Labor Day morning gave us a sky painted in pinks and fog, and cranes calling through the quiet. Strangest of all — no one else was there to see it. We’re still puzzled by that. You wanted to hurry on and find the cranes that we were hearing. I wanted to spend a moment with the fog.

We never knew which photo would be our last one before he thought we were too close, and we thought being casual in our approach while taking photos did help to keep him there a little longer. It was the first eagle we'd seen in a long time, and just seeing him made us happy.

As I photographed the eagle, moving slowly so he wouldn’t startle, I also took time for a few specimen shots. They’ve always been my teachers—offering small glimpses into the intricate details of the refuge plant life, each a reminder of how much there is still to notice and learn.

The migration had shifted a lot. We had seen a few cranes in September before, but not the crush of them. We knew October would not give us a better view of them, and our feet and fingers would freeze a lot more and our trip would be more of a challenge. We set our sights on RMNP.

I got my accordion from GPT (AI) and clipped Natali's paper to it, one panel at a time with skew.

I enjoyed sifting through over four thousand images to see what went on at our house while we were gone. The raccoons and a skunk had a heyday, and I felt their confusion when I watched a video of the towhee pondering the empty water bowl and the bunny with face in the camera. September’s bye...

We were ready to stow our cameras on the quiet south lake when I spotted dozens of cranes feeding in the fields just west of the water. In the golden hour sun, with the fall grasses glowing, the cranes’ feathers and their red caps came to life.

On our last day I noticed that the cranes were leaving the lake and almost, but not quite out of view, they were dancing. The wings were spread and they lifted together. I knew it was a dance because we'd seen it before at the Bosque in New Mexico. It was a happy dance.

The cranes fly through Colorado twice a year and stay for maybe a month at our wildlife refuge. We drive six hours to go see them. The hotel is a half hour away from this refuge, and another one. So I actually, you only have to drive five and a half hours in one go.

On Wednesday morning it was hazy, and the cranes more than doubled overnight. By sunrise the skies were filled with wings of cranes, geese and blackbirds. A night heron returned at last, and the refuge brimmed with life. To top it all off, we got to see a coyote and the red tailed hawk.

Only weeks ago the lake was parched, its shoreline brittle with silence. Now mist was clinging to the water, milkweed blazes with golden morning light, and blackbirds stirring the air. The south lake had come back to life, and with it, a reminder of resilience it was so beautiful.

We arrived to the sound of cranes — a whole gathering, we thought. But only two appeared, then silence. Still, the morning sky glowed in purples and pinks, and we had it all to ourselves.

There was water, but the grasses that never recovered this year looked even drier in sharp contrast to the greens. Drought isn’t just about rain or no rain — it grinds through the gears of an entire system. Every cog in the machinery of farming and water use is strained by scarcity.

The trail cam did not disappoint—our new pencil neck blue jays are in that brief, awkward stage of learning to feed themselves, all elbows and attitude, and so funny to watch. Just like last year’s gang, they make us laugh while they grow, still part of our family, still pencil necks.

We welcomed the fall-like weather for that last week of August, when cooler temperatures still reached into the 80s. There was fog and those random short heavy rains. I saw special moments with fog, and learned to appreciate them in a new way. More unsettled days would be ahead.

“Do not squander time; it is the stuff life is made of. Yet remember—life is not measured by what you do in a day, but by how gently you hold the hours you’re given.” -Ben Franklin

So many adventures filled the years, and your 80th birthday came and went in a flash. You averaged over 6,000 steps a day, perfected Sous Vide bison every Sunday for nine months, and out of the blue, found your mojo again for panini sandwiches.

Who knew that adding a three-foot extension cable to a hub on my laptop would cause so much frustration, and the job would need Power Shell fixes. But as with each and every setback, the solution put me way ahead of just stopping a misbehavior. Now I had icons on my taskbar.

The haze made scenic photos less interesting than on other days, but I felt very lucky to spot male and female night herons out of the corner of my eye looking back at the little lake when we were ready to move on. It seemed a day for portraits. I couldn't print all of the excellent ones.

Yes, and did you know pine trees and sunflowers are like that, too?