Arctic Wilderness Photography

03/02/2026

Someone get that seal a tissue.

The northern elephant seal (Mirounga angustirostris) looks almost cartoonish hauled out on a beach—huge eyes, wrinkled skin, and in the case of the males, that oversized inflatable nose that gives them their name. But once they slip beneath the surface, they become one of the most extraordinary deep-diving mammals on Earth.

These giants can dive over 5,000 feet (1,500+ meters) deep—some recorded even deeper—and stay down for nearly two hours at a time. And they don’t just do it once. They dive again. And again. For months. Spending nearly 90% of their time at sea underwater.

How? Their bodies are built for pressure.

• They carry massive amounts of oxygen in their blood and muscles.
• Their heart rate slows dramatically during dives to conserve oxygen.
• Their lungs actually collapse safely under pressure, reducing nitrogen absorption and helping prevent the bends.

And here’s one of the most fascinating parts: northern elephant seals produce a special pulmonary surfactant—a slippery fluid lining the tiny air sacs in their lungs. This fluid reduces surface tension and keeps the lungs from sticking together when they collapse at extreme depths. When they resurface, that same fluid allows the lungs to reinflate smoothly and efficiently. This is what is coming out of their nostrils.

Imagine diving into pitch black water, colder than ice, under crushing pressure that would destroy a human diver… and doing it routinely as part of your daily commute.

From awkward beach blob to deep-sea superathlete, Mirounga angustirostris might just be one of the most remarkable marine mammals on the planet

03/02/2026

There is just something about the faces of elephant seals that gets me every time.

One minute they look like grumpy old fishermen who’ve been out too long at sea… the next they look like heartbroken poets dramatically contemplating life. Those deep-set eyes, the whiskers twitching in the salt air, the way their massive noses droop like they’re permanently unimpressed with your life choices.

I’ve watched them raise their heads slow and deliberate, sand clinging to their wrinkled skin, giving you a look that says, “I have fought battles you cannot comprehend.” And honestly… they probably have.

For animals that can weigh several thousand pounds and battle like gladiators, their faces carry an almost human range of emotion — suspicion, annoyance, exhaustion, curiosity, even what feels like embarrassment when they flop awkwardly across the beach.

Wildlife photography has taught me this: sometimes the most powerful story isn’t in the action — it’s in the expression.

And elephant seals? They’ve got expressions for days

02/21/2026

Percival the ring-necked pheasant believed rain was a personal insult.

Every morning he strutted along the edge of the field with the dignity of a bird twice his size and ten times his importance. His coppery chest puffed, emerald neck gleaming, white ring crisp as a freshly ironed collar. He liked his feathers neat. He liked sunshine that made the fields shimmer like gold.

What he did not like was rain.

Rain turned the world into a dripping, miserable inconvenience. It flattened his crest, and dulled his shine. Worst of all, it made his feet muddy. Percival hated muddy feet. They squished. They clung. They lacked all dignity.

Across the field, a family of ducks splashed happily in a small lake formed in the field by the recent rains and they quacked and dunked and generally behaved like creatures who had completely lost their sense of propriety.

“Have some self-respect,” Percival called out. “You’re soaking yourselves.”

A northern pintail drake looked up, water dripping from his bill.
“That’s… the point,” he said.

Percival sniffed. “Barbaric.”

Then, with great ceremony, he planted his feet, puffed himself up to twice his normal size, and gave a mighty shake.

His feathers rattled like silk being snapped in the wind.
ShrrrRRRFFF!

A glittering spray of droplets flew in every direction—tiny beads of water flung into the air like a miniature rainstorm of his own making. They sparkled in the faint sunlight, landing on the nearby leaves, and dirt.

Percival stood very still afterward, pleased with himself. His feathers lay smooth and dry once more, gleaming as if freshly polished.

He gave one final, dignified shake—just enough to send a few lingering droplets flying from his magnificent tail, then lifted his head and resumed his proud morning strut.

Dignity restored.
Feathers flawless.
Rain… barely tolerated.

02/20/2026

On the crowded winter rookeries of the Pacific coast, not every northern elephant seal pup survives its first days. Each breeding season, thousands are born, but the beaches are harsh and chaotic places where survival is never guaranteed.

Some pups die within days of birth due to starvation if their mother is injured, inexperienced, or unable to produce enough milk. Others may be accidentally crushed during violent battles between massive males that can weigh over 4,000 pounds. Storm surges, extreme cold, or separation from their mother in the dense colony can also prove fatal for a newborn that depends entirely on her care.

When a pup dies, the mother often remains nearby for a short time, nudging or vocalizing softly before eventually returning to the sea. Northern elephant seals do not form lasting social bonds beyond the mother–pup relationship, so the colony quickly resumes its constant motion and noise. Scavenging birds such as gulls may gather, and over time the remains are broken down by natural processes or carried away by tides.

