focus stacking.

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Nitmiluk National Park is located in the Northern Territory of Australia. Nitmiluk (Katherine) Gorge is a deep 13 gorge system carved through ancient sandstone by the Katherine River. It is characterised by sandstone country features above the gorge, lush rainforest gullies in the gorge walls, and broad valleys meandering through both the high and the low country. I have visited this place three times and was never disappointed.

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Now, barns like this stand as quiet landmarks in fields, too sturdy to tear down, too outdated to restore.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)

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.

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)

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)

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)

Some young deer are salivating over next week's menu as they hope the turkeys will stay around.

(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)

The flowers are blooming, the grass is mowed, the barn trim and fence have been recently refreshed, surrounding this old barn with the sliding hay loft door. The scene looks inviting, as though folks are coming to visit who have not been here for some time.

For the oldest farm-grown folks still living, it is difficult to explain some of the wide differences in lifestyle from the 1940s-1950s for kids growing up on the farm compared to today’s easy trips to town.

For example, it was not uncommon for a young farm kid to stay on the farm site during the summer, leaving only once or twice a week, including a trip to church on Sunday. As we grew into teenagers and had a driver’s license, we might have gone to town more often, but certainly not every day, as there was simply too much work to do that took up our time and energy.

Home was the primary center of our lives, our labors, and often, our entertainment.

There were some warm-weather holidays when extended families got together. The location for the subdued celebrations was chosen during quiet conversations in previous gatherings, often settled when one mother or father would volunteer their farm for the gathering.

When it was our turn, Dad would tell us kids, “Let’s get the place ready.” It was evident that Dad was in charge of the outdoors and Mom was in charge of the inside of the house. When I was still in my single digits, I envied my older brothers, who got to mow parts of the farmyard that normally didn’t get mowed. They struggled with our muscle-propelled bar mower that had a 3-foot sickle in front that would cut off almost anything, live or dead.

The older boys would line up the tractors, our pickup, and other machinery like a military parade until Dad was satisfied. The farmyard looked as neat as it could be.

It was my unfortunate duty, because of my tender age, to be shackled to my mother in the house to help her and two of my uncooperative older sisters, who were only too glad to sluff off any job to me they did not like to do.

One worthless job I did every time we had company was to “rake” our orange shag carpet in the dining and living room. If you have never had shag carpet, you did not miss much. When raked, it stood up a little over an inch and a half high. But that only lasted until someone walked on it, and it quickly flattened out again.

Extended family visitors to the farm were a welcome break from laboring under the hot sun and strengthened family ties for generations.

(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)

Call me old-fashioned, but it gives me a warm feeling to see mates together in nature. Over the last several years, my wife and I have often observed these two eagles sitting above a stagnant wetland pond through the various seasons here in Minnesota.

Their perch, seen here with green curtains a few weeks ago, is now bereft of leaves and soon will bear the white traces of winter, and yet barring tragedy, they will endure that together as well.

(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)

Over 16 million acres were burned during July and August. In total, over 25,000 square miles were burned although with later summer fires that number will continue to climb.

I wondered how that land mass would compare to something I could relate to in Minnesota. Various sites differ a little on how many acres comprise our state, but most report a little less than 80,000 square miles.

Translated, the square miles burned in Canada would compare to about a third of all of Minnesota getting burned. It is easy with that in view, to realize how massive the clouds of smoke were that affected the atmosphere and gave us a red appearing sun.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

Horace Walpole, the popular English writer and politician, in 1754, was enamored with a Persian fairy tale about princes who regularly made fortunate discoveries. He coined the phrase Serendipity, generally associated with the result of people finding something really favorable when they were not looking for it.

The majority of unique wildlife shots my wife and I are privileged to share come from totally unexpected observations that come without warning.

A couple of days ago, we were nearing the end of our morning wildlife trip after not seeing a whole lot of either birds or animals during this slack season, when both migration and the opening of various hunting seasons contribute to a scarcity of visible wildlife. We were headed back to town on a busy county paved road and probably a little fatigued after several hours of studying the countryside.

