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Another backroad vision, with thanks to Robert Frost for the title....
“Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day,
Nothing gold can stay.”
Another angle on the old Quinn truck on River Road(route 67) near Follets,IA. She's a beauty,well worth a walk thru 3" of water to get too.Maybe a good zoom lens would work also? LOL
Have a great truck Thursday all.We're preparing for another week of rain and storms here in the Midwest that will put us even farther behind in spring planting!
In the middle of the last century, by late winter on our southwestern Minnesota farm, everyone was ready for a change. Months of icy winds and frozen chores had worn thin and dulled our brains. But when the sun finally climbed a little higher each day, our spirits lifted as we could feel winter beginning to loosen its grip.
The snowbanks that had stood hard and clean in January were now streaked with dirt and traces of mud, shrinking a little more every afternoon. In the sprawling fields, dark patches of plowed ground began to show through, and in the farmyard, the frost came out of the ground all at once.
The frozen ground, which had offered solid footing, became deep mud, and little streams of water ran wherever they pleased. It was the season for rusty four-buckle overshoes, and you didn’t dare step outside without them.
Just when it felt like winter was finally giving up, a late snowstorm would roll across the prairie. It often seemed to come right about the time of the Minnesota State Basketball Tournament, as if the weather didn’t want to let the season end without one last try.
But these storms were different. The wet snow fell heavily, and everyone knew it wouldn’t last long. Within a day or two, the sun would bring the snow to a watery end.
To us kids, this was the best snow of the entire year. It packed perfectly, the kind you could roll into tight, well-crafted snowballs. Noon hour at school turned into a full-scale battle, with forts, ambushes, and snowballs that flew straight as if they had an internal GPS.
Impromptu opposing sides formed quickly, and snowballs filled the air. It was a bonus for everyone when an unaware teacher would exit their car and head for the school building.
But nothing matched the hoots heard when someone spotted a gaggle of girls returning to school from an uptown noon-hour candy run, as this provided fresh targets, rewarding us with shrieks and uneven running.
Winter might have been ending, but for a couple of afternoons, it gave us one last good time before our attention turned toward sunburns, sultry days, and ice-cold, home-made lemonade.
(Photographed near Isanti, MN)
When I look at a scene like this old red barn standing watch over a pasture dotted with cattle, I am carried back to the Minnesota of my youth.
There were around 74,000 more farms in Minnesota in the 1950s than there are now.
A statistic like that can tell us that farm numbers fell by more than half. It cannot tell us what it meant when three neighboring farms each had around ten children, and two teams of kids could be gathered for a ball game on a summer evening without anyone driving more than a few miles.
Statistics can’t tell the story of threshing crews, church suppers, barn dances, shared machinery,
Back then, families with eight, ten, or even twelve children were not unusual. Every child had chores. Before school, there were cows to milk, eggs to gather, pigs to feed, and hay to move. The work was hard, but it created a rhythm of life that bound families together. Parents, children, grandparents, and neighbors all depended on one another.
The countryside itself felt different. On summer evenings, the sound of baseball games drifted from town diamonds. Church picnics filled weekends. One-room schools and small rural congregations were woven into the fabric of everyday life. A farm was more than a way to make a living, it was a home, a workplace, and often the center of a family's identity for generations.
Progress brought many benefits. Modern machinery, improved crops, and technology allowed fewer people to produce more food than ever before.
Farms grew larger and more efficient, while the need for labor steadily declined. As a result, many farmsteads disappeared, schools closed, and rural populations shrank.
The gains in productivity are undeniable, yet something quieter was lost along the way. The pastoral landscape of scattered barns, large families, and neighboring farms gave way to broader fields without fences and fewer homesteads.
Today, when I see a lone barn beneath a darkening sky, surrounded by grazing cattle and green pasture, I am reminded not just of a place, but of a way of life, a slower, closer-knit world that shaped generations and now survives mostly in memory.
(Photographed in Blue Earth County)
The Eastern Bluebird is one of Minnesota’s most cheerful spring arrivals. With their rich sky-blue back and warm rusty-orange chest, they are hard to miss, especially perched just like this on budding branches.
In east-central Minnesota, late April is right on cue for its return, and this bird could very well be among the early wave. It is the first one my wife and I have spotted this year.
Bluebirds migrate relatively short distances compared to many songbirds, often wintering in the southern U.S. When they return, they are quick to reclaim nesting territories as soon as insects start stirring.
Handmade nest boxes were central to bringing back the declining Eastern Bluebird population a number of years ago. Without them, the comeback likely wouldn’t have happened.
Bluebirds are cavity nesters, meaning they depend on natural holes in old trees or fence posts. Over the last century, the clearing of dead trees and changes in farming practices caused a sharp decline in those natural cavities. Aggressive non-native species like starlings and house sparrows moved in and took over many of the remaining nesting spots.
Conservationists and a lot of everyday folks started putting up simple wooden boxes designed specifically for bluebirds. The entrance hole size is key, as they have to be large enough for bluebirds, but small enough to discourage starlings. Placing these boxes along open fields, fence lines, or trails essentially replaced the missing natural cavities.
The impact was immediate and huge. With safe, available nesting sites, bluebirds successfully raised more broods, and populations first began to stabilize and then grow
Equally important, involved people began monitoring these boxes, checking for invasive species, cleaning them out between broods, and protecting them from predators. That hands-on care made a big difference.
Nest boxes gave bluebirds back what they had lost, a safe place to start the next generation.
The bluebird's diet is mostly insects in spring and summer, but they’ll switch to berries when bugs are scarce.
Predators include hawks, snakes, raccoons, and even house cats, especially around nesting sites.
A male and female typically bond for the breeding season, and both parents share parenting duties. The female handles most of the incubation, while the male brings food and helps feed the chicks once they hatch.
As temperatures moderate in Minnesota, this little bird’s return is a dainty symbol that our spring has truly arrived.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Unlike many in the wildlife kingdom, Sand-hill Crane chicks (often called Colts), emerge from eggs and within hours can follow their parents. This is a trait called “precocial,” meaning they hatch with open eyes, down feathers, and the ability to walk very quickly after hatching.
From their very beginning, chicks learn survival habits from their parents, such as pecking at what the adults peck. Their learning continues for many months as the family stays together, often through their first migration season.
