“The only thing that stopped the Tillamook fire was the Pacific Ocean,” my grandfather said. He wasn’t far off the mark. That 1933 forest fire, one of Oregon’s biggest, was never contained. The firestorm uprooted huge Douglas firs. Cinders rained on ships 500 miles out at sea. The fire scorched 240,000 acres before rain extinguished it. Some 3,000 men fought the blaze. My grandfather was one of them.

I grew up in the forest fire country of southern Oregon. My father and I would drive to the Medford Air Tanker Base
to watch B-17s lumber down the runway loaded with a slurry of fire retardant to smother flames. We’d hear about mechanics picking pinecones out of engine cowlings because the bombers flew so low they’d slice the tops off trees.

This knowledge was useful when photographing a fire in Oregon in 1979 for my first Geographic assignment. When bombers flew overhead, my instinct was to run for cover, until I remembered the knocked-off treetops and headed for a clearing. It was better to be pelted by slurry than crushed by a tree.

In October 1899 this magazine published “The Relation of Forests and Forest Fires,” by Gifford Pinchot, first director
of the U.S. Forest Service. Pinchot’s “snuff them” approach to wildfires has since evolved. As photographer Mark Thiessen and writer Neil Shea report, we now know that fire is an ecological necessity. If our understanding has changed, one thing has not: Forest fires still fill us with awe.

Photograph by Mark Theissen, NG Staff Photographer

In the photograph, a snow leopard emerges from the shadows of the rugged Himalaya. Its thick, soft coat is lovely, but even more enchanting is its tail. It is nearly the length of its body. This is my first opportunity to really study a snow leopard; I can see the rosette spots, penetrating yellow eyes, and broad, delicate paws. I’ve photographed leopards throughout Africa, but never one to match this creature’s beauty.

In a darkened room, Steve Winter shows his next photograph—another snow leopard, this one with a dusting of snow on its back.

The snow leopard’s long tail helps stabilize the cat on rough terrain.

I read George Schaller’s Stones of Silence 20 years ago and ever since have wanted to make a photograph like this. Schaller’s book transported me to the Himalaya; I dreamed of seeing snow leopards at those heights. The dream remains unfulfilled, but for now Steve is there for all of us. His commitment to this beautiful animal has produced the finest images of snow leopards I’ve seen. But reality casts a shadow on these pictures. As few as 3,500 snow leopards may survive. If I want to photograph them, I should move quickly. Schaller’s words still hold the same urgency they had nearly three decades ago: “The snow leopard,” he wrote, “might well serve as symbol of man’s commitment to the future of the mountain world.”

Photograph by Steve Winter

View Steve Winters stunning photography from the June 2008 "Snow Leopards" story.

I’m in a Beijing hutong—a narrow alley in the old city—playing Ping-Pong with a monk. It is 1985, and I’m on a photographic assignment for this magazine. Though many Chinese are afraid to be seen with a foreigner, the monk doesn’t care and invites other monks to join us. It is the best experience I’ve had in three months. That night I take a small, dilapidated taxi to the Beijing Hotel, one of the few places where foreigners can stay. It’s 8:30; the streets are dark and deserted. The few cars on the road aren’t using their headlights, I’m told, because the drivers don’t want to burn out the bulbs.

Cars now fill Beijing highways both day and night.

Twenty-two years later I’m in front of the Beijing Hotel at 8:30 at night. The driver of a sleek new Audi taxi pulls up with headlights blazing; he doesn’t seem concerned about burning out a bulb. The city pulses with life. It’s washed in light and jammed with traffic. An attractive Chinese woman approaches a number of men, then comes to me, asking if I need a massage. I don’t need a massage; I need a map—something to help me understand the cataclysmic changes of the past few decades.

China can overwhelm. The shock waves of its growth reverberate in every corner of the globe. That’s what this issue is—a map to help readers navigate the terrain of exuberance and anxiety that is China today.

Photograph by iStockphoto

I’m in Khartoum, Sudan, in a shabby hotel room with Idriss Anu and Daoud Hari. Their eyes are wide with fear. They want to be anywhere but here. Idriss is a driver and Daoud, an interpreter-guide. The two have just spent five weeks imprisoned in Darfur with Paul Salopek—the writer who hired them while on assignment for National Geographic—because they illegally crossed the border from Chad to Sudan. After intense negotiations, all were released from jail; now Paul is on his way back to the United States. But what about Idriss and Daoud? I’ve promised Paul I’ll get them home safely, but it won’t be easy.

Daoud Hari (left) and Paul Salopek (center) were imprisoned in Sudan.

The Sudanese rebels who arrested them confiscated their identity papers. A U.S. Embassy official explains that a diplomat from Chad will arrive to help with the papers. We’ll need more than that, I think. We’ll need a miracle. That miracle appears in the form of dedicated diplomats from Chad and the U.S. Embassy. Two days later Idriss and Daoud fly home.