About two miles from town, I spotted a ball of red fur on a sloping, manicured lawn leading down to the road. I swerved to the shoulder, hoping I did not hit the mailbox protruding from a neighbor's driveway. In the space of about 10 seconds before the young fox took off, I was able to get several shots off.

This cub would have been born this spring and is just now learning to do things on his own.

It will soon face a great challenge as winter sets in and threatens its very existence. During the winter, it will adapt to the cold by often curling into a ball and using its bushy tail as insulation. In the midst of storms and bitter cold, it will use a den to help it survive.

Less than half of young foxes will survive their first year, and if they do, their life in the wild typically lasts only several years.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

My wife and I rarely argue anymore. By the time you reach our age, it simply takes too much energy.

That said, there is one issue we have been going back and forth on. As my body and reflexes have slowed down about as much as an aging NFL running back after a decade of hits from other behemoths, I have been pushing for us to buy a convertible to use year-round in my quest for the perfect wildlife shot.

Unfortunately, when I spot a potential shot of a bird or animal that is fairly unique, by the time I go through my responses and squeeze out of our vehicle to get a good perspective, the wildlife object of my camera is already in Iowa.

However, there are times when an individual bird cooperates when they recognize my growing frailties.

This eagle was lunching on a freshly run-over raccoon, located in the middle of a busy road. As we approached, it looked up, hesitated, then took off right in front of our vehicle to escape the traffic.

I quickly asked my wife to grab the steering wheel, pressed the down button on my window, leaned out like a short giraffe, and took this shot. I may be wrong, but I thought I saw a slight grin on the eagle’s face as it glimpsed me.

A convertible would have saved me a lot of effort.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

For nearly a week, my wife and I watched these two juvenile Eastern Kingbirds joust for supremacy over perching space on a country wire fence. The one on the left appears to be instructing its sibling where there was more room to sit rather than to crowd him.

Born earlier this summer, these two are already showing a taste of their feisty temperament that will characterize their adult life.

Adult Eastern Kingbirds are summer residents across much of Minnesota. Easily recognizable when perched upright on fence posts, shrubs, or treetops, they survey open spaces for flying insects that make up the bulk of their diet. Their crisp black-and-white plumage with a tail that looks like it was dipped in white paint gives it a regal appearance.

The bold character of the Eastern Kingbird sets it apart from other birds of its size. Weighing barely 1.5 ounces, they are very aggressive defenders of their territory.

During nesting season, kingbirds will launch fearless attacks against much larger intruders like hawks, crows, herons, and even bald eagles.

Their relentless harassment usually causes the larger birds to retreat, simply to escape the harmless but annoying attacks.

Kingbirds place a strong emphasis on family as both the male and female work tirelessly to defend the nest, feed the chicks, and ensure their survival. Their staunch protective actions have earned them the title of “tyrant flycatcher” from many birdwatchers due to their assertive, territorial behavior.

These small but fierce birds remind us that courage is not always defined by size.

Now, if the parents could only get these two to stop quarreling with each other.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

It is popular in TV shows and movies to portray old men as crotchety and always complaining about how things aren’t like they used to be when they were younger. I may have someone living in close proximity who has suggested I should try out for one of those parts as I would be a natural.

To be perfectly honest, there are a few things that I lament. One of them is the current state of affairs in professional sports, especially NFL football.

Years ago, (eye roll time as my grandkids would say), a football player could score a touchdown or make a sack and simply get ready for the next play. Not anymore. Many players today, after a successful play, act as though they have been given a bottle of fast-acting Adderall or that they have won a billion-dollar lottery.

For the NFL-impaired audience, it may come as a surprise to know that players actually practice many of these impromptu celebrations during the previous week so they look better on television.

About the only deterrent available to a referee is to throw a flag for celebrations they deem as taunting.

On the busy County Rd 6 near our town, two lifeless deer lay by that road, evidently having been hit by the same vehicle the night before. As the morning light illuminated the scene, several eagles appeared for what will be a multi-day picnic.