Young cranes learn migration routes from their parents, a knowledge set that is shared between generations. It is not uncommon for cranes to mate for life and return each year to the same nesting region.
Don’t let their soft down-coats deceive you. Cranes develop into fierce fighters and often strike their predators with both their bill and feet. However, right now in spring, the adults are busy showing their young ones the ropes as they guide them to areas where they can consume a lot of insects to ensure a protein-rich diet.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Several days ago, before someone left a window open up at the North Pole, we had a few snow squalls pass through our area.
My unpaid wildlife spotter and I were cruising some isolated country roads when she pointed out a group of five pheasants scratching through the snow cover, looking for some corn kernels that might have dropped out of a farmer’s corn-combine a few months ago.
When pheasants are on one side of the road, they often separate and take off in two directions, either away from the road or directly across it.
If my reflexes are warmed up, I can sometimes coordinate stopping my vehicle, hoisting my camera off my lap, and pressing the down button for the driver's side window at the same time.
Normally, the pheasants are so quick I end up with nice shots of their tail feathers or, worse, a screen with nothing on it.
From about 30 yards away, I captured this shot of a rooster making his getaway across the road in front of our vehicle through a thick cluster of snowflakes.
Notice how it keeps its eye on me even as it makes its escape.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
On a late fall afternoon, as the sun begins its slow descent, an old barn stands quietly on the edge of a farmer’s grove. The trees have shed their autumn colors, and a faint golden light skims across the grass, mowed for the final time this year.
One end of the barn shows clear signs of neglect. The damage is unlikely to be fully repaired. The family that owns this farm probably hasn’t used the barn in years, if ever.
There was a time when this barn was the heart of daily life. A farmer stacked hay inside, tended livestock, and kept it clean and safe for the animals each night. Broken siding was fixed quickly, door hinges oiled, and cracked windows replaced with fresh panes from the local hardware store.
But time shifts priorities. The simple rhythms of farm life have faded, and the small, urgent repairs that once kept buildings standing are no longer a concern. How the barn looks to others doesn’t matter anymore.
Now, barns like this stand as quiet landmarks in fields, too sturdy to tear down, too outdated to restore.
Likewise, our priorities change as we age as well. The ambitions and desires of our youth barely resemble what matters in later years. Once, we rushed to work harder, build more, and prove ourselves. We took pride in expensive toys and lavish trips.
Now as the sun nears its final descent in my life, those things feel distant. What brings joy now is watching my grandchildren grow in character and hearing them laugh freely at something silly. I cherish the morning light filtering through bare trees and the easy company of lifelong friends.
Above all, my days are warmed by the tender touches and knowing smiles of a companion I’ve shared more than half a century with, even as our steps slow, our balance falters, and we often ask, “What?”
Like this old barn, our life together stands as a quiet landmark for our family, a reminder of what truly matters.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Barred Owls often give off a startled or bewildered look when they spot a human up close. My guess is that the bone structure and large eyes produce that look rather than an emotion or reaction.
The eyes of these owls are quite extraordinary. Proportionally, they are massive compared to humans. If human eyes were scaled to the same size, our eyes would be around the size of oranges, which would make some interesting features.
Unlike our eyes, owls' eyes are fixed in their sockets, which means they have to turn their entire heads to look around. It helps that they can turn their heads up to 270 degrees.
Ironically, their daytime vision is less sharp than humans', but the make-up of their eyes enables them to be incredibly sensitive to light, about 100 times more than ours.
In good conditions, scientists tell us these owls can detect the movement of a mouse from around 100 yards, although not in fine detail. However, their hearing is fantastic as they can pinpoint the location of prey using sound alone, even under snow.
Right now, these owls are prepping for our Minnesota winters by hunting more intensely, and some even store food in the hollows of trees.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Every winter, I am amazed at the resiliency of wildlife in Minnesota.
Creatures from small chickadees to young deer experiencing their first winter can be seen in fields, woods, and ditches as they seek to get enough nourishment to outlast our most difficult season.
Pheasants are particularly vulnerable when the snow piles up, as they regularly have to scratch through inches of snow to uncover something to eat.
In addition, pheasants often need to burrow into the snow during bitterly cold days that are beset with strong winds.
For a wildlife photographer, our winters provide easy visibility from a distance as pheasants can readily be spotted against the snow before they take off to escape attention.
I often see groups of pheasants when they band together around food sources. In warmer months, pheasants will waddle quickly to nearby spots of brush or other coverings, but in the winter, they have to fly to safety more often than not, as normal coverings are under the snow.
Note this pheasant's left claw. It is hard to know for sure, but it looks like it has been severed. Young pheasants often crouch down in taller grass when they hear machinery nearby, and it is quite possible that when the county was mowing ditches, this young pheasant did that rather than taking flight.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
This photograph, taken near our hometown out in the countryside a few miles away, makes me feel like a held breath from another lifetime.
Bitterly cold winter nights in southwestern Minnesota, in the 1960s had a rhythm I still carry with me. When I was through showering after basketball practice, I would head out to my old Buick beater behind the school, hoping it would start. By the time I reached the car, my stylish heinie haircut, still wet from a shower, would be brittle, frozen by the January air.
I’d point my car east toward our farm, a quiet trip of eight miles as I let the darkness settle in around me. Minnesota cold had a way of sharpening everything, like the noise of the road humming beneath my cheap retread tires.
Overhead, twinkling stars appeared as daylight slipped quietly away, as though it had somewhere else to be. Eight miles from the high school to the farm wasn’t far by any measure, but on those icy evenings it felt like driving in a dark tunnel between two separate worlds.
Turning into our quarter-mile lane was always a moment of relief. Through the darkness ahead, the silhouette of our house would appear with kitchen lights that were small, and steadily glowing. That warm light spilling out into the cold felt like it was reaching for me, drawing me to a reassuring place.
I remember easing the car into a spot near our sidewalk, the engine ticking down to silence, my hands still stiff from the cold. Opening the outside door to our kitchen felt like crossing a barrier you could sense somewhere deep in your bones.
The warmth from the kitchen wrapped around you the moment you stepped inside, the humid warmth from the cooking stove mingling with the familiar aroma of fried chicken, gravy, and freshly baked bread. Regardless of how my school day or basketball practice had gone, my mother’s welcome was as quiet and certain as the light burning in those windows.
