wildlife

Martis Dogs: A chance encounter with Coyotes near Truckee, California

D. Craig Young · December 30, 2025 · 1 Comment

Martis Valley, California, a few miles north of Lake Tahoe and just below Donner Summit, is often significantly colder than the surrounding mountains and almost always colder than the valleys of western Nevada. It seemed as cold as ever on this April morning (2025) even though it was a few days into spring. This morning, the valley’s reputation as a ‘cold sink’ is deserved. But where’s the snow? Only patches peek out from the shade of the forest floor; it is already drier than I expected.

I had driven from Nevada to do some documentary photography for a National Register nomination highlighting a complex of traditional properties and archaeological sites along Martis Creek, a tributary of the Truckee River, which flows from Lake Tahoe to Pyramid Lake in western Nevada. I traveled against its flow on my short journey into the mountains. My problem, on this frozen morning, is that there are millions icy crystals reflecting the sunrise from every surface and seemingly hanging in the air. The bright highlights were impossible distractions from the necessary documentation. I would have to wait for some mid-morning warmth, at least.

To make use of the extra time, I started to scout for the requisite shots, but I was quickly distracted by the calls of a pack of coyotes. They were nearby, but in the woodlands that ring the open meadow of the valley bottom. I turned toward the forest, following a wide trail in the general direction of the melodic howling. The clustered trees favored me, as I soon caught a glimpse of a pair of yearling pups. Nipping and wrestling, they failed to notice me even though I was relatively close. They would tussle and then stop to sing and yelp. It was musical.

Soon, mom appeared behind the pair pushing them onward, into the forest toward a nearby meadow. Unlike the unaware pups, she caught sight of me immediately. We shared a long gaze, implying that it was fine to share the trail but not to follow her little pack.

I watched for a while, sticking to the trail to let them wander without watching me too closely. They were now quiet and got to business in the meadow, running among deep grass, sage, and willows as their hopeful hunt began.

As I lost sight of them, a Mountain Chickadee stopped by to see what all the ruckus had been about. By then the song-dogs had disappeared completely, and it was time for me to get to work.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing

Nevada High Points #103 — Montana Mountains

D. Craig Young · July 31, 2022 · 1 Comment

**Coyote dust**. Evening above Coyote Point, Kings River Valley, Great Basin Desert, NV

Mine VABM

7129 ft (2173 m) — 418 ft gain

2022.07.10

Motivation is hard to find in the long, repetitive days of summer. The Great Basin Desert seems to curl and fold within itself, even as hazy heatwaves dance across the expanse. The high-pressure domes that keep moisture at bay seem to press downward and inward, sapping energy and making the horizons of endless days barren of interest. I have been in a holding pattern of field days on projects, day-after-day, rarely home for any comfortable time; the repetition threatening to deplete much interest in pursuit of geodata, of photography (either documentarian or creative), and – I’m surprised to admit – of exploration. I typically look forward to the long drives, on-road and off, from project to project or to trailheads leading to peaks and wilderness. Not lately though, this summer is burning me out – not to mention the hordes of black ants that have invaded our home, a summer nuisance, among other chores, that sucks the remaining energy from seemingly every home-time quiet.

And yet, as I make my way up Pole Creek Road into the Montaña Mountains, the air cools and the depth of evening shadows washes some of the stagnant sweat from my eyes. Even if only momentary, the wildland heights heal the ills of summer doldrums and repetition. I am here to walk the range’s high point, “Mining VABM,” a rolling swell in the Montaña escarpment rising above Kings River Valley. Because I am working with a fieldcrew nearby, it made sense to plan this walk to coincide with my visit, and now I see it might do me some good.

**Caldera remnants**. Outcrops on the western escarpment of the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

Montana Mountains Collection

The Montañas are a crumpled and dissected block of uplifted volcanic rocks, with deep canyons splitting rolling tablelands where an occasional butte preserves an old eruptive vent or cone. There is still a little water in the higher streams, and a few of the ponds – often augmented for ranching – hold shallow pools. Although summertime in the sagebrush steppe can seem depleted of wildlife, and many species are definitely hunkered down or simply elsewhere, slow pauses on a canyon rim or along the transition between sage and a grassy burn scar can reveal hints of wild. Walking among rimrocks at the head of a canyon that drops steeply to Kings River Valley, I find a young mule deer, velveted antlers glowing in the setting sun. I step backward to let him be to find a rattlesnake quietly in my way. It does not seem to be bothered by my presence, neither rattling nor posturing, and I can easily bypass it in the quiet.