An old-time referee might have thrown a flag on this eagle as it looked like he might have been taunting.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

A couple of days ago, when my wife and I went out on a wildlife hunt before sun-up, the fog was so heavy we could not see further than 30 yards in any direction. Over the next several hours, the fog drifted and lifted, finally revealing the blue sky.

There wasn't much I could photograph, but I did take this foggy landscape shot. Since the beginning of the early goose hunting season, visible wildlife has been very sparse. We went from seeing 40-50 deer every morning to less than five now.

Last Saturday morning, we came upon a scene just outside of Cambridge that may be a general cause for this. Several duck hunters were pulling a small camouflaged boat out of the water onto the roadway while one of their mates was sending his black Lab into the small pond on the other side.

I could not see what the dog was paddling after, but a few yards away, four terrified swans were trying to frantically clamber out of the water onto the shore to escape. Right in their midst, a frightened goose was crouching down, trying to hide.

Since then, we have not seen one waterfowl on the ponds on either side of the road, the first time since spring. That experience made the calmness of this scene reassuring.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

For many of us who are way past our school days, we can still remember the rush of adrenaline we experienced in high school when we had just gotten seated and our teacher announced we were going to have a pop quiz over the material we had gone through the day before.

Looking back, I am not sure of the reasoning for these quizzes, but invariably someone in the class would raise their hand and ask the teacher, “Will this count on our final grade?”

However, those quizzes seem quite tame in relation to the pop quizzes deer undergo in Minnesota each fall. This fine specimen of buck whitetail deer will have been eagerly sought after by hunters from the middle of September right up until the last day of December. He had just completed a frantic gallop across an open field when I photographed him as he paused briefly before entering the woods.

This year’s season marks the beginning of over 150 years of deer hunting seasons in Minnesota, following the first one established in 1858, when I was just a boy.

Deer have to endure a gauntlet of weapons used against them, starting with bow hunting, followed by rifles, and ending with shotguns. Their main defense starts with alertness to every sound of a branch crunching, catching the whiff of human, or spotting the almost imperceptible movement of a hunter.

On average, there are anywhere from 150,000 to 200,000 deer harvested each year in our state.

Deer numbers have tended to increase both in Minnesota as well as nationwide, where there are an estimated 30 million or more roaming the countryside as well as the edges of urban areas.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

A wholesale change has already swept through our part of Minnesota. Colorful songbirds have sung their farewells, eagles are returning from spending their summers at lakes where fish meals were plentiful, and numerous hawks of various sorts are scouting country ditches and roads for unfortunate prey trying to scurry from one area to another unseen.

This young Red-tailed hawk with its juvenile pale yellow eyes has had an eventful summer. Hatched in late May or early June, it first learned to fly, then began half-hearted and clumsy efforts at hunting, often settling for grasshoppers, bugs, or an occasional slow-moving mouse.

But now it is hunting on its own, trying to carve out its own territory to return to in the spring after its first migration to southern states like Kansas, Oklahoma, or Texas.

Over the next few weeks, urged on by an instinctive need to migrate, it will increase the intensity of its hunting as it builds reserves for the mostly solo flight coming later this month or in November. When it returns, there's a good chance that its iconic tail will more clearly show the deeper color its species is known for in the bird world.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

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The last several days have been ones of significant change in the countryside around our town. Just last week, this bean field was a dark green; this morning, it shows the change of the season as it has yellowed and will soon begin the drying process that will result in harvest next month.

Many trees are already showing reds, yellows, and golds as they begin the ever-hastening lurch toward full fall colors.

The habits of wildlife are in full change mode as well. Deer are largely absent as they can read in the Star Tribune that bow season starts this Saturday, followed by other opportunities for them to be shot by two-legged pursuers.

Waterfowl are doing practice runs for migration as they fly high overhead from one body of water to another. Small songbirds are gorging themselves on seeds and berries as they load up for the trip south.

I even noted an old photographer headed to Shalom, our great thrift store, to update his autumn wardrobe, where he will splurge and buy the latest warm fashions for $3 each, which will look an awful lot like his last year's fashion.