No matter how bitter the night air or how long my drive, her warmth never once failed me.
It reminds me, even now, over 60 years later, our home was never just a place. It was a light left burning, a warmth that met you at the door, and a love that found you every single time, even in the deepest cold.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Normally, when I photograph eagles that leave a perch, they fly in an opposite direction from where I am situated.
This one's curiosity got the better of it and it ignored the rule.
One of the significant advantages of today's mirrorless cameras is their ability to capture moments our eyes barely register. This bald eagle isn't simply spreading its wings, it's in the process of launching into flight.
An eagle doesn't leap into the air like a songbird. It first crouches, then pushes powerfully with both legs while its enormous wings deliver several deep, forceful strokes. Those yellow talons become the launch pad that sends a bird weighing over ten pounds into the sky.
Why does an eagle leave a favorite resting perch?
Sometimes another eagle has appeared nearby.
Perhaps it spots a fish that has surfaced, or its mate has called from across the lake. Eagles seldom fly without purpose, although that purpose may change as they travel. They constantly scan the landscape below and may alter course instantly if they spot food or an opportunity.
Once airborne, bald eagles commonly cruise between 100 and 500 feet above the ground, although they climb much higher when riding strong updrafts. Their normal cruising speed is around 30 to 35 miles per hour, but with a tailwind, they can exceed 50 mph.
By mid-July, those fluffy eaglets born not along ago, are rapidly growing, demanding an astonishing amount of fish, ducks, squirrels, and other prey from parents that seem to spend every waking hour providing food.
Looking at this photograph, I can't help but wonder where this eagle was headed. Somewhere beyond my camera's view was a destination known only to the bird itself, a reminder that every takeoff begins with a decision only the eagle knows, and every flight tells a more complete story we rarely get to witness.
This eagle was out of sight just seconds after I pressed the shutter.
The camera captured a brief instant, showing the tremendous power an eagle unleashes as it departs its perch.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Pheasants are mainly land-oriented birds that spend most of their time foraging and moving on the ground, so their first instinct when disturbed is to run rather than take off.
Flights require a lot of energy and they cannot maintain them for long distances, so they reserve flying for emergencies.
Typical running speed is about 8–10 mph when they are hurrying on the ground.
This pace is enough for them to slip into cover and weave through vegetation, which is their usual escape strategy before they resort to flying.
But when seriously chased and forced to fly, they can reach top speeds close to 60 mph for a short distance.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
This is an Eastern Bluebird, one of our most beloved summer birds in Minnesota. By early June, bluebirds across the state are busy raising their first brood of the year, and many pairs are already preparing for a second nesting attempt before summer ends.
Few birds in Minnesota can match the simple beauty of the Eastern Bluebird. The male sports a brilliant blue back and a warm rusty-orange breast, making him look more like a painting than an actual bird perched on a fence post beside a country road. By early June, bluebirds throughout much of the state have firmly settled into nesting season, and they fill nest boxes and tree cavities with busy families.
Most of us know bluebirds are beautiful, but a few things about them that are surprising.
For one, bluebirds can see ultraviolet light. What looks to us like a beautiful blue feather appears even more dazzling to another bluebird.
Also, many bluebirds raise two or even three broods in a single summer. A successful pair may produce eight to fifteen young birds before fall arrives.
Bluebirds are also excellent insect hunters. They perch quietly, scan the ground, and then swoop down to catch grasshoppers, beetles, caterpillars, and other insects, making them valuable allies to farmers and gardeners alike.
As my wife and I scour the countryside each week, and sometimes catch a bluebird pausing on a fence post, as this one is doing, it reminds us that we can find some of nature's finest treasures right beside the roads we travel every day, not just in some distant wilderness.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
This little fawn paused in the morning sunlight on legs that only a few weeks earlier had struggled to hold its weight. Now those long legs carry it with growing confidence, and it won’t be long until it can leap fences.
When it saw my wife and me approaching in our vehicle, it stopped walking and raised one foreleg with ears pointed forward like one of Elon’s tiny satellite dishes, trying to make sense of the world around it.
This youngster is no longer the hidden newborn that spent nearly every hour curled silently in the weeds. It is becoming an explorer.
Just across the country road, only yards away, its mother stood watching. For a fawn only weeks old, new lessons are arriving every day.
It’s beginning to sample tender leaves and grasses, even though it still depends heavily on its mother’s rich milk. The fawn is learning the sounds and scents of its home, and it is discovering safe paths and places to avoid.
Most of all, it is learning to be a deer by watching its mother. Every step she takes and every pause she makes becomes part of its education.
The curious look in its eyes says it all. Childhood is ending, and the long apprenticeship of growing into a white-tailed deer has just begun.
And, like many adolescents, it will soon mistakenly believe it knows more about life than its mother.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Time has worked its slow magic on this old barn, leaving it leaning slightly, roof sagging like shoulders bowed under the weight of forgotten summers.
The paint has flaked away, the boards grayed and given over to rot, and its windows squint out at a world they no longer recognize.
There's a strange kinship in that decay for us old folks. It tugs at an honesty that maybe once we didn’t have.
For those of us who measure our days in decades lived rather than decades remaining, this barn feels like looking in a mirror.
We creak in the wind of life now. Our bodies protest most moves they once made without thinking. Our minds misplace a name, a date, the screwdriver we set down five minutes ago.
What used to take ten minutes now takes an hour, two rest breaks, and a conversation with ourselves about where the wretched tool went.
Younger people look at us and see decline, uselessness. We look at ourselves and see a life that we have lived hard and well.
Humor becomes one of our most used tools. A laugh oils the hinges of change. It smooths the rough edges. It keeps us standing when our outward structure has started to settle.
We joke about needing "just a touch of paint," though we know our needed repairs run deeper than that. Joking lets us carry the weight of seriousness lightly.
But here's what matters most in this time of our lives.
We don't stop, but remain engaged in daily life. We keep our doors open, even if they sag. Our minds shelter memories, stories, and the wisdom that only comes from having lived this long.
Like this old barn standing alone on a deserted Minnesota farm site, weathered and beat down, we endure.
Not because we're freshly painted.
But simply because we're still standing.
(Photographed in Kanabec County, MN)
Various deer hunting seasons begin next week in Minnesota.
If you are alert in the countryside, you can find bucks doing wind sprints in preparation.
