By Madeline Waterman

Wildlife Conservation Through a Photographer’s Lens

By Madeline Waterman

Browned reeds whip about in the late-March breeze as I crouch among them, concealed from hundreds of watchful eyes congregating on the half-thawed pond surface directly ahead. Honks, quacks, and the strange clicking noises emitted by Sandhill Cranes fill the air, forming a bird symphony. Out of the vast network of canals and other bodies of water in the area, the birds seem to flock almost entirely to this particular pond for reasons unknown to me. This tendency, however, is more than welcomed by ranch guests—mostly fishermen—as it means that only one of their fishing areas is overflowing with the waste that comes along with such concentrated groups of feathered creatures. After spending nearly a week on this Sheridan, Montana ranch with no company other than the wildlife, I’ve quickly discovered that the extremely skittish waterfowl—except for the bold Canada Geese—are not easy to sneak up on. I’ve not yet been able to catch the ever-vigilant hoard off guard; they inevitably take to the air in a great cacophony of panicked alarm calls and erratically flapping wings. Today’s venture has left me army-crawling through the damp grasses surrounding the pond in an effort to approach without being seen. So far, I’ve managed to avoid detection—though I’m convinced they will spot me at any moment.

There are five feet left… four… three… just when I think I’ve made it to the perfect location without being seen, a trumpeter swan swims directly in front of me. Seemingly in slow motion, we make eye contact. Shock registers in the two beady orbs staring back at me before quickly turning to panic—panic which mirrors my own as I picture the giant, notoriously aggressive bird charging me instead of flying off. Thankfully, the swan beats its impressive wings while letting loose a shrill honk of alarm and lifting off. Immediately, every last bird takes to the air, foiling any chance I’d had to capture photos of napping waterfowl.

However, a wildlife photographer always has a Plan B; I leap to my feet, simultaneously bringing up my camera and focusing on the fleeing subjects. I snap photo after photo, praying to the nature spirits that at least one will turn out. Once all the birds have gone, I review what I’ve captured with held breath… and let it out in a rush of air as I find images like those out of a dream. I may have missed the shot I was going for, but I captured something far better.

Nearly a month before, I’d set out from my home in Hyde Park, Vermont—a tiny town nestled in the idyllic Green Mountains. I’d spent most of the past year quarantined there with my parents after classes were moved online. As great as my family is, I felt that I was missing out on my own life. I’d been set to go to Mongolia for a few

months in the summer of 2020 to participate in wildlife field research—an opportunity that would provide valuable background experience for any wildlife job I applied for in the future—but it had been canceled even before the pandemic hit the U.S.

After repeated career-building cancellations, I was beyond sick of waiting around for opportunities to come to me. I knew something needed to change, but wasn’t sure exactly what that was until a near-constant flood of social media posts from travelers began popping up on my instagram feed. Many of these posts came from a group of wildlife photographers from Jackson, Wyoming—they were constantly posting incredible shots of the wildlife they saw on a daily basis. Immediately infatuated with their lives, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

Before I knew it, my Subaru crosstrek was all packed up with winter essentials and a camping pad in preparation for all the nights I would spend beneath the stars. The next 12,000 miles would mostly be just me, my camera, and the open road. Over the course of three months, I would experience countless incredible adventures: I’d stay at the Sheridan ranch, meet other wildlife photographers, stay on a sailboat for nearly two weeks in Washington, and discover a nearly-deserted hiking trail in the northern Redwoods of California, to name just a few.

While traveling from destination to destination, I spent

most nights camping in my car. One such night brought me to the 12-Mile Hot Springs in northeastern Nevada, which was a river of hot springs running through dusty, shrubby, cattle-filled land. The road to get there was one of the worst I’d ever seen: mountain-sized bumps positioned beside potholes emulating great sinkholes, crevasses of ruts from previous tire tracks filled with mud, and shallow rivers running across the dirt drive at regular intervals. Upon reaching the hot springs, it became clear that the arduous drive had been well-worth the trouble; one of my favorite photos from the trip shows a perfect painter’s sunset backlit against the canyon walls.

Though the high desert ecosystem may have originally seemed relatively absent of animals, they seemed to come out of the woodwork—or rather, stonework—as I sat quietly in the springs. A red-tailed hawk circled overhead before landing in a dead tree to keep a watchful eye on me. A few northern shrikes and western meadowlarks emerged briefly from the shrub brush before flitting away, busily preparing for the night. A mule deer quietly stepped out from a rock crevice as she made her way down the road I’d walked up not ten minutes before. Later, I would spook her from the tightly-packed sagebrush along the edge of the trail I’d camp on.

As the stars emerged from their daytime hiding places, the moon crept over the hillside and shone through my car window seemingly as bright as the midday sun. I rolled over, welcoming the darkness of sleep. That night, I dreamt of mountain lions prowling through the canyon on silent paws, but I was not afraid. I cannot say how many birds I saw alongside the highway during my time on the road, but the number must be in the high hundreds, at the very least. Red-tailed Hawks were seemingly everywhere, but I never grew tired of seeing them. When I first crossed the border between Idaho and Washington going through farm country, one nearly flew into my windshield, almost scaring me enough to trigger a premature heart attack.