If you like the change of seasons in Minnesota, this is a good time. If you find yourself dreading the coming winter, I already like you.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

The last several times my wife and I have journeyed out on our wildlife safaris (very small game), we have seen dwindling numbers and fewer species of both birds and animals.

Great Egrets beautified our area's small wetland ponds for what seemed like only a few weeks, and now, except for a straggler here and there, they are gone. Some flew to the southeastern part of the US, others to Mexico, Central America, or the Caribbean.

Nearly every fall now, as my active life recedes, I often think of the phrase in the old hymn that we used to sing in our small country church, "Life at best is very brief, like the falling of a leaf, Be in time."

Sweet, cuddly babies grow into young children with a mind of their own. Young children develop into teenagers, 'nuff said, and suddenly they are adults with their own families, as our daily influence on their lives almost disappears, and we face the challenges of finding meaning in empty homes and frail bodies.

The cycle of life that once seemed endless in our youth does indeed end, both for the wildlife of our world as well as for the humans that take pleasure in them for a season.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

This young hawk got caught in a downpour and is looking around for something to use to dry off. Spreading of feathers is a normal method that many birds use to dry off after a rainstorm.

I ran this hawk photo through several AI bird sites. Sometimes I think birding sites just throw out the first thing that comes to their mind. I got three different species suggested. I often use a percentage approach in evaluating answers. If I ask five sites and three of them agree, there is a good chance they are right.

The prevailing opinion was that it was a juvenile Cooper’s Hawk. Juvenile hawks can be difficult to identify, as often they look quite different from what they will look like in another year or two.

But juvenile Cooper’s Hawks have yellowish colored eyes during their first year, which matches this hawk’s eye color. Those eyes will gradually darken to red as they mature.

The Cooper’s Hawk species in Minnesota is called a partial migrant, meaning that not all individual hawks leave our state for the winter. They tend to stay year-round more in southern Minnesota, while hawks in the northern part of Minnesota head south, wintering as far south as Honduras.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

This beautiful juvenile Red-tailed Hawk is in its first year of the University of Life. There is more than a 50 percent chance it will flunk out.

Only an estimated 30-40% of its peers will make it through their first harsh Minnesota winter, not only because of biting north winds and snow but also due to their inexperience.

Juveniles are clumsy hunters. While adults live on substantial meals from voles, rabbits, and squirrels, their young start out hunting grasshoppers, frogs, and smaller songbirds. If hungry enough, juveniles will even join a crew of crows, eagles, and vultures that is eating carrion.

Their efforts can be comical in nature. They often fumble in their strikes, drop prey when flying, or choose prey that is too large for them to handle. In their first year, each hunt is a lesson, and the sooner they learn the ropes, the better their survival chances become.

Young Red-tailed hawks can often be observed perching for long periods on utility poles and other objects as they watch everything around them, a part of their study habits that helps in hunting situations.

A clue to identifying juvenile Red-tailed hawks is the lack of the iconic red on their tail, which they will not develop for around another year.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

In the hundreds of eagle photos I have taken over the years, very few times have I had the privilege of having one fly directly at me overhead. Most times, when eagles spot a human pointing a black tube at them, they veer off in one direction or another.

This particular eagle was perched on a mid-sized tree across a small lake about 75 yards away. He spotted my vehicle as I stopped alongside the road and got out to take a few photos with my telephoto lens.

After several minutes, I was about to get back into my vehicle when he lifted from his perch in the tree and began a slow, but deliberate, flight path directly toward me.

I took this shot as he approached and when I saw how intently he was evaluating me, I decided I had taken enough shots.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

The molting process of a Wood Duck is fascinating to watch, not only for the transformation of its appearance, but also to see the difference in how it operates during the day. The late summer molt is the major molt of the year. It usually happens over the course of 2-3 weeks around late summer.

I caught the earliest rays of the sun hitting this male wood duck as it perched on a small dirt hill rising out of a scummy pond. There were probably another 20 or so other ones hanging around, some perched on dead tree limbs hanging over the pond, while others swam near the reeds around the pond.