**Sound attention**. A mule deer peers from a shady alcove in the rimrock of the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

**No trail**. A Great Basin or Western Rattlesnake waits on an evening hunt, Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

**Motionless**. The Great Basin Rattlesnake waits, Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

The high point walk is a simple wander along the escarpment edge to a broken-down cairn guarding the summit register. From the rolling summit knoll, I can look down into Kings River Valley and southward into the expanse of Desert Valley. The agricultural imprint of the valley bottom is a regularized pattern of green and brown, but an altered wild surrounds the regularity, and only the sprinkler pivots and ditch irrigation keep the inevitable arid squeeze at bay.

**Mine VABM**. The unassuming high point of the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

**Fading distance**. Kings River into Desert Valley from the high point of the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

**Pivot and bins**. Kings River Valley, Great Basin Desert, NV

Summit register at Mine VABM, Montana Mountains, NV

Although a well-traveled dirt road traverses close the summit, the cairn seems rarely visited. I register as usual, and the hike back to the truck parked well down the road. There is little elevation gain, but it is a good walk nonetheless. It cools into the evening as I camp on the escarpment edge, where a half-moon stares at me throughout the night, washing the stars in a blue-grey blur, an echo of the dusty haze that bled the color from the day.

**Six hens**. Sage Grouse in the Montana Mountains, Great Basin Desert, NV

Montana Mountains Collection

While the high points and wild lands, whether protected wilderness or the altered wild that forms so much of the Nevada outback, bring refreshment even at the height of summer, I worry that the altered wild is taking an unsustainable beating – federally protected wilderness being the one true refuge (for now) from development. As our infrastructure picks and prods at the remaining open space, and all wildlands (protected or not) breathe the global heat of economic and societal engines, I am part of the problem. I live and work in that infrastructure; and though my work seeks to understand and mitigate some of the adverse effects of local development, I am torn by opposing forces and my obvious hypocrisy. Like so many other wild places, the Montaña Mountains provide momentary surcease in the midst of the turmoil of climate change, environmental degradation, and political short-sight. What can these small, non-descript ranges teach me about adapting to and mitigating the pressures of the coming heat and aridity? There remains much beauty and refuge in the altered wild, our impacts are certain and may sometimes be necessary, but we must also proceed with caution, critique, and care.

Keep going.

On the edge of wild — Atacama Desert, Chile

D. Craig Young · July 2, 2022 · 2 Comments

**Explaining Atacama**. Information along B-245, Atacama Desert, Chile

With the wilds of Patagonia still fresh in our minds, Bill and I spent a short night in Santiago and then climbed on another Latam flight. We were headed north, working our way up the latitudinal expanse of Chile, exploring the regional extremes from glaciers to desert dry lakes, from sea level to the altiplano with volcano summits at 20,000 feet. And, for a time, we were only slightly higher flying into Calama in the dry heart of the Atacama Desert.

**Turistas**. Exploring the small pans of the high desert, Atacama Desert, Chile

**Above the salar**. Volcan Licancabur rises to 19,553 feet, looming over the Salar de Atacama, Atacama Desert, Chile

It took quite a while in the queue for a rental, but the little truck was perfect once we got going. I was back in my element, driving desert roads stretching to high horizons, strips of pavement and gravel bounded by salars (dry lake beds) and conical volcanoes. The mountains appear in their simplest form, symmetrical peaks with tonsures of snow, as children draw their first mountain scenes. We based out of the little tourist hive of San Pedro de Atacama; it is the obvious gateway for a short visit to the region, with key tracks leading north and south along the cordillera. While it might not be a wild adventure, it is beautiful way to taste the flavor of the altiplano. Our days do not disappoint.