On one of the country roads my wife and I use on our wildlife hunts, 3 squirrels venture out daily into a cornfield to scrounge for corn. Often, they are together in a small circle, eating when we drive by.
I have been trying to get a good photo of all three together, but they are quite suspicious of us and take off if I slow down.
It is a little hard to tell with animals. But there are times I think they mimic attitudes they see in people.
After disturbing this guy at lunch, he stood up and stared at me. It looked suspicious like he was flexing toward me.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Wide-eyed and aware in the early morning fog, this fawn is living in that sweet, transitional season when it’s still a baby at heart but trying its best to act like its mother and other adult deer.
It sticks close to its mother at times, but not like earlier this summer when it spent most of its hours tucked in the grass, waiting for her return for a feeding.
These days the mother lets her young wander more, trusting it to nibble on its own and pay attention to the quiet lessons its surroundings are always teaching.
The fawn is learning the everyday business of becoming an adult. Its days are now spent discovering how to forage for the food its mother eats, how to slip silently through brush without making a noise, how to understand what the wind is telling it, the way old deer do.
In bean fields and the edges of woods, I often see growing fawns practice those quick little hops and zig-zags that may mean the difference between life and death in their comparatively brief lives.
In Minnesota, the next eight months will test its grit. Autumn will bring hunters and the first chilly nights. Winter will land hard, with deep snow and scarce food, and only the fawns that adapt well will survive.
If this one does, in the spring it will be bigger and thinner, but much wiser.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Wildlife experts estimate there are nearly 1 million raccoons in Minnesota. I know some frustrated people who believe there are that many in their neighborhood.
Raccoons are hard to ignore once you’ve spent time watching one. They aren’t flashy like a fox or majestic like an eagle, but they carry themselves with a kind of deliberate curiosity, as if the world is something to be studied and figured out.
In Minnesota, raccoons live a life of balance between opportunity and caution. During the spring, they spend long nights foraging along shorelines and through woods, noses low to the ground, searching for anything edible like frogs, eggs, leftover grain, or other unlucky creatures. By summer, they move more deliberately, as they teach their young the hidden paths and safe places.
Food becomes an urgent focus in the fall. They build fat reserves, knowing a long winter will test their survival. Unlike true hibernators, raccoons don’t disappear completely. They retreat, resting through the coldest stretches, emerging during milder spells to silently forage in a tougher environment.
Raccoons are also the victims of myths. For instance, they don’t wash their food. The dipping in water they do is to increase the tactile sensitivity in their paws. Those paws, by the way, are marvelous. They are so dexterous that they can open jars, gate latches or other simple locks.
Uniquely, raccoons can rotate their hind feet 180 degrees, allowing them to climb down trees headfirst. Once a raccoon solves a problem it encounters, it can remember that solution for years into the future.
I wish I were that lucky.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Like many Americans today, I haven't been to a movie theater for at least a decade.
Years ago, in my career, when I was managing large geographical territories, I would often find myself in a city with a free afternoon, and to fill my time, I would go to a movie if one piqued my interest.
The afternoon matinees were definitely my favorite time to attend. Sparse crowds, fresh popcorn with too much butter on it, plus no bunch of rowdies who would spoil the movie with their incessant chatter.
Often, there is an early show of nature that loads of people never see, as they are still embracing their pillow when it starts in the early morning hours.
When my wife and I go out in search of wildlife to photograph, there are times when we stop our vehicle, put the windows down to listen, and savor the scenery.
One of our favorite times has been this unique summer. We have had numerous mornings with heavy fog, although when there are only pockets of fog, as in this photo, that is simply the best of all worlds.
Couple that along with the color-tinged skies and the rush of a small flock of geese coming in for a landing, and you have a scene worthy of a painting.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Yesterday, I was able to photograph these Ring-necked Pheasants on a quiet gravel road in the countryside. Judging from their coloring, it is a brilliantly colored adult male on the left and a more dimly patterned adult female on the right.
Their plumage suggests both birds are fully mature, likely at least one year old. The rooster’s saturated copper, emerald, and white neck ring is indicative of adult breeding plumage, while the hen’s crisp barring and warm light copper tones suggest she is past her juvenile stage. Younger birds would look noticeably duller and less defined.
Their behavior patterns suggest they’re not siblings. By late winter, pheasants no longer associate in family groups. Instead, this pairing strongly suggests either a soon-to-be or a mated pair. As the days lengthen, males begin to shadow hens, establishing bonds that will carry into the spring breeding season.
Right now, while winter still remains, their lives revolve around daily survival and preparation. They’re feeding heavily on waste grain in snow-covered fields and grit along roadsides, as they stay alert for predators.
As spring gradually approaches, the rooster will grow more territorial and vocal, while she’ll soon begin scouting nesting cover in nearby grasslands and looking for a new baby crib.
Yesterday’s warmer weather felt like a pause between seasons, as winter is slowly loosening its grip, and spring is just beginning to whisper its intentions.
Though their living situation could still deteriorate, this young, colorful pair may have just made it through the worst of the winter.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Yesterday, my faithful wife and I were out of the house before the sun had even considered rising. Over the years, we have learned that when it comes to photographing wildlife, it is almost impossible to start too early.
Every species seems to have its own morning routine. Some animals are already searching for breakfast while others graze on dew-soaked grasses. Birds of every sort compete to sing the loudest before their equally noisy neighbors join the chorus.
But there are always exceptions.
This Barred Owl kept a schedule entirely its own. It sat motionless in a tree beside a winding country road that meandered through a visual smorgasbord of tall grasses, flowering shrubs, and trees stretching their branches as if competing to reach the sky.
We nearly missed it.
My wife and I were deep in conversation about a major decision that has come up in our lives. By pure serendipity, I noticed a slight difference in the color of a tree limb, and suddenly made out the perched owl.
Many couples who have remained happily communicative after more than half a century together have developed their own way of working through difficult decisions. Ours is a slow, several-hour drive through the countryside. Away from the distractions of everyday life, we can talk quietly and honestly. A gentle murmuring fills our vehicle as we consider one perspective and then another.
One of the blessings of living in a rural area is that peaceful places are never far away. At this time of year, we are surrounded by the greenest greens, graceful pines reaching skyward, birds singing with abandon, and fields moving steadily through the rhythms of another growing season.