Though it may seem harsh, this loss plays a role in the coastal ecosystem. The nutrients from fallen pups support scavengers and help sustain the rich marine and shoreline food web. Meanwhile, the majority of pups that do survive grow rapidly on their mothers’ rich milk, preparing to leave the beach and begin life in the open ocean—continuing the cycle of life that has shaped elephant seal colonies for thousands of years.

02/20/2026

Each winter along the Pacific coast, female northern elephant seals (Mirounga angustirostris) haul out onto remote beaches and crowded rookeries to give birth. After an 11-month pregnancy, a mother typically delivers a single pup between December and February, often just days after arriving on shore.

At birth, an elephant seal pup is already enormous by mammalian standards—usually weighing 60–80 pounds (27–36 kg) and measuring about 4 feet (1.2 m) long. Within minutes, the mother and pup recognize each other by scent and sound, a critical bond in colonies that can contain thousands of animals.

For about three to four weeks, the mother does not return to the ocean to feed. Instead, she remains ashore, living off her own fat reserves while nursing her pup with exceptionally rich milk containing more than 40–50% fat. A hungry pup may consume up to 10 liters (over 2½ gallons) of milk per day. This high-energy diet fuels astonishing growth: by the time of weaning, a pup often weighs 300 pounds (135 kg) or more, quadrupling its birth weight.

When the nursing period ends, the mother abruptly departs for the sea, leaving the pup behind. The newly weaned youngster—now called a “weaner”—remains on the beach for several weeks, living off its stored blubber. During this fasting period, it practices swimming in shallow water, develops stronger muscles, and learns to regulate its body for life at sea.

Eventually, driven by hunger and instinct, the young elephant seal slips into the ocean for its first true journey. From that moment on, it must fend for itself, diving deep in search of squid and fish. Many will spend months at sea before ever returning to land. Only years later, if it survives predators and the challenges of the open ocean, will it return to a breeding beach to repeat the cycle that began with its own brief but extraordinary start on shore

02/19/2026

While in Ano Nuevo last week, our group ran across a rare individual with this cyber seal. Actually it is a radio and satellite beacon biologists use to study elephant seals because these animals spend most of their lives at sea and dive to extreme depths, making them difficult to observe directly. Tracking technology has transformed scientific understanding of their behavior, migration, and physiology.

Beacons are usually glued to the seal’s fur on the head or back using quick-setting epoxy. Because elephant seals molt annually and shed their fur and outer skin, the devices naturally fall off during the next molt without needing removal.

This individual however, was a rare breed indeed. This was a hermaphodite seal that by all appearances looked like a young male in that it sported the large probiscis (nose) and was considerably larger than all the females on the beach. But possessed female genitalia. The other males on the beach didn’t pay it any attention which was unusual since any other males would be immediately run off by the larger bulls, and the biologists were trying to figure if this seal swam with the male seals, or the female seals. Hence the tracking device. Will also be keeping track on if this hemaphrodite was able to produce offspring or not.

Hermaphroditism—the presence of both male and female reproductive organs in a single individual—is extremely rare in mammals, including elephant seals. These large marine mammals exhibit pronounced sexual dimorphism, meaning males and females are very different in size, appearance, and reproductive roles. Because of this clear separation of sexes and their reproductive strategies, true hermaphroditism is not a normal biological feature of elephant seals.

Overall, hermaphroditism in elephant seals is best understood as an uncommon biological anomaly rather than a normal or functional trait. Their reproductive biology, marked by strong sexual dimorphism and intense male competition, reinforces a clear division between male and female roles, leaving little evolutionary pathway for true hermaphroditism to develop or persist in the species.

02/18/2026

Yesterday I shared pictures of a fight between two bull elephant seals, and today I share the lead up to that fight when the larger bull starts to bellow with deep grunts to signal to the other male that this is his beach. It is amazing how fast they can move and how large they are in comparison to the females and pups also laying on the beach. As soon as I saw the two males were getting ready to fight, I literally dropped my phone to the ground and grabbed my Nikon to capture the pictures of the fight. Really wished I could have recorded the fight in video as well to show the force with which these two behemoths slam their heads into each others necks.

02/18/2026

On a cold, windswept beach, two massive male northern elephant seals (Mirounga angustirostris) rear up like living boulders, their bulk rising from the sand in slow, thunderous motion. Each bull can weigh 4,000–5,000 pounds (1,800–2,300 kg) and stretch nearly 16 feet (5 meters) long—roughly the size of a small car.

They face off chest-to-chest, inflating their enormous nasal proboscises like grotesque balloons. The air fills with deep, booming bellows—less like animal calls and more like a pair of idling diesel engines echoing across the colony. These vocalizations serve as warnings, but neither male intends to back down.