Paul took a risk when he crossed Sudan’s border. He paid dearly. He didn’t want to break the law, but felt there was no other way to tell this story, because the Sudanese authorities keep Darfur and its war off-limits to journalists. Those who help and guide us in dangerous, unfamiliar places are the often unsung heroes behind the work of any writer or photographer. Idriss and Daoud also took a risk and paid the price. They, too, wanted the story told.

Photograph by Candace Feit

Chaos reigns in the elephant herd. African wild dogs are everywhere—darting between gigantic legs, spinning in circles, leaping to nip tails. The dogs clearly enjoy the moment of play.

It seemed like a normal hunt in search of an impala dinner when the wild dogs in Botswana’s Okavango Delta started out that afternoon. Then they bumped into the herd. I understand why the elephants were upset, but why would the dogs behave in a way that has nothing to do with feeding the pack? Their behavior probably scared away every impala in the area. What were they thinking?

This month’s cover story, “Minds of Their Own,” explores what animals—wild and domesticated—are thinking. Virginia Morell writes about a border collie with a vocabulary of over 300 words. I’m not surprised. My own border collie, Millie, opens doors, gets into cabinets, herds the family, and when she feels like it, follows my commands. Then there’s our cockatiel, Minnie Pearl, who imitates the telephone (we frantically run to answer it) and sings an alert when visitors turn into our driveway, a quarter mile away.

Our article is not a prescription for getting your pets to behave, but it does offer insight into animal intelligence. The more we learn about how animals think, the more we learn about ourselves. If you don’t believe me, ask Millie.

Photograph by Chris Johns

My father and I are saying goodbye at a small airport in southern Africa. He and close friends of his have joined me in one of my favorite places, Botswana's Okavango Delta. We've always been close, but for some reason he seems especially emotional as I put him on the plane. Tears well in his eyes as he says how much he loves me and hopes we'll see more of each other. I assure him that I'll be home soon. He smiles and climbs into the plane.

Immediately I call my mother and sister and tell them that something is not right. During our safari he became easily confused. He drifted off in conversations. He seemed disengaged. One evening as we talked, Dad—a world traveler and geography whiz—couldn't remember the name of the Swiss village he and my mother stayed in at least a dozen times.

My mother takes him to a neurologist for testing. The diagnosis is dementia, most likely Alzheimer's. Dad remains cheerful and positive. As often happens in these cases, my mother is the one who struggles with despair. Shortly thereafter, she is diagnosed with cancer. Six months later, she is gone.

My sister and I face the toughest decision of our lives: How to give our father the care he deserves? We find an excellent facility, three miles from my sister's home, that specializes in caring for those with dementia. At first he resists, then settles in. When I call, my father tells me he's buying a new yellow Mustang, and that he and my mother are driving over to visit this afternoon. It breaks my heart to hear his gentle voice making plans that will never happen, but then I think that if he is happy living in an imaginary world with his beloved wife, perhaps memory loss isn't such a bad thing. I accept his illness and cherish every moment with him.

Memory, perishable and enduring, is the brain's archive. It is a marvel of neuronic circuitry, as Joshua Foer explains in this month's cover story. Its loss can be cruel, but remember this: It is through memory that we hold on to those we love.

My family's journey to the land of biofuels began when my wife, Elizabeth, and two of her friends, Rosa and Ellen, bought subcompact diesel automobiles. They researched hybrids, but because we live in a rural area, with no stoplights, sparse traffic, and vast distances, diesel appeared to be a better choice. Given their desire to consume less energy, the 45-mile-a-gallon (72 kilometers) vehicles seemed perfect. They were further swayed by the recent introduction of ultra-low sulfur diesel that significantly cuts emissions, as well as the cars' ability to run on biodiesel. As its name implies, biodiesel is fuel processed from biological sources instead of petroleum. It is renewable, nontoxic, and typically reduces greenhouse gas emissions by more than 60 percent over conventional diesel.

Now alternative fuels are a topic of conversation in my family. My children are intrigued with the thought of riding in a car powered by used cooking oil from the local fast-food restaurant. We've pointed out that biodiesel comes from sources like soybeans, but the concept of a soybean-powered car bored them. We recaptured their interest, however, when we mentioned the promise of algae as a biofuel. My ten-year-old son, Tim, thought the cool quotient of algae surpassed that of cooking oil. But my teenage daughters, Noel and Louise, preferred the idea of filling the tank with cooking oil in the hope that the exhaust would smell like french fries.

Is biodiesel the answer to the energy and environmental challenges we face? Not by itself. But it is a step in the right direction when combined with other innovative solutions. Besides, filling up your car with biodiesel may provoke some interesting family conversations.