Although birds were by far the most numerous type of animal I saw in every location I traveled, many are still in trouble. The world is currently entering its sixth mass extinction, with hundreds of species of birds either having already gone extinct or headed that way in rapid succession. In North America alone, we’ve already lost around 3 billion birds in just the past 50 years—a number that is increasing exponentially. While touring the Sheridan ranch with its manager, Mike, we came upon a swan carcass about 500 feet from the road. Although at first confused as to what had happened to it, he informed me that this was the third swan in recent months which had flown into the power lines and been electrocuted. Mike told me that he’d asked the wildlife department to put markers on the power lines, but they’d been slow on the uptake. Since he’d first asked, another swan had already met its fate on the powerlines.

One morning at the ranch, I happened to glance out the window—only to do a double-take upon spotting the brilliant colors and faux-baldpate of a male Ring-necked Pheasant. He was sitting below some bushes separating the field from the guest house’s yard, seemingly without a care in the world. Having never seen one of these breathtaking birds so close, I immediately ran to grab my camera. To my delight, the proud bird stoically sat for his portrait.

Although pheasants were originally introduced to the U.S. from Asia, they’ve naturalized and are now considered an important game species. They receive much assistance

by Fish and Wildlife departments via stocking; thousands of farm-raised birds are released yearly across the U.S. in populations which cannot be self-sustaining. This ensures that the species is stable enough for hunting to continue while also preserving the viability of vulnerable populations who may otherwise struggle to survive.

Despite the steep decline being observed in many bird species, it’s encouraging to see that many species have made a recovery after being placed on the endangered species list (ESL), such as the California Condor and the Whooping Crane. The benefit of being on the ESL is that these species are more likely to make a recovery than those who are not; while most animals on the list are actively managed and expected to recover, the birds who are not officially recognized as endangered are dying off in great numbers due to the lack on conservation efforts focused on them. However, for a species to be listed in the first place is a devastating blow which we must work hard to reverse. Global warming coupled with human pollutants (such as pesticides) pose a massive threat to bird biodiversity, and we must do anything we can to slow this mass-extinction before it is too late.

Of course, there are a great number of species outside the realm of birds who are struggling and need our help if they are to survive in the generations to come. One such animal is the moose, a species which many of my friends on the east coast have never seen before. Several even swear that the strange creatures are simply a myth made up by crazy woodsmen which has been carried on by others playing a trick on the rest of society. I am quite certain, however, that they would quickly take that statement back if they ever visited Jackson, Wyoming. While in town for a few days participating in an avalanche safety and rescue course, I saw more moose than I’d previously seen in my 21 years of life. Every day as I drove into Grand Teton National Park I would see at least five moose in the same mile-long stretch of road. Both tourists (sporting cheap selfie sticks) and wildlife photographers (grasping high-grade cameras with lenses nearly as long as my arm) would be lined up alongside the road, snapping away. I must admit that I also joined the gaggle of people clogging up the roadside, gawking at the nearness of so many of the giant ungulates. Despite the Jackson area’s reputation for being a moose-sighting hotspot, the population has steadily decreased over the years. One good sign for the Jackson herd is that there have been many cows spotted with calves—I myself saw a near-adult calf with its mother—hopefully predicting a near-future uptick in the population. However, Wyoming’s moose still experience many obstacles in their path to survival, such as habitat loss and winter tick increases.

Back on the East Coast, the only state with a high concentration of moose is Maine. There, moose are nearly always spotted covered in swaths of winter ticks; they’re often found dead in the snow after succumbing to blood loss from tens of thousands of the parasitic insects. Each year, as many as half of the calves die while others grow sick, unable to push on while an infestation of ticks leeches away all their energy. This has resulted in severe reductions in reproductive success, which is a frightening prospect for the future of the moose population. All of this is further pushed along because of global warming: longer winters in the past meant that the ticks would drop off into snow instead of leaves, their required breeding habitat, thus decreasing their chances of survival. With earlier springs brought on by climate change, a boom in the tick population has been seen due to the increased likelihood of them dropping off into viable breeding habitat. After three months on the road, I saw more animals than I do in a typical year back at home. Herds of bison, pronghorn, elk, every species of deer found in the U.S. roamed along roadsides, a pod of gray whales breached off the Washington coast, and even the occasional marmot or muskrat emerged from their hiding places. Each of these species were unique and special in their own ways—and I have plenty of photos to prove it. I connected with wildlife professionals, like-minded outdoor adventurers, and even learned about some views that may have been different from my own.

As a society, we must start working together wherever we can. If we don’t make some broadscale changes, the environment so treasured as part of our lives will become unrecognizable. Many of the species who inspire so much awe— such as the moose— will disappear forever. I can only hope that my photos and writing will increase awareness of and appreciation for wildlife; if enough people come together, we just may be able to make a positive impact on the future— for everyone. H

Photography by Madeline Waterman