Since they have no weapon of flight right now, they try to be as inconspicuous as possible. Sometimes, when they spot my wife and me as we approach in our vehicle, they will glide quickly to the reeds and disappear amongst them.

However, if they are patient, they will soon regain their vibrant colors and will once again become the beauties of the water.

The overall molting process takes a few weeks total, but the flightless period is shorter because flight feather regrowth begins before all other feathers are fully replaced.

This timing is crucial for wood ducks because they need to complete their molt and regain flight capability before fall migration begins.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

This weathered dairy barn, with its handsome brickwork and distinctive gambrel roof, stands as a century-old survivor from the early 1900s, when similar architectural combinations defined rural America. The gambrel design itself traces back to Dutch settlers who brought this practical roof style to America in the 1600s.

On the modest family farms of that era, a substantial barn like this served as the farming operation's heartbeat. From their initial construction until the widespread decline of Minnesota small dairies in the 1970s and 80s, these barns witnessed generations of farmers housing their cattle and storing tons of hay in the loft above. The upper level sometimes held grain bins for winter feeding, making the barn a complete storehouse.

That cupola crowning the roof wasn't a mere decoration as it provided essential ventilation to prevent hay from spoiling and kept air circulating throughout the structure, protecting both feed and livestock.

Around the time this barn was built, St. Cloud served as a Minnesota brick manufacturing center, with the industry established in Stearns County during the Civil War era. While smaller brick yards operated closer to this barn's location in Kennebec County, practical considerations likely meant these bricks arrived by rail from St. Cloud's larger, more established kilns.

The farm children who grew up around barns like this remember them as centers of endless daily labor, but also a place where they learned lessons about life's fragility through caring for animals from birth to death.

Those same youngsters, many of them now elderly, carry vivid memories of Saturday morning conversations with fathers long gone, shared while mucking stalls and the infectious laughter of siblings goofing around at milking time, their voices still echoing despite needing hearing aids now to catch them.

Most of those once-young farmer boys have aged beyond heavy labor, but their hands remain calloused from decades of pitchfork handles, five-gallon feed pails, and the cool feel of snapping metal stanchions together before milking the trapped cows.

So forgive us old-timers for our wistfulness when we see an empty barn standing silent on a farm place. For during very formative years of our lives, structures like this one were at the heart of everything we knew, even if that heartbeat has now slowed down and grown faint.

(Photographed in Kennebec County, MN)

The passing of another year beckons me to look back over the decades at the places, events, and moments that quietly shaped my life.

For those of us on the downward slope of life, certain memories have the power to pull us suddenly backward, plunging us into earlier chapters of our story. Many of those scenes are anchored by our parents and the siblings who shared those days with us.

At my age, the sight of an old, isolated farmhouse wrapped in the depths of winter stirs something deep inside me. Younger folks might drive past a place like this and see only something primitive or outdated. They may even wonder who the unlucky people were who grew up in such a place.

What first caught my eye in this photograph was the elevated green fuel-oil barrel leaning against the house like an elderly widow leaning on a shopping cart for balance. We had one just like it, and it was the source of more than a few moments of wintertime chaos and worry in our home.

On some January mornings, we would wake to sub-zero temperatures, frost feathering the windows, and no warmth rising up the stairs from the oil burner on the main floor. The cold outside had dropped so low that the fuel oil flowing from the green barrel had begun to crystallize.

Mom’s frantic cry would wake Dad, and he’d quickly bundle up while she heated water on the wood-burning stove. Soon enough, he’d be outside in the bitter cold, pouring hot water over the copper pipe that carried oil into the house. Sometimes it worked the first time. More often, it took at least one more baptism of hot water before the fuel oil slowly began to flow again and warmth took up residence in our house.

Those early years together as a family slipped by quickly. Before we knew it, our tribe had scattered, each of us leaving home to make our own fortunes and our own mistakes. No matter where we landed, though, there was always a heartfelt siren song that called us back several times a year. Family gatherings became a lifeline, keeping us connected through the births of children, their school triumphs, and the unfolding details of one another’s lives.

But while those years brimmed with promise for us kids, other changes were quietly taking shape. On our occasional visits, we began to notice that Dad’s ability to keep up with house repairs had slowed. So, too, had Mom and Dad themselves.

All of us came to understand that something fundamental had shifted. We were no longer sheltered under their protection. Instead, we found ourselves holding their arms as they navigated the steps, steadying them as their gait grew uncertain and their sharpness began to fade.

Even as circumstances changed forever, the pull of that old home place remained strong. That was where we had once raced through rooms and fields, where we laid the foundation of our lives.

Yet, our last visits to that home carried a different weight. They were not quite as light-hearted, for we realized that our parents’ days were drawing to a close.

(Photographed in Isanti County, MN)

Traipsing through some snowy woods yesterday I was surprised to hear and then see a Belted Kingfisher alight on the top of an old dead tree above an open stream. He didn’t stay long but long enough for me to locate him from 30 yards away and shoot a few frames. I wondered why he was still here in Minnesota near the end of November.

When I got home I did some research and found that Kingfishers are considered a partial migrant and can survive cold temperatures if open water is available. Most Kingfishers that breed in Canada, Alaska and northern Minnesota migrate to the southern United States, the Caribbean, Central America or even northern South America.

However, it is not uncommon to see them remain near open water during the winter in the central or southern part of our state. It is a mystery to me how they make the choice to stay or migrate.

One migration fact I found interesting is that when migrating long distances, females tend to fly further than do the males. Probably a lesson of some sort there.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

I had a conversation with one of my older brothers yesterday on his 87th birthday. Slowly but surely, I am running out of siblings and peers to ask questions about shared experiences from decades ago.

One question I asked was if he remembers wildlife hanging around our farm down in southwestern Minnesota years ago. He didn’t. I can’t either.

Now, at our age, the fact that we can’t remember something is not uncommon. But the reality might be different from what we remember. Most of us, when we were teenagers or younger, don’t remember many details about things that we were not particularly interested in, so I truly don’t know if we had creatures visiting our farm or not.

So, even though we grew up in an environment that may not have been akin to an outdoor zoo, we did have some birds that were common to see. For example, Meadowlarks were constant companions in the spring and summer, hopping from one section of barbed wire fencing along our long lane to another as they followed us home after a hard day at school (us, not them).

When driving by a set of dead trees near a swampy area last weekend, I stopped suddenly upon seeing a bird clinging to the top of a branch. I told my wife I was pretty sure that was a bird I had never seen before.

It wasn’t. When I ran it through a couple of birding sites, it turned out this was thought to be a Western Tanager. This species is not really common in our area of the US, as they breed mostly in the western U.S. and Canada, and only use Minnesota as a pit stop on their way to spend the winter in Mexico and Central America.

If we are really lucky, we might catch a glimpse of one again when they pass through our area in the spring on their way back to their breeding grounds out west.

Anyone who photographs birds calls it a good day when they spot a certain species of bird for the first time. I did.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

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Photographing this fine buck on an early summer morning brought back memories of the first logo that made an impression on me when I was a young child.

My father must have had a policy with The Hartford Insurance Group, because we often got unsolicited mail from them in the late 1940s. Their logo of the outline of a stag was prominent on all of their materials.

The Hartford Company is an old one, founded in 1810 in Hartford, Connecticut. When a huge fire destroyed New York’s financial district, the company’s president, Eliphalet Terry, used his own money to cover all the resulting claims. (It is rumored his wealth came from collecting $10 from everyone who laughed and commented on his first name.)

The origin of the logo is not known, but it is pretty ancient. However, the earliest record of it being used was in 1861 when it was found on an insurance policy issued to Abraham Lincoln.

Some historians suggest the image of the stag came from a well-known painting in 1851 by Sir Edwin Landseer, entitled “The Monarch of the Glen.”

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

Perched high above a small wetland pond, this bald eagle had just secured a small prey from below when the roar of a streaking motorcycle shattered the quiet. Startled, it lost its grip on the catch, the prey tumbling back into the water below. After a second, the eagle erupted in protest as its wings flared, feathers went every which way, and it lifted its beak in frustration.