Atacama Collection

Traveling in the time of covid presents some obvious difficulties. While Chileans tend to practice good caution and care, with vaccinations and masking required in most spaces, it also means many places are closed. This is especially true for those areas, even if wide-open spaces, managed or owned by indigenous communities where limited access to health services and allowing access to exotic tourists is a bad mix. We realize soon enough that some of our plans for visiting water features – springs and wetlands – that pock the vast valley-bottom salars will not work out. We are adaptable in every way, though I keep having to wake up an oxygen-hungry Bill as we drive roads at an elevation above the highest mountains in the contiguous US.

**High road**. Desert highway near Socaire at over 12,000 feet, Atacama Desert, Chile

**Sin agua**. The playa of the Salar de Agua Caliantes, Cerro Aracar rises in background, Atacama Desert, Chile

We first explore the region south of the village of Socaire. Our wildlife encounters are fabulous – a fox hunting in coppice dunes and bunch grasses, a family of vicuna cautiously grazing, and flamingos wading in the expanse of Laguna de Aguas Calientes. Our early start allowed us to take advantage of the dusty morning light. Even with the various closures, our first trips into the altiplano were all I had hoped they would be.

**Morning patrol**. A South American Gray Fox (Lycalopex griseus) in sparse grasses of the Atacam Desert, Chile.

**Curiosity**. Vicuna family in the altiplano of the Atacama Desert, Chile

**Flamingo blue**. Andean Flamingos on the Salar de Agua Calientes, Atacama Desert, Chile

**One and two**. Andean flamingos on the vast Salar de Agua Calientes, Atacama Desert, Chile

A dusty ambient light around San Pedro had caught my attention on the previous evening, and with today’s addition of low clouds, the evening held promise of a stunning sunset. We found the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) closed – even its back entrance near Tres Marias was blocked by an ad hoc barrier of boulders – due to covid restrictions, so we wandered various dirt tracks looking for a viewpoint to capture the expansive evening desert. We hiked a short way into the park’s margin and set up on a rocky bench overlooking badlands in washes tributary to the Valle de la Luna. I might have been disappointed that the park and various popular viewpoints were closed, but this allowed us to walk a bit, getting to places we might not otherwise see, and maybe shooting images beyond the obvious. Or so we thought. We were alone when I first set up, enjoying the patient anticipation in the early glow of evening. As our wait continued and the light progressed, however, a crowd grew on the hills behind us, dozens of cameras (phones, of course) pointed in the same direction. We were furthest in, maybe half a kilometer down-canyon, so it looked as if the crowds along the roadside (including several tour buses) had turned out to watch me work the scene. Oh well. The sunset was putting on a splendid show, and, with the closures, this stretch of highway provided accessible theater for everyone – I was happy we had walked in a bit.

**Dust of dusk**. Valle de la Luna, Atacama Desert, Chile

**Evening alight**. Sunset in the Valley de la Luna, Atacama Desert, Chile

Bart met us after we had been in San Pedro for a couple days; his trip paralleled ours for a time after we left Patagonia. Picking him up in the pre-dawn darkness at the edge of San Pedro, our rental truck joined a train of white vans on the highway to El Tatio geyser. Although we had seen clues around town that the geyser trip was popular (and open), we did not anticipate the early morning rush of guided tours. Trying to not submit the rental to an undo beating on the teeth-shattering washboard of the over-used, multi-tracked road to the geyser, I was passed by an incessant stream of vans, sprinters, and buses of various sizes, a long string of red taillights cresting every hill and switchback for miles as we climbed steeply into the darkness. It was not a pleasant drive.

**Early arrival**. Visitors at dawn at the El Tatio Geysers, Atacama Desert, Chile

**Geyser Bill**. El Tatio Geyser, Atacama Desert, Chile

**Precipitate I**. El Tatio Geyser, Atacama Desert, Chile

**Precipitate II**. El Tatio Geyser, Atacama Desert, Chile

The geysers – after one navigates the various covid sign-ins – are fascinating and it is a nice walk on the necessarily restricted trails of the park. If there is an up-side to tour groups, it is that they seem to be built on rather strict itineraries, so the groups move quickly through the ‘attraction’ and move on. I’m not sure where they might go next, but not long after sunrise (the promise of the ‘sunrise geyser tour’) the trails empty rather quickly. And, not very long afterward, as the day warms and the steam clouds that highlight the geysers and pools dissipate, the park basically closes. Nothing to see here, I guess.