Those simple delights remind us that, whatever challenges lie ahead, we will find our way through them, just as we always have.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
We are in the process of a lot of farewells going on in the state of Minnesota. Some songbirds are already just a memory, while others are busy gorging themselves to build up fat reserves for long flights southward.
Indigo Buntings are in the process of leaving. Some start leaving in mid-September, while others are still packing up and will leave in early October. They winter far south, some in Mexico and others fly on to Central America. Those who come from a little higher-income families will spend their winter around resorts in the Caribbean.
As we get further into fall and early winter, next May will sound like a long time away, but when it arrives, so will the returning Indigo Buntings.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
One of the more welcome sights in the early stages of spring in Minnesota is the return of Hooded Merganser ducks. They don’t travel extremely long distances compared to some ducks. Many spend the winter in the southern United States, in places with ice-free ponds, rivers, and swamps.
When the ice begins to disappear up north, they head back. In our area of Minnesota, they usually return in March and April, often among the earlier ducks to show up.
Right now, this resting female is likely in the midst of scouting for a nesting site. Hooded Mergansers are cavity nesters, which means they look for holes in trees near water. Old woodpecker holes are a favorite. Over the next few weeks, she will settle on a spot, lay a clutch of eggs, and begin incubating them.
When it comes to raising the young, the female does most of the work. The male helps early in the season but usually leaves once incubation begins. He’s got more important things to do, like work on his boat or go to Twins’ games with his friends.
Hooded Mergansers are full of little surprises that make them way more interesting than their modest size suggests.
First, their eyesight is exceptional underwater. These birds are true hunters, not dabblers. When they dive, they can actually adjust their vision to see clearly beneath the surface of the water, almost like putting on a pair of built-in goggles. This helps them manage to chase down small fish with great accuracy.
Second, that hood sitting on top of its head isn’t just for show. On males, it’s dramatic and obvious, but even females raise their crest into a spiky fan when they’re alert or agitated. It’s a form of communication, but with feathers.
One peculiar aspect is that mergansers sometimes lay eggs in each other’s nests. It’s called “egg dumping,” and a single nest can end up with 20 or more eggs from multiple females, kind of like a sleepover that lasts for weeks.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
I watched this eagle circling in the air with several large crows threatening it as they made repeated dives in an effort to force it away.
Finally, the eagle settled on top of a utility pole and screamed at them in frustration.
In higher temperatures, wildlife find refreshing methods of cooling off.
Bald Eagles in Minnesota frequently use bodies of water to cool off during hot summer days.
They will take dips in lakes and rivers, and are often found in shallow water to dissipate heat.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Across Minnesota's rolling green countryside, abandoned barns and weathered sheds stand as silent memorials to a way of life that once defined our state.
A generation ago, small farms dotted nearly every township. Their fields were tilled by families whose livelihoods depended on livestock, corn, beans, or wheat. But these farms were more than places of hard work as they formed tight-knit communities bound together by the rhythm of seasons, church suppers, local sporting events, and the daily responsibilities of chores passed down from parents to children.
Today, those family farms are disappearing. Economic pressures, industrial agriculture, and the consolidation of farmland into corporate holdings have all hastened their decline. What once supported thriving rural populations and the small towns around them has given way to mechanical efficiency, leaving behind empty houses, sagging sheds, and hollow silos.
Each deserted farmstead tells its own quiet story of children raised in cramped upstairs bedrooms, simple suppers shared after long days in the fields, harvests celebrated, and lean years endured. Now, only deteriorating fragments of that life remain.
A lone shed, with its faded boards and patched roof, stands on a farm site like a weathered signpost to the past. Its solitary presence evokes memories of the people who once worked this land, of the sweat and hope they invested in every acre.
Though fewer family farmers remain to carry forward those traditions, the old buildings stand as wooden reminders of the resilience of those who built meaningful lives through hard work and perseverance.
Things will never return to the way they were, but we can still honor the countless lives shaped by Minnesota's small farms. On a quiet day, if we listen carefully, we can still hear that rural heritage whispering from the fields and from the ramshackle buildings that anchor deserted farm sites.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
My friend, who is about my age, likes to occasionally stir things up whenever a bunch of his extended family gathers for summer reunions. I won’t use his name to avoid getting him doxed or chased by an angry, unhappy relative.
There are phrases he slips into conversations when he knows his audience won’t be able to resist responding.
One phrase he likes to utter quietly after everyone has eaten and the dining table is full of used plates needing clearing and washing is, “That’s women’s work.”
Once or twice, I might have heard the term “Neanderthal” tossed toward him in retaliation.
Years ago, that jest might have simply elicited chuckles from both married men and women. Today, not so much.
This male pheasant exhibits similar traits that some people might consider a throwback.
Once he attracts a mate in the spring and chicks are born, he considers his contribution done and then disappears from the scene to do his own thing.
I spotted this pheasant early one morning resting in the remains of an old tree, something pheasants will do, especially at night. Roosting in trees helps keep pheasants out of reach of some predators, such as foxes and coyotes.
This rooster is quietly living a solitary life that now centers on preparing for its annual molt when it replaces worn feathers that carried it through spring courting displays and territorial battles.
As summer wears on, it will feed heavily to rebuild energy reserves, spending much of its time in dense cover, venturing into open areas to forage before retreating to safety while getting physically prepared for the winter months ahead.
And if it can fit it into the busy schedule, it might attend a marriage seminar.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
March in Minnesota is a season that wildlife simply has to endure. Normally, the weather is not life-threatening, but uncomfortable is a word they soon learn to spell.
Despite a late snowstorm that risks turning an eagle's environment into a snow-globe, patience and endurance will soon lead to sunshine, green grass, and fresh fish meals.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
The first thought I had when I saw this pheasant photograph was how briefly our lives crossed when I took it. From a small hillside on one side of a country road, this pheasant erupted and flew in front of my vehicle as I had stopped when I saw him about to take off.
For a few seconds, this pheasant and I shared a moment in time and space. He rose from the field with a rush of wings, startled and wholly absorbed in whatever urgent business a pheasant knows. I lifted my camera, clicked the shutter and then he was gone.
I focused all my attention on the sweep of those pale wings against the winter sky in that instant.
But time has a way of softening the urgency we sometimes feel in small moments. What feels significant in the living of them often settles into something less dramatic in our remembering.