Bald eagles are patient hunters and, as they age, they become more successful, yet they are not immune to sudden disturbances that unsettle them. This shot captures their vulnerability, but their strength as well, as you can glimpse their powerful talons.

For me, it was a reminder that wild creatures live on the edge of survival every day, and that even a fleeting, disturbing sound can alter the outcome of their hunt.

Though I love to spend hours seeking out wildlife to photograph, I try to be ever vigilant to honor their needs for natural quietness, whether in springtime as they sit for hours waiting for their young to be born, or in the hours year-round when they need to be successful in their search for daily food.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

January has always been the month in a year when I severely question my parents’ decision 85 years ago to move to Minnesota, and not only because of the futility of following the Vikings for 63 of those years.

But whenever I feel sorry for myself as I pull on a dilapidated pair of Long Johns to prepare for extra-strength cold, I think of how strenuous life is for wildlife. I have been puttering through the countryside for the last decade, photographing the varied species of animals and birds that our area sustains.

During the warm weather months, my wife and I often spend 15-20 hours a week in search of subjects that I can photograph from our vehicle. Our schedule in the winter much shorter, but that does not mean there are no opportunities.

Yesterday, as we set out from town, we spotted this coyote. While many of us are layering up like overstuffed laundry bags and complaining about winter conditions, the coyote is out there trotting across frozen fields seeking to get enough to eat for another day.

Even during the worst of times, they patrol farm fields, woodlots, and suburban spots, their noses tuned to the faint rustle of mice tunneling beneath the snow. Dawn and dusk are their favorite shifts, though a daytime sighting isn’t particularly uncommon.

They travel a meandering path, often covering a couple of miles a day, sometimes more. Family groups stick together, communicating with those famous nightly ghostly howls.

In towns and cities, winter coyotes scour garbage cans and compost piles. Unfortunately, unattended pets often become fresh room service. The Minnesota DNR reminds us not to make coyotes feel welcome.

In spite of this, you have to admire them. While we complain about icy driveways, coyotes endure winter with a quiet strength. In Minnesota, we call that character building.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

On a gravel road with a stand of tall trees on one side, I spotted a kerfuffle on a branch pretty much hidden by the foliage of the trees. When I pulled ahead enough to get this photo, another juvenile hawk flew off. They had been scuffling over dead prey they had recently captured.

This summer, my wife and I have seen a half-dozen juveniles, more than we have seen in the past. Once I became familiar with their juvenile coloring, it became easier to identify them.

Juvenile Red-tailed Hawks don’t get their characteristic red tail until they reach their first adult plumage, which typically happens at the start of their second year, or around 2 years of age. Until then, they have brown tails with darker striping, a light chest, and a prominent belly band of streaking.

A juvenile at the age of the one in the photo is still learning to hunt efficiently. Their first winter is a crucial one for making it through as these hawks suffer a higher mortality rate than they do later.

Juveniles start out with yellow eyes that gradually darken. By the time they are 3 years old, their eyes are a deep brown.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

One observable trait in eagles is that they accomplish very little in their life without a defined purpose. Each movement is deliberate, their eyes fixed on a task with no wasted motion.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

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Nearly hidden from indifferent passersby, trees and snow overwhelm an abandoned house. Time has erased any semblance of the vitality the house once possessed when a young family was born and raised within its walls.

Exuberant noises of children chasing one another and playing with non-motorized metal toys on worn linoleum floors have faded, leaving only the cool whistling of a north breeze to interrupt the solitude.

The remnants of a recent blizzard are now forgotten as the sun pierces winter clouds, trying to defeat the efforts of the snow to cover the scene.

Over 70 years ago, as a youngster growing up on a farm in southwestern Minnesota, blizzards could be fierce and unrelenting to man and livestock as they roared into our area after delivering glancing blows to South Dakota and Iowa. For up to several days, daily life as we knew it changed from routine to a grudging respect for what Nature could do without our permission.

