Florida Yokels in Yellowstone Winter

Click on the square thumbnails to see full images...then Back button to read on.

We had the good fortune to visit Yellowstone National Park over New Years... quite a treat for a couple of snow-naive adventurous Floridians. The flights were problematic, but we finally got to Gardiner, MT about 3 am... only a few hours before our scheduled 4 hour snow coach ride into the heart of the park.

The snowcoach is a van with tracks instead of wheels. With our daughter, her boyfriend, and his Wyoming family (who had invited us along), we piled into the coach in pre-dawn darkness and sub-zero temperatures. I was honored with 'shotgun'. A gentle mist and occasional snow flurries shrouded the land, but within half an hour, we spotted 5 wolves close to a bison carcass maybe 50 yards from the road. Our knowledgeable guide, Big Dave, graciously stopped and allowed us to get out for a better view. While the visibility wasn't great, the wolves, in their misty blue landscape, thrilled us all. It was an auspicious beginning.

The rest of the ride was remarkable in many ways, but I'll share just one more story, well, maybe two. While stopped to view some of the first bison we saw (later, they surrounded our coach as we slowly followed a herd along the road), we saw an eagle fly in and land on the ground nearby. On closer look, there was a pair of eagles who were contentedly tearing into a recently killed trumpeter swan. Exciting enough! However, a minute later, one of the bison broke from the herd and ambled toward the eagles. As he drew near, his tail lifted. Uh oh! We had learned that this meant one of two things - he was about to take a dump OR he was pissed and ready to charge. As he picked up speed, the eagles scattered... but only to land a few yards away. The bison stopped when he arrived at the dead swan, sniffed it, licked it, and then stood there, as if to guard it. The eagles were distraught. This image shows them pacing and flapping their wings about, as if to say, "Hey, how dare you?! Get away from our breakfast". But the bison was steadfast and soon joined by the rest of the herd, surrounding the dead swan as though it was a recently deceased calf. We had to leave while this standoff continued. Bison appear to stay the course.


At another stop at Gibbon Falls, our daughter and Flo (a high school exchange student from Belgium) traded dares and both slid down a steep snowy hillside. While fun in theory, a good bit of the flying snow found its way inside their jackets and other layers . In my passion to get a good image at the bottom of the hill, I too caught a full spray of wetter-than-expected snow in my face and camera. What did I expect? How much more fun was in store in the days ahead!

Rescue of theTortured Hawk

On Thursday, several of us headed out to explore and photograph the Aucilla River. Turned out the water level was too low, so we only made three miles (in several hours) and had to give up. (I did get some good photos though.) The former shoals and rapids were mere beds of sharp, slippery rocks. Anyway, two of us were waiting where we pulled our boats out (near a road) while the others walked back to get the car. Something white flashed in the woods and caught Liz's eye. It turned out to be this beautiful red-tailed hawk.
She must have dived low over the river to catch a fish and instead, got caught on someone's abandoned trot line. The hook snagged her right elbow. Luckily the line broke and she was able to fly up to this tree.... but then the line got tangled on the tree. The hawk was able to stand on a small branch, with her wing pulled overhead, but she was exhausted when we found her. A predator would surely have found her before morning... but, lucky again, we found her. I climbed to where I could throw a shirt over her, and a couple more to disable the talons and beak, then cut the line and the little branch (so she could keep holding on). She stared into my eyes the entire time, threatening a little, but never struggling. She gratefully swallowed water I dribbled into her mouth and rode to town swaddled on my lap.
Sue called the Animal Hospital to let them know we were bringing her in, though we wished we'd called St. Francis directly and talked with Sandy because the vet needed St. Francis's directives before they could treat her. She was quite shocky, but, I hope in pretty good shape. She didn't seem to have any broken bones. I hope to hear from St. Francis about how she's doing. My imagination sees her getting rehabilitated, released, and soaring once again over the Aucilla River.

Iceland Hotspot

This month my wife, Crystal, is guest writer for my blog. I am using a new format for my photos... the square ones are cropped thumbnails of bigger images. Click on the thumb to see a larger full version of the photo. Here's Crystal's take on another of our Iceland adventures:

Once we rendezvoused with Sue and Jeff, we packed into our Toyota Corolla and headed east to Hveragardi, one of the hottest hot spots in Iceland. Hveragardi's water is too hot and mineralized for heating homes, but somehow it's suitable for heating greenhouses, making this town of 2000 people the farming center for the capital.


Our hotel, Frost and Fire, was our favorite of all the fabulous places we stayed in Iceland. It's intimate and artistic rooms were built on the banks of a cold stream, with steam pouring out of earthen vents throughout the surrounding hills. The proprietors channeled the abundant, free hot water to heat their swimming pool, hot pots and sauna. When we weren't hiking, you know what we were doing.

Hiking in this region was like a walk through a fascinating, heavenly version of hell. Heaven in particular for our geologist, Jeff, who found himself awash in teaching moments. We followed the steam more than the trails, in awe of the Earth's guts oozing up from her steaming, ominous portals.

We climbed a high ridge for expansive views of the mossy hills with Hveragardi off in the distance. Hunkered down happily in the moss, sheltered from the wind, we shared a lunch of Icelandic cheeses and breads. How could we let a little drizzle faze us when we were sitting smack dab atop the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, with the North American and Eurasian continental plates tugging apart from one another in geologic fast-time right beneath these very hills, making for some mighty rumbly goings-on just under the surface of the deceptively firm ground.



The trail led us past amazing geological features: burbling mud pots . . . .boiling hot pots . . . . . vents of steam . . . . .portals of clear blue water, some warm, some extremely hot, surrounded by gorgeous layers of travertine of various thickness – crystalized minerals in textured shades of orange, blue, green, yellow, and red. David went hog-wild with his camera, spanning the thin travertine to get vertical shots of the vents, he fell in once up to his thigh – it shook him up, but lucky for him, and us, it wasn't a boiling one.





A rainy day in the off-season, the only other people we saw all afternoon were a group of silent horseback riders whose bright orange jump-suits amidst the fog and steam added to the surreal ambience. That, and a few sheep ambling along the hillside trail.

We were intrigued by a wide curtain of steam ascending from a valley across a river. We had no trail map, and the trails were unmarked, but two things were clear: the trails did not cross the river, and, we really wanted to find a hot river in which to soak. We decided to go for it. The off-trail moss was deep and wet, soaking our boots – no matter because the river was impossible to cross without getting wet anyhow. Following the steam, we found our spot, after testing many for just the right temperature. But at that very moment, the rain let loose and the wind picked up, and we hesitated, thinking it might be best to high-tail it back before we really got soaked. Thank goodness we came to our senses. We tucked our damp clothes under our backpacks and slithered in. Aaaaah. Sue and I applied mudpacks for the full, high-end spa experience.

The long trek back in the wind and rain almost got us down. In spite of getting our core temperatures warmed up in the river, we were freezing by the time we reached our car. But the hot tubs awaited us back home, and those delicious beds with real foam mattresses and down comforters. Yeah, we managed.

Icelandic Sheep and Barren Land

Tough critters, I can say that positively about the Icelandic sheep. In a harsh land where the only significant native mammal is the Arctic Fox, you have to wonder how a proper domestic European beast could survive the severe weather on this island just outside the Arctic Circle. But survive it did - for 1100 years these stocky short-tailed sheep thrived, eating the once lush greenery nearly into a rock-strewn desert. No kidding.

Coming from North Florida, the first thing we noticed about Iceland was the lack of trees. And of course, without trees, one can see a long way across the landscape, a beautiful openness - across vast moss-cushioned lava fields, rocky rolling hills with sculpted rocks protruding, and dramatic escarpments rising from the coastal flatlands - without so much as seeing a single tree, building, or person... but we saw sheep dotted all about.
Skittish sheep... they all tended to run away at the sight of us. Maybe they didn’t like tourists, especially tourists with cameras riding in red Corollas?... maybe all humans made them nervous, since they didn’t see too many (except the cowboys - er, sheepboys?...no, not enough machismo - cowboys who rounded them up once a year). We could go miles and miles without encountering another car... even during a trip to an indoor public swimming pool which Crystal spotted on our map. On that cold rainy day, our first day in Iceland, Crystal was drawn to the map icon like a moth to a flame. With growing doubt, we followed the long and winding road until, to our surprise, we found a big indoor pool complex at the very end... out in the middle of nowhere, no other buildings in sight, and no people anywhere... closed, and seemingly abandoned, except for a nice pair of swim goggles someone had recently dropped...oh, and a few sheep watching us suspiciously from outside the fence.
The sheep seem to wander far and wide just about everywhere, as did the fences. We saw fences crisscrossing the landscape in the strangest places, often fading off into very remote and rugged terrain. These fences are a modern addition and are meant to restrain the sheep to prevent over-grazing and further erosion, but it was difficult to perceive any real containment. It was Sheep vs. Fences, and the sheep appeared to be the hands-down winners...must be more to it than what we could see. Towns and other habitations all had fences and road grates around them to keep the sheep out, but otherwise sheep appeared to be part of the landscape. We were told that, once a year, the farmers don their orange raincoats and mount their Icelandic horses - another special breed - to collectively gather the sheep from the hinterlands for the worst part of winter. Once gathered, they are sorted out by their eartag IDs.

As for the barren land, one can’t blame the sheep for cutting down the trees (which once covered as much as 60% of the island)... the humans did that for building materials and fuel, but much later people came to realize the heavy grazing of the sheep kept anything from re-growing. Can’t blame them for that either... just being sheep (with especially big appetites in a harsh land). Besides, without them, humans could never have survived in Iceland. By successfully eking out a lifestyle in the wilds of Iceland, these hardy animals, now a unique coveted breed, provided meat, milk, cheese, and warm clothes for the Vikings and all the people who followed. Skyr, an Icelandic food - sort of a cross between yogurt and cottage cheese - was traditionally made from sheep’s milk and instantly became our favorite local treat. We even brought some home to use as a culture to make more. Here’s the recipe: (click here).

So why not plant trees now that the problem is evident? Well, Icelanders have been doing just that for 100 years now. However, this is a slow process at best. The loss of the cover has resulted in extensive erosion of the wind-vulnerable volcanic soil, making it hard for anything to get a foothold. Nearly a third of the island has become a black-sand desert. As the green-wise proprietress of Hotel Hellnar, Gudrun Bergmann, told us, young trees don’t have much of a chance against the winds, sands, and winter storms that literally strip them of their bark. But ways to improve the survival of plantings have been devised and all Icelanders are working at it. Airplanes are even being used to drop seed and fertilizer in the remote parts of the island. One hundred years ago Iceland established the first-in-the-world Soil Conservation Service to help educate the people about erosion control and planting. Ours was a snapshot view through Florida-colored glasses, and so, to us Iceland looked stark and other-worldly, but in some parts, after 100 years of effort, new forests are beginning to grow... slowly. Reykjavik has a decent showing of trees and we saw occasional stands of trees in towns and farms as well.

Like the isolated swimming pool, churches seemed to fit the middle-of-nowhere description as well. We saw several churches that, upon close inspection, appeared to be clean and well-tended, with sheep-guards and fences intact, but no other sign of human development (and of course, no trees) anywhere near. One had a raven standing guard atop it’s steeple.. He obliged me for a photo, and then flew right toward me for another shot, flying low over my head, chortling in his unique Ravenese of metallic syllables and hollow clicks. An exception to the stand-alone locations was the lovely grass-roofed church in Hof which had both trees and human habitation around it... and plenty of sheep eyeing that luscious grass roof too.





We stayed on a farm in Hof, a village consisting of several farms, one inn that had closed, and the church. The sheep of Hof were “formally” penned into green grassy fields much like they might be on a small American farm. Our lovely little farm guesthouse - Litlahof - was off by itself in the midst of the sheep fields. Seemed the perfect opportunity to photograph some sheep, but try as I might - casually meandering through the field, or sneaking a peek from behind a rock, or shooting from the hip - they were on to me, and headed pronto in the opposite direction. I didn’t have a telephoto lens, but was forced to resort to shooting through the window of our cottage. The wind was blowing so hard that day that it blew the sheep’s wool skirt askew. Jeff and I had trouble staying on our feet when we tried to walk up the road, but those low slung warm-dressed sheep stood firmly chewing their cuds (although their skinny legs looked cold).

The coastal area near Hof was rich farmland. Each farm appeared more idyllic than the last, with it’s own Yosemite-quality waterfall (foss) tumbling from the high scarp, green pastures, surviving trees (protected by the huge stone wall), and, of course, sheep, with their own barn to retreat to when the weather ain’t nice.


Earlier in the trip on the north shore of the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, I did encounter one friendly sheep, at least willing to pose regally for a through-the-car-window shot. This roadside ram must have been a “Leadersheep” - because he appeared so cool and self-confident. I didn’t make that up. A small percentage of the Icelandic sheep make up a sub-breed of smart sheep, called leadersheep. They are aware of danger, weather changes, better pastures, and all manner of things important to sheep survival, and will lead the flock accordingly. In earlier days, the sheep farmers depended on them and there are many stories of leadersheep saving the flock from an approaching (unexpected) winter storm. Anyway, this fellow looked over at us in our muddy red car, gawking out the window, and, correctly, sensed no danger. He simply sat down, posing like the sheep in Jamie Wyeth’s 1975 painting called The Islander. (click here for a look... quite a resemblance... then click back button to return here.)
And in Icelandic, ‘Iceland’ is spelled ‘Island’, so I'm venturing a guess that my leadersheep directly descended from Jamie’s, and struck the same pose in nearly the same place. In keeping with the guidance of their leader, the small flock likewise stayed put. One one-horned gal with beautiful curly wool even smiled at me. Sweet! For more stories of Iceland, there are and will be more postings, and for better quality images of Iceland, please visit my website at DavidMoynahan.com.