This pheasant will not remember me. His life continued untouched even if I preserved one fraction of it.
Most of our lives are made of small moments in our interaction with other people. We assign weight to them when they happen only to discover later that they were simply passing threads in a much larger pattern.
Still, I am grateful for the several seconds I had with this scene. Because even if they were incidental to the pheasant, they were not incidental to me. They reminded me how much beauty can exist in a moment that vanishes almost as soon as it appears.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
By late July, this Great Blue Heron has been in Minnesota for nearly five months. Back in March or April, it came to our area from the southern swamps and coastal areas where it spent the winter.
Now, after months of fishing our lakes and wetland ponds, it has built a strong body and sharp hunting skills. If this heron raised young in a nest this spring, those chicks have already left to find their own territories. This bird is now on its own.
The heron will not stay much longer. By September, as the weather grows colder, these birds begin to move south. They leave Minnesota before the lakes and marshes freeze over, when fish become hard to catch.
Some birds travel far, heading all the way to Florida or even Central America. The journey might take several weeks, depending on how far they go.
Great Blue Herons are built for long-distance flight. They fly at speeds between 20 and 30 miles per hour, flapping their large wings in a steady rhythm.
Their journey south is not rushed. These herons often travel alone, though sometimes you might see small groups resting together at lakes along the way. They hunt during the day and rest at night, moving slowly south as they go.
Once spring is here again, the heron will make its way back to Minnesota. It will come back to familiar wetlands to hunt and perhaps nest again.
For now, though, it lives in the moment, fishing the warm waters of our summer, often lending a natural moment of grace as it takes off.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Some young deer are salivating over next week's menu as they hope the turkeys will stay around.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Perched delicately on goldenrod blooms, this Nashville Warbler appears like a splash of sunshine come alive. With its soft gray head, striking white eye ring, and yellow breast, it almost glows against the September wildflowers of Minnesota. Though small and delicate, this warbler carries within it a remarkable story of nature, the call to migrate.
Unlike other birds that migrate overhead in noisy flocks, the Nashville Warbler journeys alone, without accompanying family. Each fall, it alights from Minnesota’s fields and forests to begin a solitary passage south.
Nights are its chosen hours of travel, when it is guided by stars and Earth’s magnetic field. At dawn, it drops into thickets and bushy hedges to glean insects and other foods. These rest and refueling pauses are essential, as without frequent fill-ups, the tiny traveler could not fly the thousands of miles that stretch between Minnesota and its winter home in Mexico and Central America.
Its migration is not hurried. Weeks may pass before this warbler reaches its destination, each mile a testament to the miracle of its endurance. Each bird follows its own inner compass. Bird scientists say that no family members accompany it.
Yet there is some kinship in the skies as they join ad-hoc flocks of other warbler species and small birds that share the same invisible highways, forming temporary associations.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Fawns grow up quickly. Just a few weeks ago, this one was spindly-legged, trying to stand up without falling. His main exercise came from trying to keep up with his mother.
Now, those legs have gained strength and agility along with about a foot or more of growth. Though he and his peers are still not as alert as they will become this fall, they no longer stand by the side of the road gawking at passersby.
When startled, fawns of this size can become airborne without notice, their white tails bounding over rows of beans, while racing their mother to the woods to find cover.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
There are certain animals and birds that carry a bad rep. Many people scorn birds like vultures and crows. Likewise, skunks, civet cats and a few other 4-legged animals rank low on people’s list of wildlife appreciation candidates.
I learned this early in life when I found a baby skunk wandering around in our grove. It was an adorable little creature that I scooped up and brought into the house to ask my mom if I could make a home for it in our basement.
You will have to search high and low to find someone rapturously describing their love for coyotes. These animals are largely viewed as wild pests, able to make your favorite cat, young puppy, or clucking chickens disappear overnight.
However, I am personally well-acquainted with a woman about my age, whose opinion started to shift when I informed her that an adult coyote can consume dozens of mice in a day.
In addition, coyotes are one of nature's most family-oriented species. Adults pair up for years, unless one dies. When it comes to caring for young ones, the dad is not a dead-beat. The male hunts for hours each day to bring food to the female and to the pups. He also keeps a wary eye around the nest, watching for danger and helps the female move the pups to another den site if danger lurks.
But family values don’t stop there. Observers have also seen older siblings helping take care of their younger family members.
Thanks to the excellent, sharp-eyed spotter that I hired over 53 years ago, I was able to get this photo while it was hunting early yesterday morning.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
“Art of Haying”
When and where a person is born has a way of shaping who they become.
Growing up in Murray County in Minnesota was a privilege I’ve carried with me all my life, even though the years spun away and I didn’t get back home as often as I would have liked.
Now, I suppose a young person could grow up in Slayton, Avoca, or Hadley and still turn out shiftless. But you’d have to work pretty hard to ignore the values of a strong work ethic handed down by farm folks who rarely had much in the way of this world’s goods.
Solomon once wrote, “It isn’t wise to ask, ‘Why is everything worse than it used to be?’” Those of us who are long in years and short of teeth can testify that the “good old days” weren’t exactly easy or carefree. But they were different, no doubt about that.
There was something purifying about hard, physical work.
In this old haying photo I restored from the early 1940s, you can spot five men working together to swing the hay up onto the haystack. There were probably a couple more just outside the photo frame, plus one or two out in the field gathering the next buck rake of hay to haul in to the stacker.
By the time my own erratic brain started storing memories of scenes like this, my dad had already quit using horses. He’d graduated to an old F‑20 Farmall tractor for most of the jobs horses used to do. For years, that was the only tractor he owned.
In our private neighborhood version of haying, somebody backed up an old pickup with the rope tied to the bumper, replacing the man in the photo, who was guiding the horse pulling the rope through the pulleys.
One memory that still lingers in my mind is of our gregarious neighbor, Lola Herrmann, mother of 13 children, who was asked to leave her housework behind and repeatedly drive that pickup in reverse, taking shouted directions from the men on the stack.
I was five, and she was the first woman I’d ever seen drive a stick-shift pickup. Even at that age, I was impressed.
She also served as the lunch lady, distributing baloney sandwiches on white bread with pickles, along with a jug of lemonade kept cool by a wet gunny sack and twine, to men on their brief break from work.