**Green and yellow**. Atacama Desert, Chile

**Morning watch**. Andean Flamingo (Phoenicoparrus andinus), Atacama Desert, Chile

**Giant coot**. The Giant Coot (Fulica gigantea) of the Atacama Desert, Chile

**Not yet**. A chick considers the options, Giant Coot (Fulica gigantea), Atacama Desert, Chile

With the tours departed for somewhere and someone else’s great attraction, we have the road home to ourselves. This is the highlight of the day. We stop often, looking for little groups of vicuna on the dry hillsides and wandering among the few isolated wetlands to see birds mostly foreign to us. It takes us quite a while to get back to town where our usual cantina and siesta await.

**Magellenics and core**. The pleasure of an unaccustomed night sky, Atacama Desert, Chile

**Crescents**. The early morning crescent Moon and Venus, Atacama Desert, Chile

A pleasure during the day, the drive also highlighted a location or two that would provide good foreground for night-sky photography. With this long-held goal in mind, I picked up Bart at 3.30 AM the following morning; Bill wisely chose not to join at this ungodly hour. We retraced the geyser highway, but we beat the rush and were alone. I had chosen a canyon near the village of Guatin, hoping to get a foreground with cardon cacti spread among red-rock outcrops. We walked into the spooky shapes making sure not to wander off any cliff-edge; the southern milky way and Magellanic clouds glowing above us. The nightscape of the Atacama Desert is unequaled, it was almost tactile. While my technical skill at astrophotography is lacking, it was a pleasure spending this time with Bart marveling at the sky, trying different compositions, and laughing as the bolus of tour buses motored by on their way to another El Tatio sunrise. My resulting images did not work for various reasons, mostly because I failed to capture any foreground, but one or two provide memories of the amazing night above San Pedro de Atacama. Our galactic pleasure was followed by the appearance of a new moon and Venus leading to a dusty sunrise above Andean volcanos. Was this really my last day here?

**Volcanic dust**. Along the frontier of Bolivia and Chile, Atacama Desert, Chile

Atacama Collection

It was, all in all, a short desert excursion; our four days were not nearly enough to get to know anything about this great landscape, much less of its wild interior. The magnetic attraction of this desert will have a hold on me for a long time, and its pull will allow me to plan for a deeper, slower visit when (if) possible. Bill and I left Bart to his worldly travels and returned to Calama to catch our flight out. And yet, the journey had one more surprise in wait for us.

**Balanced nap**. Andean Flamingo (Phoenicoparrus andinus), Atacama Desert, Chile

Once back in Santiago, we made our preparations for our outbound flights. This included the requisite covid test, available conveniently, as planned, at our hotel. We lunched and watched sub-titled movies waiting for our results. When my phone lit up with the negative notification, I was ready to go. Bill, however, stared blankly at his screen; he was covid positive. Now what? How could I be negative, having traveled with him for so many days, in such close quarters? He had no apparent symptoms, but we decided quickly that I should get a new room so he could isolate. The hotel was very accommodating; I moved down the hall, and Bill began the process of re-testing in case of a false positive. Bill is a very experienced traveler and though cautious, was not overly concerned – he encouraged me to continue with the planned itinerary. My wife and doctor – two people – thought that if I was going to present symptoms, it would be better for me to get home to deal with them; it seemed even more likely that I managed to dodge the viral bullets shot at me. I would travel home carefully. Yes, I had been in close proximity to Bill over many days, but with the news of rising variants, it seems travelers are likely in proximity to positive fellow travelers (and so many others), knowingly and unknowingly, throughout any trip. It is clearly going to be common characteristic of travel, especially air-travel, now. The vaccinations and boosters are the best things we have for keeping us going. So, with Bill’s zen attitude and approval, I boarded our scheduled late-night flight home. He would stay isolated in Santiago for an additional week, until a negative test allowed him to reschedule his flights home. If not asymptomatic, his brief encounter with the virus was barely noticeable, he says. Our two-legged itinerary – Patagonia and Atacama – had thrown a final curveball at us, but we made it home without too much inconvenience, though Bill got more room-service meals than expected (or usual).

