View allAll Photos Tagged everything_imaginable
"Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer."
- William S. Burroughs
Thanks to Rachel (Larisa Lyn) for creative input and having everything imaginable in her inventory. : )
...Feel🌌
"With cities, it is as with dreams: everything imaginable can be dreamed, but even the most unexpected dream is a rebus that conceals a desire or, its reverse, a fear. Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else."
Italo Calvino; Invisible Cities
Eins für zwei. Und zwei zum Tee.
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Dark and light, contrasts attract. And as far as I remember, our hair is like that :-). Of course, that's not the most important thing. But these two work out pretty well, right? And the passion to capture everything imaginable with the camera is something we have in common. Which makes me very happy. All that's missing is a joint cup of tea in Berlin or somewhere else – or coffee, that would be fine with me too ;-) Happy birthday in retrospect, dear Silke!
By the way, I met the horses on the lush green (!) meadow on your birthday, as you must have noticed ;-)
Taking photos is possible, but at the moment I mainly sit at the screen and mostly too much because of work – and Flickr suffers from that too ... In summer it is just a shame not to go out ...
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Dunkel und hell, Kontraste ziehen sich an. Und soweit ich mich erinnere sind so unsere Haare :-). Die sind natürlich nicht das Wichtigste. Aber bei diesen beiden macht sich das doch ganz gut, oder? Und die Leidenschaft, mit der Kamera so alles erdenklich Mögliche festzuhalten, ist uns wiederum gemein. Was mich sehr freut. Fehlt nur noch eine gemeinsame Tasse Tee in Berlin oder sonstwo – oder auch Kaffee, das wäre mir auch recht ;-) Alles erdenklich Gute zum Geburtstag nachträglich, liebe Silke!
Die Pferde auf der saftig grünen (!) Wiese traf ich übrigens an Deinem Geburtstag, wie Du bestimmt bemerkt hast ;-)
Fotografieren geht, aber am Bildschirm sitze ich momentan hauptsächlich und meist zuviel wegen der Arbeit – und da leidet Flickr auch drunter ... Im Sommer ist es einfach schade, nicht rauszugehen ...
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I hope you like the little song as much as I do: ///
Ich hoffe, Dir gefällt der kleine Song genauso wie mir:
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)
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)
What a day! The poor flowers in the garden have had everything imaginable thrown at them. It was an endless parade of storm cells bringing rain, snow, hail, sleet, thunder. lightening, high winds, and yes....even sunshine. It truly was one of those days where you could honestly say...."if you don't like the weather here, wait five minutes."
ELEVEN & ND Collab for Okinawa Event Dec 11th!
Comes with everything imaginable to get that 'true' sick look this holiday season!
Taxi: maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Saint%20Lucia/23/212/2807
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)
Proprietor of Doc's Leathers motorcycle gear on Queen St. W in Toronto. A must-see spot filled not only with biking gear but also a vintage museum filled with everything imaginable from pistols, transistor radios, typewriters, telephones, animal skulls, minerals, etc. A great trip down memory lane.
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)
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.
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)
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)
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)
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)
“'They dragged little Greta [Thunberg] by her hair before our eyes, beat her, and forced her to kiss the Israeli flag. They did everything imaginable to her, as a warning to others,’ the Turkish activist Ersin Çelik, a participant in the Sumud flotilla, told Anadolu news agency. ▪️Agus cad a bheadh ann dá ndéanfadh na Rúisigh é sin? ▪️And what would be the reaction if Russians did that? ▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️Ardeaglais Chríost, Port Láirge (1770-80) / Christ Church Cathedral, Waterford www.buildingsofireland.ie/buildings-search/building/22504...
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)
In the stillness of the rising sun over a wetland pond, an exquisite Great Egret catches an early morning meal, oblivious to the cacophony of sounds from the busy world around it.
Sometimes, in my early days, before I turned 10 years of age, I would notice a quizzical look on my father’s face when he responded to me, a look different from the ones he gave my siblings as he ordered their lives.
Before I went away to college, I often sensed that he and I were out of sync in how we interacted with life.
One cold winter Saturday morning, when he and I were caressing the wooden handles of 5-tine pitchforks, he commented that when I got old enough to clean the hog shed by myself, it would be a feather in my hat.
Now, when many young farm lads might hear this, they would glow with an inner satisfaction that their father was recognizing they were growing up. However, that thought never entered my mind.
Instead, I asked Dad, “Where did that phrase ‘feather in my hat’ come from?” There was a long pause, then he said, “Let’s hurry up and get this shed cleaned so we can go in for dinner.”
Years afterwards, I learned in my college etymology classes that the phrase goes back centuries. In various ancient cultures, warriors earned feathers for acts of bravery and would stick them in their headgear. In Medieval Europe, knights wore feathers in their helmets, signifying bravery in battle or winning top spots in tournaments of skill.
However, for this beautiful Great Egret that will soon depart Minnesota for its annual winter vacation in warmer climates, the beauty of egret feathers almost led to their extinction.
During the height of women’s fashion in the latter part of the 1800s, egret feathers became the rage for adorning hats. This led to a lucrative market for hunters, and millions of Great Egrets met their untimely demise. At one time, sources reported that a single feather was worth twice its weight in gold.
However, one positive development came out of this crisis. Federal laws were enacted in the early 1900s that protected migratory birds such as egrets.
In addition, women on the East Coast banded together to boycott feathered hats. Their organized opposition ultimately led to the formation of the National Audubon Society, an organization formed to protect birds.
Newspaper writers probably could not resist describing their efforts as a real feather in their hats.
(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)
Perched on a rusting post sticking out of a green, scum-covered wetland pond, an Eastern Phoebe waits patiently early in the morning for an unsuspecting insect to fly by and turn into breakfast.
Though a diminutive bird and adorned by modest colors of gray and white, the Eastern Phoebe is one of Minnesota’s faithful arrivals in spring, when it often returns in March while snow still lingers after a long winter. Their appearance is a sign to winter-weary Minnesotans that winter is about to make its anticipated retreat.
The life of these wee birds is a busy one. Mates use mud and moss to build hardened nests, much like a barn swallow, where they will raise one or sometimes two broods during a summer. After the hatching of their young, both parents fly often from their perches to catch insects in midair, which they repeatedly bring back to feed their hungry nestlings throughout the day.
As the days grow shorter in September, the phoebe prepares for a trip south, to the southern US or Mexico. The trip often takes weeks as it stops often to feed and rest, taking refuge near woodlands and waterways.
Unlike many other small birds, such as warblers or blackbirds that travel in noisy flocks, the small, dainty Eastern Phoebe will make the trip by itself, a lonely journey of over a thousand miles.
But, come March, this faithful bird will return to our state, threading together spring and fall while living part of its life here.
(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)
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)
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)
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)
This idyllic scene is a visual ointment to the eyes. Capped off by fall colors, swans swimming silently by, and a small shed designed by someone familiar with old barns, there is a mute signal of change often overlooked by a casual observer.
Though it is not a large, attention-grabbing exhibit, I took note of the dock someone has removed in anticipation of winter.
Dock removal at the end of the fall in Minnesota is an annual tradition. Though the methods may vary, the goal for folks who have a lake home or cabin, is the same—get the dock out before it gets frozen into the ice that can form any time after July 31st to December. (Well, July might be a little early, but in Minnesota you can’t be too prepared.)
Our little family lived just over a mile away from my elderly mom and dad, who had a home for years on Serpent Lake near Deerwood, Minnesota. If I were real fortunate, my father would get impatient after Labor Day and grab a couple of my brothers or brother-in-laws to help him move the dock out while I was away on a business trip. I can’t remember those circumstances happening as a regular occurrence.
Taking his long, multiple section, ultra-heavy dock out of the lake involved several men and a boy to do it. Dad lived his adult life thinking that every item he owned was better only if it was heavy enough to cause a hernia when moving it. He scoffed when I suggested getting a new dock with wheels.
For a few years after retirement, he would don hip boots and actually help us boys in the water, reaching under the icy water with a crescent wrench to undo bolts and struggle with the heavy dock sections.
One year he didn’t say anything, but limped down in his bib overalls and scruffy boots to the section of dock closest to land and proceeded to give step by step directions to a couple of us adult boys shivering in the water. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes. This wasn’t our first rodeo, but out of respect for him, acted as though we needed his advice on every step of the removal. His role as an overseer continued each year until he was moved into a rest home.
I was too busy with life at that point to realize my dad was emitting a signal, a quiet one that I missed. Like the dock itself, his physical role in our lives had changed, and the winter of his life was about to set in.
(Photographed near Braham, 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)
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)
Open since 1902 and still run by the Harper Family in Seneca Rocks, West Virginia. A typical country store in that it has a little bit of everything imaginable. But Harper's is essentially a living museum and is well worth exploring even it you do not need anything.
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
📍 La Habana
Havana is a synthesis of all Cuba, capital of the island and one of the most beautiful cities in Latin America.
The charm of the “Pearl of the Caribbean” continues to act, whoever knows it returns enriched and conquered.
Renewed, it offers everything imaginable in terms of colonial architecture.
Its most important neighborhoods, Old Havana, Vedado, Miramar, Centro Havana and the Malecón will make you enjoy the memories of the old architecture.
Havana is the tropical splendor, which gathers the best of Spain, the best of Africa and the best of the Antilles. Havana, with its old American cars, its hustle and bustle, its bare buildings, its history, its people and its rhythms leaves no one indifferent.
If you wanna learn in the field, please check out and join my next trip to Cuba , check below:
🌎 Planet Cuba Photography Tour Workshop 2023 & 2024 🌎
👉 tristanphotos.com/tours/cuba-photo-tour/
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Now your turn !
Would you like to visit La Habana ? Or maybe do you have any question ? Either way let me know in the comments below ! 🎉
With area farm fields carpeted by an unending white mat, yesterday on an unusually mild January day in east-central Minnesota, I found myself face to face with a bird I had previously only known from photographs and far-off places.
This Snowy Owl perched serenely against the winter landscape, as if it belonged here, though it had traveled thousands of miles from a world far to the north.
Snowy Owls inhabit the Arctic tundra, breeding across northern Canada, Alaska, and Greenland. There, they nest on open ground, raising their young during the brief summer when daylight barely fades.
Their lives depend on lemmings, a small rodent that is the foundation of their diet. When lemmings are plentiful, Snowy Owls thrive, but when that food source grows scarce, they must wander to find enough food to survive.
Unlike many other species of owls, Snowy Owls hunt by day and night, a necessity born of Arctic summers that never grow dark. In winter, their diet broadens to include mice, rabbits, and birds, which allows them to survive far from home.
When a Snowy Owl appears in Minnesota, it is often part of a phenomenon called irruption, which is a southward movement driven by hunger, competition, or the excesses of a strong breeding year.
Minnesota’s open fields and frozen wetlands echo their home base of the tundra, and offer them temporary refuge and sustenance.
This was a quiet, sublime moment for my wife and me as we parked silently on an isolated gravel road to observe. We have seen a large variety of wildlife over the last decade, but this was the first, and at our age, probably the last sighting of a Snowy Owl.
It quietly reminded us that our vast natural world is interconnected, and that we can still come across something rare, ancient, and profoundly humbling even in familiar places.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)
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)
In the last couple of weeks, I have had a couple of camera and lens problems that have upset my equilibrium.
My wife and I spotted a kingfisher standing on an old log out in a cooling wetland pond a few feet away from shore. It was a spot we had not seen one before in all of our years of photo-hunting for wildlife.
As I drove closer on the road, just a few yards away from it, I could see it was pounding the head of a reluctant minnow against the log in an effort to get it to quit moving and make it easier to swallow.
It was one of those moments I wanted not only to photograph, but to take a minute or two of video.
But, when I checked the viewfinder, the bird was not in focus. Without warning, the auto-focus motor on my telephoto lens had quit. Bummer, sung to the tune of around $500. Secondly, the lens I use for barn photography sprouted a crack, much like the ones you get on your windshield when a wayward stone makes contact.
I ordered a shorter 70-300mm lens to have at least one lens to use until I decide what to do. One of the first shots I took was of this eagle that was checking me out from about 8 yards away. It made me happy to see the results and made me feel part of my world had healed.
(Photographed near Cambridge, MN)