If I was lucky enough to have another pint-sized neighbor kid with me, we’d watch with great anticipation as they flung a load of hay through the air toward the haystack.
Now and then, if everything lined up just right, the men on the stack would disappear under the latest load of hay and emerge irritated.
In response, sometimes they’d holler things at the pickup driver, words I somehow knew my mother wouldn’t have approved.
Throughout the winter months, these two eagles soared over a wide territory west of Stanchfield, MN. They were pretty successful in keeping their distance from the county road that my wife and I often travel on our wintry adventures.
Occasionally, we would spot them on the ground near the road, sometimes in the ditch as they were having an impromptu meal of carrion. If something disturbed them, they would fly off to a set of trees about a third of a mile away and begin a waiting game to see how long we would stay around. They would always win that battle.
A couple of days ago, basking in the warmth of the early morning sun, they perched together on a lifeless tree only a few feet from the road, deeply engrossed in each other, perhaps planning their day or thinking up new ways to escape from diving crows. But I liked the way they seemed to be communicating.
Those of us older men who have successfully survived the challenges of marriage and raising kids, can look back over the decades of remaining faithfully together and realize that listening to our mates was one of the most important qualities that can turn an ordinary marriage into an extraordinary one.
Like most naïve young men, I started my married life thinking that I needed to fix every problem my wife encountered. I soon discovered that was not why my wife approached me when the perplexities of life loomed large in her mind. She simply wanted me to listen.
Learning that lesson has paid off. After over a half-century of being together, as we putter along at 14mph on country roads looking for wildlife, we fill our vehicle with quiet mutterings to one another, still finding pleasure in simply talking and listening to each other as we near the final destination of our lives.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Everyone has a favorite time of the day. Many love colorful sunsets, others the celestial display as darkness settles in for an overnight stay.
My father introduced the boys in our family to the joys of the dark hours of early dawn. It was a time of quietness on our farm, a brief interlude between our abruptly waking up to the strong call of Dad, but before the livestock realized we were coming.
Once they glimpsed our trudging steps toward the barn, the morning quietness was broken by the moos of the cows, grunts from the pigs, and a few cackles from hens who had no idea what was going on but wanted to be involved.
Today, over 75 years later, I still love to get up early to explore the early morning habits of wildlife. This Great Blue Heron holds a commanding presence in the pre-dawn. His tall, slender frame covered with a steel-gray plumage stands out in contrast to the dark background.
A tincture of early morning light glances off the heron, outlining its body and illuminating its yellow eyes as it cranks up its energy for another day of tracking the movements of fish, frogs, or other aquatic creatures lurking below the surface of the water.
It is eating for more than just the day, though, as it stocks up for a solitary migratory flight to the Gulf Coast, Florida, or even Central America in a matter of weeks.
The water-logged branch it stands on will then be vacant until next spring, when the ice thaws and the heron returns to Minnesota to start the whole cycle again.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Early April is a busy time for most wildlife in Minnesota. This is true for a Red-tailed Hawk photographed as it surveyed the breakfast table spread out before it.
At this time of year, red-tailed hawks are settling into breeding territory, repairing old nests or building new ones, and keeping close to the same woodlots, fields, and fence lines where they hunt and nest.
Many of these hawks spend the winter in Minnesota, especially when the open country still offers mice, voles, rabbits, and other small prey. Others migrate farther south, but the birds that remain are often the ones we spot along rural roadsides in farm country. Red-tailed hawks usually pair for life, and each spring a mated pair raises one brood, commonly two to four young.
Their diet is broad. Though they are famous for hunting rodents, they also take rabbits, squirrels, birds, reptiles, amphibians, and even carrion when needed.
Their hunting styles vary. Rather than soaring constantly, they often perch silently and wait for movement below.
The increasing visibility of these hawks during this month is a reassurance that, though we have periods of weather that don’t portend spring, it is coming without a doubt.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Many of us older individuals can clearly recall phrases from our childhood that were either used against us or to encourage us during our young lives.
With a busy house full of eight water bugs, my father would often say, “Settle down. Do you have ants in your pants?” Before I realized what a figure of speech was, I wondered what kind of experience my dad must have had at some point in his life, causing him to inquire if we were suffering the same experience.
This Northern Flicker has a relationship with ants, although not in the same vein as my dad had in mind. Ants are one of the main meals of this member of the woodpecker family.
Unlike their head-knocking woodpecker cousins, Northern Flickers are more likely to be observed on the ground than in trees. In mid-to-late September, alert bird watchers will readily see them fluttering along country roads in small groups, searching for ants in the yellowing grasses as they eat heartily in preparation for their migration to the south, as far as Central America.
Flickers are well adapted to probe ant hills or beetle tunnels. They have a long, barbed tongue that they can extend up to two inches to unearth their six-legged prey.
While in Minnesota, they are busy. In the spring, the male and female work together to prepare a hollowed-out nest, incubate eggs, and feed a young family of six to eight beggars.
Upon their return from their winter vacation, they may not return to the same nest, but they do come back to the same stretch of woods or other foraging territory from which they left.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
In the not-too-distant future, I look forward to personally thanking the ancient King Solomon, who wrote and compiled the proverbs contained in the book of the same name. His wise and sometimes humorous tidbits of observation on our human behavior greatly influenced me in my life.
After nearly 53 years of a rich experience of marriage, I often reflect on the veracity of his words when he wrote, “A man’s greatest treasure is his wife.”
A few days ago, the object of my life’s pursuit and I were nearing the end of our three-hour, 14 mph wildlife photography trek. My mind had dulled, and I was anticipating climbing into bed for my daily 16-minute noon nap once we returned home.
“Stop,” my wife whispered as she grabbed my right arm. A row of trees lining the snow-covered ditch beside us sheltered us. As always, I obeyed and looked up to where she was pointing.
Ahead of us was a farm driveway with an opening in the tree line for about 8 yards. Beyond the initial set of trees was a tall, dead tree where sometimes we have seen hawks perched as they surveyed the countryside for their next meal.
This time, through the morass of branches, she had glimpsed these two eagles sitting there and knew if they saw us, they would fly off.
I turned our vehicle off, quietly got out, and adjusted my camera settings as I walked toward the opening. As soon as I entered the open space, I quickly took a few shots before the eagles were aware I was there.