**Mudras de Atacama**. Cactus in the early morning of the Atacama Desert, Chile

Looking back, I realize we had the good fortune to experience the edges of only a fraction of the amazing wild lands of Chile, getting powerful glimpses of the interface between these spaces and the indigenous, development, and tourist economies that try, along a vast continuum of success and failure, to accommodate those remnants of the wild and natural world. It is good to walk among the wildness, even if at its edges, and to seek some way to communicate this struggle – I travel to learn, experience, and document, but this trip has made me strongly consider, maybe reconsider, my role in the struggle. I have few answers at this point; I’m hoping that that awareness leads in a helpful direction and, sometimes, maybe that is enough.

Keep going.

Nevada High Points #79: Monte Cristo Mountains and Gabbs Valley Overland

D. Craig Young · March 7, 2021 · 6 Comments

Approaching Mount Anna.

Mount Anna

6908 ft (2106 m); 1755 ft gain

2021.02.12

(edit 2022.07.06)

It is once again ‘Second Friday’, time for an overland. Darren and I hit Highway 50 in the late morning, expecting the forecasted wind to catch up with us later in the day. A storm was forecast but from the look of the clear skies, it was somewhere to the northwest. Planning for the weather change, I had chosen Mount Anna in the Monte Cristo Mountains bounding northern Gabbs Valley as our target. Our goal this year is to explore the ranges across central Nevada and this is a rather easy start.

Mount Anna Collection

We turn south at Middlegate to traverse the low pass above Gabbs Wash and the valley expands before us. The Monte Cristos rise as a volcanic crease in the midst of Gabbs Valley, between Rawhide Flat and the hog-back of the Cobble Cuesta. It appears as a vast expanse of sagebrush and shadscale, but playas and washes connect to interesting features of incised hills and mountain fronts. We move up into the foothills to explore a possible camp in the vicinity of the historic-era Kaiser Mine.

The ground remains saturated from recent snowmelt, forcing us to avoid mud gullies and soft spots at the road margins. We back out of the mine area to find some flat ground at a trough with an old rail tanker-car as a water tank. The trough holds good water, but there are no signs of recent use. We will only be here overnight and water is easy to come by this time of season so we aren’t in long-term conflict with any critters that might rely on this water source.

We set camp quickly and engage the truck to climb along two-tracks south of our camp at the Kaiser Mine road. A muddy two-track takes us to a start-point that is gives us a three-mile hike to the summit of Mount Anna. Our route contours generally along a prominent contact between uplifted volcanic flows and ashy tuffs. A light-colored, fine-grained deposits suggests the once inter-bedded mud of a caldera-filling lake. The ground is damp but we avoid the ‘gravity-dirt’ that clings to boots and inhibits progress.

The sunny afternoon is perfect — calm and somewhat warm. We cover ground quickly to find some fantastic volcanic canyons and dry falls in the wash below the summit. Although we’ve walked a couple miles, we really haven’t gained any elevation and the mile or so of the final push is nicely steep, with great, expansive views to the east and south. Arc Dome rises in the Toiyabes, a goal for the very near future.

**A modified summit**. Darren arrives on the gravel pad at the summit.

Darren reaches the summit to find well-constructed platforms of concrete and gravel. These are likely footings for military tracking stations or, possibly, for seismic measurements. There are no clues otherwise. I follow just behind him, suprised that the summit is altered but finding the views exceptional under still clear skies. And we are not alone. An aggregation of lady bugs (Hippodamia convergens), a relatively common sight on spring-time summits, brings the rocks and low sage of the summit outcrops colorfully alive. It takes some care to not step on the swarming orange beetle blobs.

Waiting for the drying, cactus on slopes of Mount Anna.

We trek downward, retracing our cross-country routes and exploring the features of conglomerate washes and localized debris flows where linear levees of cobbles swarm along steep gullies and rills in the mountain side. We are back at camp after sunset.