Snowdrifts on our farm, molded by heavy snows and a north wind that mocked warm clothing, could reach levels that allowed cows and pigs a newfound freedom as they would unsteadily master the tall drifts and stand on roofs, just because they could.

Other than the daily milking of cows and caring for other livestock, not much got done during these days when the elements threatened your existence in simply trying to find the barn after leaving the house. Dad and anyone else with a smidgen of arm muscles grabbed the nearest aluminum scoop shovels and began the arduous task of carving out paths in the snow drifts to allow young farm boys to struggle with carrying 5-gallon pails of feed to anxious livestock who were wondering why we were late to feed them.

But these blizzards were not all bad news. Our little crew of school robots of all ages would gather around our oilcloth-covered kitchen table early in the morning to listen to our brown Motorola radio, perched in the center. We listened with great anticipation to Roger Erickson on WCCO, hoping to hear the magic word “Slayton Public Schools” mentioned in the largely alphabetical listing of schools that were closed for the day.

School closing for a day or two certainly meant a lot of extra work for all of us, but produced warm memories of the slowing down of family life as we gathered together during the afternoons for times of playing board games and drinking hot cocoa while eating large bowls of heavily buttered-popcorn.

(Photographed in Isanti County, MN)

I photographed this juvenile Eastern Phoebe as it started its day early, while night's damp blackness still surrounded it. In the darkness, the young bird sang with all its might, seemingly unconcerned whether its song would be answered.

When it comes to unrequited singing, my dad, who grew up attending silent movies, once said I had a singing voice uniquely suited for them.

Now at an age when I can sense the fading light of my life's day, I have witnessed in others and felt within myself the suffocating darkness that falls when life threatens to squeeze out the will to continue.

Familiar shadows touch many of us: wayward children, the crushing weight of losing a spouse or child, financial ruin, significant health problems, or lives once brimming with promise now filled with broken dreams.

Each of us handles life's dark times differently. Some people collapse and never fully embrace life again. Others try to fill their losses and disappointments with destructive habits, frantic activity, or material possessions.

However, some sing in the darkness, not because they feel joyful, but because singing gives voice to hope.

To sing in life's dark times is to refuse defeat. It is an act of defiance and faith, the whispered response of a heavy heart that tomorrow may bring light again.

This young Phoebe understands something about living a solitary life. Its family stays together for only a few weeks after fledgling, and then it faces the world alone. In just weeks, this tiny bird, weighing no more than a large grape, will fly thousands of miles to Mexico and Central America to spend the winter.

No family member will accompany it on this journey.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

Growing up on our farm, pigeons were omnipresent. Lying in bed at night in the summer before darkness enveloped the earth, there would often be a quiet fluttering of wings as they returned from their daily wanderings and landed on the rooftop of the barn and silo.

Their soft coos were often the last noise I would hear before drifting off to sleep. I probably had a lifelong bias against these beautiful birds, as my dad instilled in me the notion that pigeons were not a farmer's friend, being carriers of disease.

Lo and behold, nearly 70 years later, I asked AI if this was true, and it responded with a whole list of variable diseases they can inflict on farm animals. Now, I wonder where Dad got his knowledge of those facts.

Sorry, Dad, for my unbelief in your grasp of pigeonology.

One thing I had never seen before was a scene like this, where pigeons hung around a wetland pond and perched out in the water.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)

One of the reasons Blue Jays are on my top 5 favorite Minnesota birds list is that they're among the few brightly colored birds that stick around through our winters.

Right now, the Blue Jays are busy preparing for the lean months ahead. I was astounded to read that a Blue Jay will collect a hundred or more acorns per day during the fall. In a single season, one can store between 3,000 to 5,000 acorns.

Scientists tell us they bury each acorn in a separate spot, sometimes up to a mile and a half apart, and retrieve it later. However, I have to wonder if some of these statistics are a bit embellished along the way.

Blue Jays have a unique ability to carry up to five acorns at once. They hold one in their bill and tuck the others in a special throat pouch. I don't know if this Blue Jay had more acorns stashed in its pouch, but the one it had certainly seemed to stymie its squawking for a bit.

(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)