I once met a hunter in British Columbia who could read a trapline as if it were a novel. Where others saw merely trees, scrub, and earth, he could interpret the wanderings of foxes, deer, and lynx. He was a man who did more than look. He could see.

Alfred Russel Wallace, the almost Darwin, was such a man. Without benefit of formal education, Wallace, a young English field biologist and collector of exotic species, described a theory of evolution that paralleled one Darwin had developed but hadn’t yet published. What lifted Wallace from the realm of the ordinary, points out David Quammen in this month’s story, was his extraordinary capacity to observe, a skill honed in his early days as a land surveyor, during long walks across the Welsh moors. It helped that Wallace, on his monumental expedition to the Malay Archipelago, collected specimens in multiples. One might construct a sentence from one golden birdwing butterfly. Given 50 golden birdwings, Wallace could construct a story. Another naturalist might not note ever-so-slight variations in size, color, and pattern. Wallace did. He not only saw, he meticulously recorded his findings, then connected the dots. Of such stuff is great science made.

“Learn to see,” said the eminent 19th-century physician William Osler. Before the advent of sophisticated medical imaging like MRIs, Osler could diagnose a complicated disease simply by noting subtle signs visible to the eye. To be able to see, not merely look, is the foundation of discovery.

Photo: Robert Clark; photographed at Sophia M. Sachs
Butterfly House, Missouri Botanical Garden

Elephants stir strong emotions. I remember standing in the roof hatch of a Land Rover to photograph a bull elephant in Tanzania. The animal turned, headed toward me, and laid his tusks on the hood. I slid down and froze as his trunk slipped through the hatch and paused, inches from my face. Gently, the tip tapped my left shoulder and snuffled my neck. His warm breath filled the Rover. Then he retracted his trunk and ambled off. The contact took my breath away.

A bull elephant browses trees in Tanzania’s Ngorongoro Crater. He later investigated the Editor’s Land Rover.

Years later, I had an encounter that left me with a different emotion. I was in a helicopter chasing a large bull in South Africa’s Kruger National Park. As the pilot brought us in behind the frantic elephant, a ranger, Douw Grobler, leaned out and fired a bullet into the animal’s head. He collapsed, driving his tusks deep into the dust. “A perfect brain shot,” Grobler said, adding that he did it “only to protect the park’s biodiversity. I wish there were a better way.” Sadly, sometimes there are too many elephants, even in the vastness of Kruger. The ranger was simply doing his job as part of a culling operation. 

A passionate advocate of African elephants is zoologist Iain Douglas-Hamilton. For more than a year, he worked with photographer Michael Nichols and writer David Quammen to bring you this issue’s coverage of the elephants of Samburu National Reserve area in Kenya. It’s a heartening story, but elsewhere the situation is more complicated. After 13 years, South Africa has lifted its moratorium on culling. This month we also examine that decision and the debate it provokes.

Photograph by Chris Johns, National Geographic Image Collection

“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.

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

Carried by the fury of a river in flood, logs, entire trees, even the occasional mobile home batter the Shady Cove bridge. It’s late December 1964. The Rogue River, which begins at Crater Lake National Park in Oregon and snakes through the Cascades and Coastal Ranges before spilling into the Pacific, is 50 feet above flood stage. My father and I stand on a bank and watch the bridge, which looks ready to be swept away. Temperatures have risen; heavy rain and snowmelt from the mountains has unleashed so much water that the torrent will be remembered as one of the worst recorded floods in the Pacific Northwest.

It isn’t supposed to happen this way. In the West a heavy accumulation of snow is considered a blessing. The melt fills lakes and reservoirs, irrigates crops, and produces hydro-electric power. It sustains forests and wildlife. It’s our lifeline.

The flood of 1964 was a rare event. And even if it were to happen again, new houses crowding the floodplain should be safe. A new dam upstream controls flooding. But water remains a concern in parts of Oregon and neighboring states—only this time, it’s the lack of water that’s worrisome.