The night remains calm as we ponder our target for tomorrow — maybe the low set of hills on the opposite side of the valley. But the rain starts just after we climb in for the night, and soon the near silence of snow begins to transform our surroundings. The wind never came, but we wake to a blanket of snow with a cover of wispy fog. The damp brings a chill absent until we start packing up. Another climb is out of the question, but we can traverse to East Gate and explore the cleft of Buffalo Canyon. We descend the Kaiser road slowly, with truck and trailer giving easy traction in the fresh, wet snow. We eventually leave the snow cover momentarily at Middlegate but it returns with depth in the canyon above Eastgate.

Mount Anna Collection

Camp at the stock trough and railcar tank.

We venture in and Darren soon notices a group of bighorn sheep (Ovis canadensis) high on the cliffs of the canyon’s northern margin. These are a nice gift on a snowy morning. We watch the herd for a while and explore a series of waterfalls that only exist after a wet storm. The storm comes with a power that seems a purposeful attempt to make up for the calm of the previous night. At times we hit storm bursts that seem like summer storms, but their turbulent winds drive snow mixed with the usual dust and tumbleweeds.

Buffalo Canyon Wildlife Collection

A season’s moisture at Eastgate on Buffalo Creek.

Mt Anna is not a prominent peak, but it gave us the gift of its textured slopes of volcanic rocks and badlands. It led us to a dramatic morning and a visit to the bighorn sheep of Eastgate. Even the small hills lead to big places.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing

Landscape Photography: Snow Recce in Antelope Valley CA

D. Craig Young · March 4, 2021 · 1 Comment

Snow filled the valleys of the western Great Basin at the end of January, when lake-effect squalls, energized as they traversed Lake Tahoe, cycled through the valleys southeast of the lake. We approached two feet of coverage at St0neHeart, with deep drifts along fence lines and out-buildings. So early on a Sunday morning, I decided to chase the light while the snow was still fresh and deep in the fields and foothills of Antelope Valley, across the state line but not far from home.

There had been rumors of fog in the forecast, but the the pre-dawn sky was clear. As I traversed the ranch roads that crisscrossed the ranchlands of the valley bottom, little motivated me to leave the warmth of the truck, it was 18F (-8C) along the Walker River. Cattle barely noticed me, refusing to lift their heads from their early-morning feed.

I ventured into the pinyon hills of public land on the valley’s east side, but the deep snow and bunchy trees turned me back. As I regained the truck, I noticed a heron gliding along an irrigation ditch banked in snow and willows. It disappeared on wide wings, seeming to drop into the snow. I eventually found the bird patiently watching riffles in the flowing water, a slight bit of turbulence at a confluence of ditches. It made sense that any morning meal would have to pass this now-dangerous intersection with a great blue heron (Ardea herodias) in waiting.

**Waiting**. A Great Blue Heron patient in the cold.

I too waited. The heron never moved. I finally crept slowly away. Full disclosure: I never left my truck — resting my long lens in the window and sharing time with one of my favorite birds.

Antelope Valley Collection

I had basically given up for the morning and turned for home. I had the one image of the heron (or, at least, I would get one from the several I’d captured) and was happy with that. But from the highway I saw strange patterns, starting with perfect circles on the ice of Topaz Lake — still frozen at its southern shore. I’m still not sure how they form, but the simple pattern turned me around and I found a pullout above the steep drop to the lake.

**Topaz spots**. Abstractions in the ephemeral ice of Topaz Lake.

**Connection**. Some patterns are too cool to explain.

I was happy to have stopped to check the patterns. For a popular lake typically overrun with boats of all kinds, I have had some very good, quiet images from its shores. And it can be very nice that it usually presents these things as one passes on Highway 395.

Further north I caught sight of a string of mule deer (Odocoileus hemionus) moving slowly in their beaten trail. Bounding occasionally to clear obstacles I could not see. It was the spacing that caught my eye. It’s a wide image, so give it a click and get the full view (note: you can do this with all images at Trail Option, usually).

**Leading line**. A well-spaced group of mule deer on slopes of the eastern Sierra.

Antelope Valley Collection

Some times short trips, with few expectations, give the best results — all within 30 miles of home.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing