667901588386200616.post-56849067758525969512012-06-29T16:15:00.000-07:002016-03-27T10:48:13.728-07:00Thank you, Steve Irwin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Driving home from Mount Diablo in the early evening, I saw a pickup truck stopped in the road, with a large rattlesnake crossing in front of it. The driver and his young son had gotten out to take a look, and I pulled over to join them. Forgive me for stereotyping, but based on his appearance – early thirties, muscular, driving a big shiny pickup – he seemed like a guy who, just a few years ago, I would have expected to run over any snake that happened to get in his way, stopping only to cut off its rattle as a souvenir. His actions, though, were just the opposite. His only weapon was a point-and-shoot digital camera, and he kept a safe, but not fearful, distance from the snake. Instead of giving his son the usual warning, "watch out, that thing can kill you," he said things like, "when she raises her head up and buzzes her tail, that means she's scared, so we have to move back." He consistently referred to the snake as "she," though he freely admitted, when his son asked, that he didn't know whether it was male or female.<br />
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After we had both gotten the photos we wanted, and the snake had moved on to take shelter under a tree, we said goodbye and went on our way. I thought about how respectful he had been, and how he was teaching his son to respect the snake as well, to admire it for what it is. I realized this wasn't the first time I had been surprised by someone's reaction to a snake, and wondered if our culture's attitude toward reptiles was really changing.<br />
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And then I remembered: Steve Irwin called every snake "she." He also took a lot of criticism from scientists for his unorthodox approach and showmanship, but the flamboyant Australian TV star found a way to teach millions of ordinary Americans that the appropriate response to a snake is not "Let's kill it," but "She's a beauty!" <br />
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I only saw Irwin's show a couple times, but I think I'm starting to miss him. Crikey!Dan Suziohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773489186351443404noreply@blogger.com0