The morning air was calm and clear, so I knew my camera had cleanly picked up an excellent shot of the two majestic birds.
My faithful spotter had done it again, providing me with another moment that added joy to an old man’s life.
When I got back into our vehicle, I reminded her of another statement of Solomon: “There are many good women, but you are the best!”
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
A juvenile eagle sits quietly on an extended trunk of a dead tree on a cloudy spring morning in east-central Minnesota. Perched above the outlet of Long Lake just west of Grandy, it watches a world waking up again, ice loosening its grip, water beginning to move more rapidly, and life returning all over its world.
Judging by its mottled brown plumage and lack of a white head and tail, this eagle is likely in its second or third year. Not yet an experienced adult, it lives in a more exploratory phase that is expanding each month. It is less tied to home territory and more opportunistic as it develops the rhythms of survival.
Spring is a season of opportunity for a bird like this. Fish move into shallower water, winter-weakened prey becomes vulnerable, and competition from other eagles, sometimes siblings, sharpens its hunting instincts.
Below its perch, the constant and noisy activity of Canada Geese and Trumpeter Swans adds both promise and tension. Eagles do not typically hunt healthy adult swans or geese, as they are large, powerful birds, but they watch them closely.
A distracted very young one, an older injured bird, or even a carcass can quickly become a meal. Most times, though, the waterfowl just keep a wary eye upward, and the eagle tries to make up its mind if the energy is worth spending to battle one for a meal.
This spring, the young eagle turns its attention to mastering the art of survival as it sharpens its instincts to know when to strike and when to simply watch.
On this mild morning, it perches quietly against the soft blur of thawing woods, witnessing the miracle of changes around it that will usher it toward the adult world that will shape its destiny.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Several days ago, when spring was making an early feint toward our part of Minnesota, geese, swans, and a couple of Mallards lined an opening in a lake outlet, enjoying the warmer weather and the increasing prospects of swimming freely again in open water.
While my wife and I stopped and enjoyed the noisy scene, I spotted this older juvenile making stalking movements.
I had to get out of our vehicle and slide down the steep ditch toward the lake so I could photograph it from between some trees near the lakeside.
When I got situated, I saw it was trying to sneak up on a sibling that was staring into the water, looking for lunch.
As it crept toward its sibling, the other eagle became aware and simply turned and stared it down. The younger one relaxed and tried to make it look like he was just nonchalantly out for a stroll. Typical sibling behavior.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
Spring and early summer are not always peaceful times in Minnesota’s pheasant country. While the lush countryside may appear calm beneath the soft lullaby of song sparrows, warblers, and multitudes of blackbirds, male pheasants are busy conducting negotiations of a much more forceful sort.
Their short-lived conflicts are all about territory and romance. A rooster pheasant that controls a larger patch of habitat has easier access to food, nesting cover, and, most importantly, hens. Other males wanting the same things often quibble with his claim of ownership, and their disagreements can escalate quickly.
Their contests usually begin with displays. Roosters puff themselves up, fan their tails, strut stiff-legged, and issue sharp crowing shrieks. They cease their displays and start wrestling if neither bird backs down.
Roosters will often leap into the air and strike with their feet while beating their wings furiously. They peck, kick, and grapple in brief but frantic encounters that deserve a wider audience.
Victory usually goes to the bird with the best combination of size, experience, and determination. Older roosters often have an advantage, but are sometimes surprised when they discover a skillful younger challenger has arrived with ambitious plans.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
On a narrow road winding through a heavily wooded stretch of lowland timber, a sudden blur of feathers was the only sign my eyes caught that told me an owl was nearby. It had been watching my wife and me as we crept slowly along in our vehicle and must have decided it still had enough time to slip quietly to another tree before we noticed.
In the tangle of gray trunks and branches, the owl disappeared almost completely. The woods were thick and shadowed, the kind of place where a bird can vanish in an instant. I stopped and began searching through the maze of limbs with my telephoto lens, moving slowly from tree to tree, knowing the owl was there somewhere.
After a few moments of careful scanning, a round face and dark eyes finally came into view, looking back at me from a perch deeper in the timber.
Barred Owls are year-round residents in Minnesota and usually stay put through the winter, only drifting a little farther south if the cold becomes unusually severe. Late winter and early spring is a busy time for them.
Pairs are already preparing for nesting, and some may even have eggs by now. Because of that, they tend to be more active and easier to notice as they move about their territory.
This is a home-loving species. Once a pair forms, they often remain together for life and may spend their entire lives within just a few miles of where they first nested.
In woods like these, where they know every tree and every hollow, the same owls can be watching the same road year after year, long before anyone passing through ever knows they are there.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
This magnificent rooster with an injured leg stopped for a rest after hopping across the road even as its peers flew away for safer ground. It faces brutal odds this winter. Roughly 70% of pheasants don't survive their first year anyway, but injuring a leg makes those odds even steeper.
Most casual observers don't know much about young pheasants. They usually leave their family broods by late fall, so this bird is likely on its own. The siblings that hatched together in spring have scattered across the countryside, each staking out their own winter territory.
They're solitary survivors now, even though it is not uncommon to see groupings of pheasants scrounging together in fields during the winter.
Winter survival depends entirely on finding adequate cover and food. Pheasants shift their diet when snow arrives. They eat waste corn and soybeans left in fields, weed seeds like ragweed and foxtail, and whatever wild fruit remains on shrubs. Their enormous challenge is simply getting to it.
In addition, for their winter survival, they need dense grasslands, cattail marshes, or brushy shelterbelts where they can hunker down during blizzards and escape predators.
Seventy-five years ago, it was common for most farmers to leave undisturbed sheltering grasses a few feet on each side of a fence when they did their fall plowing. This proved to be a saving factor for pheasants. However, the ever-increasing demand for tillable land led farmers to take out many fence lines, and, along with that, a good portion of winter protection for pheasants.
For this injured pheasant, every task becomes harder. It is very difficult for them to run from their predators, like foxes and coyotes. Scratching through snow to uncover food when only one leg works naturally is exhausting.
The reality is harsh. Most pheasants with a permanent leg injury won't make it through a Minnesota winter. But pheasants are surprisingly tough. If this rooster can find a protected feeding area with accessible food and dense cover, there's a slim chance.
But, our cold, harsh winters rarely make exceptions for the handicapped.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)