With surprising speed for animals so massive, they lunge forward. Their thick necks—layered with blubber up to several inches deep—slam together with a wet, percussive thud. Jaws open wide, revealing yellowed teeth designed less for tearing flesh and more for dominance displays and punishing bites. They strike and recoil, their bodies heaving, sand spraying as flippers dig for traction.

One bull rises higher, towering over his rival, using his weight and height to intimidate. Dominant males can be up to five times larger than females, and in breeding season they fight to control a stretch of beach and a harem that may include dozens of females. Victory means mating rights; defeat means retreat to the margins.

They collide again. This time teeth find skin. A crimson streak appears along a scarred shoulder, but the wounded male barely reacts. Years of previous battles have left both bulls etched with pale, ropey scars across their thick hides—a living history of past contests.

The larger bull surges forward with a final shove, driving his opponent backward across the sand. The defeated male lowers his head, issuing a guttural surrender call before turning away and dragging his massive body toward the surf. The victor remains upright, chest heaving, lifting his trunk high to trumpet dominance across the beach.

Around him, cows and younger males lie scattered across the sand, witnesses to the clash of giants. For now, the beach—and the breeding rights—belong to him

10/16/2025

Recent trip to the Columbia River Gorge to go hiking the waterfalls. The fire from a couple years ago has closed down a few trails to waterfalls I love going to and might be a few years till the trails are opened again to allow the vegetation to regrow. But the waterfalls I did get too are ones I’ve been to several times in the past. Got to take a friend and she really enjoyed ponytail falls. We plan to return and go check out more when we have more time.

09/29/2025

I know this is probably a long shot but if anyone possibly found my pack of camera filters at the Hope turnoff, please let me know. I set it down on the concrete blocks in the parking lot of the rest stop while taking pictures and forgot it.

09/13/2025

08/05/2025

My earliest memory of Alaska begins not with mountains or moose, but with me waking up in a pile of broken glass and comic books... on the roof of what used to be our Chevy Blazer.
It was late September 1978, and my parents, full of hope, ambition, and the kind of nerves only possessed by young couples chasing the last frontier, had left our cozy little house in Clarksville, Tennessee, and were making the long pilgrimage up the Al-Can Highway. Destination: Alaska. After several years of us moving from base to base in the lower 48, the Army gave my father the choice of going to Germany or Alaska. Dad had always wanted to come to Alaska, and now he was to report to Ft Richardson in a few days' time. It was also just a few days before I was to turn five, and they figured “What better way to celebrate than by strapping our preschooler into a 4x4 and rolling him into a new life?”
Somewhere deep in the middle-of-nowhere, Canada — which is, let’s be honest, most of Canada — my Kentucky-born mother, who had never driven on snow or ice in her life, hit a patch of black ice. The Blazer fishtailed, spun like a disco ball, and gracefully launched itself into a ditch, and came to a stop on its roof.
I didn’t see it.
I was napping. In the back seat. Snoozed straight through the entire rollover. They checked on me first — probably expecting screams or tears — and found me completely limp, drooling on a Spider-Man comic book like it was just another Tuesday. Somehow, the crash had lovingly cradled me in a cocoon of comic pages and shattered safety glass, and I was still out cold.
That’s when my dad, cool-headed and probably wondering what the hell they’d just gotten into, was trying to console my mother, who was sobbing on the side of the icy highway, surrounded by trees, mountains, and a husband who still wanted to move north. She was second-guessing everything — the move, the drive, her marriage, and leaving their families and everything they had known behind. Eventually, I woke up — not from the crash, mind you, but from the cold air filtering in through the blown-out windows, and Tuffy, my mom's miniature schnauzer, licking my face. I blinked a few times, looked around at the snow, the woods, the upside-down truck, and probably thought, “Huh. Canada’s wild.”
Then — like something out of a folksy country ballad — a pickup truck with a camper rolled into view. Inside were two absolute legends: a couple who, as fate would have it, were paramedics. Not part-time first-aid volunteers, not “I once took a CPR class” types — actual trained, professional paramedics. In the middle of the Yukon. In a pickup. With a camper.
They pulled over, checked us out, and gave the full once-over. Miraculously, we were all okay — bruised, cold, rattled—but nothing broken, other than our ride and maybe my mom’s faith in Canadian roads.
Seeing that I was still bundled up and blinking at them like a dazed raccoon, they handed me a little stuffed frog, which I immediately grabbed and held like it was Excalibur. Then they loaded us into the warm camper and said they’d drive us to the next town to get help.
And somewhere along the way — when they heard it was nearly my birthday — they stopped, picked up a cupcake, stuck a candle in it, and sang me Happy Birthday, right there in the cab of that truck. It was the first time I ever remember feeling truly welcomed to Alaska, even though we technically weren’t even there yet.
No balloons. No party hats. Just a cupcake, a frog, and two kind strangers who turned what could have been a traumatizing memory into a story I still carry like a talisman. Although I was only a little kid and had just been involved in an accident, my recollection of the events may have been due to post-concussion delusions.