As Robert Kunzig says in “Drying of the West,” the wet 20th century is over. As climate changes, so will life in the West.

Photograph by Southern Oregon Historical Society

I've been following the reactions to our article "The Emptied Prairie" and wanted to share a letter I recently sent to the governor of North Dakota.  Thank you to everyone who has written in with comments--we value your insights and opinions.

From Governor Hoeven:
Dear Mr. Johns:

The recent article about North Dakota in the January 2008 issue of National Geographic was way off the mark. To give the magazine’s readers a more accurate picture of our state, I’ve asked our Commerce Commissioner and Tourism Director to contact your editors and invite you back to cover what you left out – the fact that North Dakota is a growing 21st Century state with a bright future.

What you left out is the fact that North Dakota has a growing economy, well educated citizens, low crime, great infrastructure and one of the cleanest environments in America. All this adds up to a great quality of life. Our cities are growing, and our rural areas are finding new ways to create jobs and opportunities for our people.

For example, new ethanol and biodiesel facilities are transforming rural communities like Richardton, Underwood, Hankinson, Casselton, and Velva. Just a few years ago, North Dakota produced less than 40 million gallons of ethanol a year. With these new facilities, we will produce half a billion gallons. Your article also makes mention of the “moan of the wind” on the prairie, but that same wind is on its way to producing nearly 1000 megawatts of clean renewable energy on commercial wind farms across North Dakota.

In addition, Dakota Growers Pasta, a native North Dakota company, is now the third largest pasta manufacturer in North America, and other value-added enterprises like it are helping agriculture in North Dakota change and grow.

These are all small town, rural enterprises that reflect the spirit and ingenuity we have in North Dakota. Your article featured the small town of Mott, N.D., but failed to mention that every fall it is a destination for pheasant hunters from around the country and around the world. It’s ironic that you represented this town with a photo of an abandoned homestead, when a more revealing image for your readers might have been a photo of sports fans lining the highway for 18 miles last year to cheer on the local football team, the Wildfire, on its way to the state championship games in Fargo.

Whether it’s tourism, agriculture, energy, manufacturing or technology, North Dakota is moving forward. We’re home to innovative firms like Microsoft Business Solutions, a subsidiary of Microsoft, which now employs 1,400 people at its Fargo campus. The company is currently expanding and will add nearly 500 more employees by 2010. Other companies, like Killdeer Mountain Manufacturing, Goodrich, Cirrus and Aerosmith are working to manufacture technically advanced components for the U.S. military and aviation industry.

As a consequence, we’ve created thousands of new jobs and careers. Our research universities and Centers of Excellence are creating the businesses and products of the future; our manufacturing sector is one of only a handful in the country that’s expanding; and our energy sector is supplying the nation with clean, efficient energy, from both renewable and traditional sources.

For all of these reasons, and more, North Dakota is garnering national attention as a great place to live and work. This year Forbes Magazine has ranked the state of North Dakota 9th among all states for Business and Careers. Among 180 cities nationwide, Bismarck ranked 2nd and Fargo 4th. Most recently, the Beacon Hill Institute last month announced that North Dakota ranked 4th among all states for competitiveness – 1st in infrastructure and 4th in human resources.

There is certainly growth and opportunity in North Dakota these days, but more importantly, there is a mood of optimism across the land. At the same time, we are working hard to take our efforts to the next level, and an article that showcases the spirit, inventiveness and progress we’re making would certainly be in order. I encourage you to take a broader look at our state and help us convey to the world what North Dakotans already know: that North Dakota is a great place in which to live, work, visit, study, have fun, and do business.

Sincerely,
John Hoeven
Governor

In Response:
Dear Governor Hoeven:

Thank you for your interest in “The Emptied Prairie” in this month’s issue of National Geographic magazine.  There seems to be some misunderstanding about our intent in writing the article.

Our article was never intended to be an in-depth look at the economy of North Dakota, nor were we attempting to offer a portrayal of the state in its entirety.  We were looking at the rural North Dakota landscape and probing the stories behind some of the abandoned homes that still stand.   

We are well aware that there is more to the state than these abandoned towns.  In fact, we have written or mentioned North Dakota in 17 articles in the past 10 years, including a short feature on Fargo in November 2003.  In the case of our January ‘08 article, we wanted to tell personal and touching stories of North Dakotans’ relationship with the land and how that landscape has shaped their destiny.  The stories we told in the article speak to me of fortitude, and, yes, sometimes regret.  I’m confident our readers will understand what these stories tell us about North Dakotans’ strength of character and resolve – both of which will shape the future described in your letter.

Again, thank you for taking the time to write.  We always welcome our readers’ thoughts.   

Sincerely,

Chris Johns
Editor in Chief

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Maurice Krafft's bootlaces are melting. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. I'm standing with Maurice—a pioneer in the perilous business of filming volcanoes—on the crater floor of an erupting volcano in Tanzania.

The Maasai's sacred mountain, Ol Doinyo Lengai, is stirring. The crater floor bubbles with hot lava interspersed with cooling black and white lava. Maurice suggests walking on the safer, cooler, white areas, but visions of melting bootlaces keep flashing in my mind. "It is not a worry," he says with his French inflection. "My boots just fell through into the hot red lava. Walk lightly." He offers to go first. It's a test of faith—but no one has better credentials to navigate the floor of an erupting volcano. Maurice and his wife, Katia, were often the first to arrive when volcanoes erupted around the world; over two decades they filmed more than 150 of them. We cross an infernal landscape punctuated with spewing lava. In a few hours, my bootlaces are melting too, but, like Maurice, I don't care. We camp on a dirt ridge for three days. The nights are breathtaking. The lava glows fiery red. The stars sparkle in the clear African sky. I know now why this 9,700-foot (2,956 meter) volcano is sacred to the Maasai. "Volcanoes are bigger than us," Maurice always said. "We are nothing compared to them."

In 1991 Maurice and Katia Krafft died while filming at Japan's Unzen volcano. A pyroclastic flow unexpectedly swept onto the ridge where they stood. "I am never afraid because I have seen so much eruptions in 23 years that even if I die tomorrow, I don't care," Maurice once said.

Indonesia—a place the Kraffts visited many times—is a volcano hot spot. It is also a place where volcanoes are a religion. This month writer Andrew Marshall and photographer John Stanmeyer discover how volcanoes have shaped that country's life and culture. "Volcanoes are the thrones of the gods," a Balinese tycoon told Marshall. The Kraffts showed us the view from those thrones.

Photograph by Maurice and Katia Krafft, Conservatoire Régional de l'Image

A bog is as subtle as landscape gets. At first glance, it might present as a monochrome horizon, a brown soup of unrelieved dullness. Look closely. The careful eye can tease out paisleys of color and form. There are blue and green lichens in shapes like antler horns or tiny trumpets. Bogs are home to purple moor grass, vermilion cranberries, beetles, badgers, skylarks, and red deer, which bathe in peat to shed flies. In addition to a startling array of life, bogs harbor mystery and death. Hundreds of bog bodies have turned up in northern Europe. In 1952, a peat digger in Denmark found a man who died at age 34—throat slit from ear to ear—in a bog. Conditions in the sodden sphagnum moss had preserved the body, hair and nails intact, for 2,300 years. Experts now suspect that Grauballe Man, as he is known, was a victim of ritual sacrifice, not murder as once thought. About 990 million acres (400 million hectares) of peatlands remain on five continents. They are disappearing fast. Large-scale cutting of peat for fuel, harvesting of sphagnum for horticulture, and draining of wetlands threaten most of Europe's remaining bogs. The potential loss extends beyond the evidence of past civilizations and distinctive plants. Not only do bogs help control water levels in surrounding areas, they also collect and store carbon from the atmosphere. The world's peatlands may contain more carbon than is currently in Earth's entire atmosphere. As bogs disappear, carbon is released. Destruction of Siberian bogs alone could unleash billions of tons of greenhouse gases. There is little mystery about the consequences of that.