Since my youth, I’ve dreamed of experiencing Chobe National Park. With more than 50,000 elephants roaming its borders each year, it’s home to the largest concentration of African elephants in the world. During the dry season, the shores of the Chobe River become the elephants’ gathering place—like a grand reunion by the water. This made Chobe a top destination for my three-month photo adventure across southern and eastern Africa.
Elephants and water—there’s something magical about it. They need water to survive, but it’s more than that. In the heat of Botswana, their large vascular ears can only do so much. Once they find their way to a riverbank, they transform—relaxing, socializing, even playing. They remind me of human families at the beach, bonding and unwinding. That’s why I knew I had to photograph them at the Chobe River.
I had set aside several days just to capture elephants along the river. It was late in the dry season, and while the first few days greeted me with clear, bald-blue skies, this particular morning was different. Clouds rolled in—gorgeous layers—and the rising sun peeked through, casting scattered light across the landscape. It was early, and the boat captain was still enjoying his breakfast. But photography is all about light, and this light was magic. I convinced him to take me out early, and off we went.
The day kept getting better. As we floated downriver, a herd of about 40 elephants appeared, wading into the water. The matriarch led the way, her sisters close behind. While the older females focused on drinking, the calves were full of energy, chasing each other and splashing about. With a little encouragement, I convinced the captain to circle around the herd, finding the perfect light without disturbing the scene.
He positioned the boat with care, letting us drift quietly. We were close, but the elephants barely noticed us. It felt like we were witnessing something timeless. They were just being themselves, as they’ve done for millions of years. I frantically tried to capture every fleeting moment.
The largest elephants were furthest out, and we were drifting right toward them. I could see our captain, hands on the engine, his eyes darting between the boat and the massive creatures. My first thought, “This is perfect; we’re so close!” was quickly followed by, “Okay, we need to move now!” Right on cue, the engine purred to life, and the captain steered us away, leaving the
herd undisturbed. As we drifted downstream, I watched them fade into the distance, smiling at what had just happened. It was one of the grandest photo moments of my life!
What we casually refer to as an elephant “herd” is so much more. An elephant herd is a tightly- knit and deeply bonded, multi-generational family, led by a matriarch—the eldest or largest elder female. Alongside her are her sisters, daughters, and even granddaughters. Only the young males leave, venturing off at around 10-15 years old. The females stay together for life, their tribe evolving as new members are born, and older ones pass on. The term “herd” has always felt much too shallow to describe this bond. To me, the word “tribe,” with its deep familial and social meaning, is much more fitting. That’s why I’ve named this piece "Tribe."
When you think of a zebra, it’s impossible not to picture their distinctive stripes. But why have those bold, mesmerizing patterns? Zebras have evolved with their distinctive coats for a reason, but what that reason is, no one knows for sure. There are a few theories floating around—everything from thermoregulation and camouflage to a recent unexpected bonus: protection from biting horseflies. Personally, I’d vote for camouflage (although it’s likely multifactorial).
Young zebras spend their first year staying very close to their mothers, and it’s here that their stripes work their magic. When standing beside their mothers, the young become almost invisible, their stripes blending into a confusing blur. A predator might catch a glimpse of them here and there but tracking them for a hunt becomes significantly harder. Even adult zebras in the herd would benefit, though perhaps to a lesser degree.
Zebras are widespread throughout central Africa. This mother and he foal were photographed in Masi Mara National Park (check dates), which is the portion of the Serengeti plain that extends northward across the Kenya boarder. As such, it shares many characteristics of Serengeti NP. I used a pointalist style to present this image since I wanted to focus on the stripes that melded between the mother and her foul.
Maybe one day we’ll understand the true purpose—or purposes—behind these beautiful stripes. Or maybe it’ll remain one of nature’s mysteries. Either way, we’ll continue to marvel at these graceful creatures, their beauty, and of course, their stripes.
Beneath the vast expanse of Serengeti National Park lies an ancient dome of granite, a giant that has weathered the passage of hundreds of millions of years. Over time, its surface fractured, and where the soil has receded, these broken chunks of rock have emerged as “kopjes” (pronounced like “copies”) exotically sculptured islands of stone rising out of the endless sea of grass.
These kopjes are more than just landmarks—they are the resting places of the Serengeti’s predators, a place for them to watch the giant herds of wildebeest, zebra, and gazelle, that drift past. Lions sprawl out on the smooth granite, basking in the sun and socializing, while cheetahs climb to higher points, scanning the distant horizon for prey. Leopards, ever the strategists, settle into trees, surveying the plains below, calculating their next ambush. And for those fortunate enough to witness them in the setting sun, or when a storm brews and casts dramatic clouds across the sky, these rocky islands become a paradise for landscape and wildlife photographers alike.
Serengeti NP, with it expansive skies stretching horizon to horizon, can also generate impressive stormy skies that are brewed by its afternoon thermals. On this day, I was fortunate to have a storm developing while visiting one of my favorite kopjes.
As the days warm under the Serengeti’s intense sun, thermals form - giant columns of rising air that condense their water into towering storm clouds that roll across the plains with breathtaking intensity. On this particular day, I was lucky enough to witness one of these storms brewing as I visited one of my favorite kopjes—a moment where Serengeti’s raw power met its serene beauty.
In this image, two giraffes move steadily past a kopje, bathed in the golden light of a pre-sunset storm. Though the granite walls and scattered trees offer a tempting shelter, the danger of lurking predators outweighs the safety they could provide. The giraffes, wise to the risks, continue their journey, leaving the kopje behind in search of a safer refuge as the storm rolls in.
As a child I was so captivated by the cheetah - its beauty and its unmatched land speed. Within three seconds from start, a cheetah’s sprint will top 60 mph across a wilderness landscape. The price of this rocket-like speed is the consumption of tremendous caloric resources. Each time a chase fails to capture the prey, the energy available for the next chase is slightly less, even though the need is greater. Some reports put the cheetah’s hunting success rate at 50%, though the one’s I’ve seen have not been as lucky. Although I usually refrain from “choosing sides” between hunters and prey, I admit I feel sadness when a cheetah returns home to her hungry cubs after missing a catch.
Cheetahs, with their gorgeous spotted coats, live and hunt in wide-opened spaces. They are solitary creatures, except for mothers with her cubs. On occasion, however, 2 or 3 littermate males band together to form an alliance. This “coalitions of brothers” can last for many years, or even a lifetime.
In this image, two brother cheetahs relax on the vast planes of Masa Mara National Park in Kenya, still alert, always scanning for the opportunity of prey. In the distance, a storm is drifting across the landscape, blotting out the horizon. To me, this is symbolic of the cheetah’s future, one that is disappearing rapidly and has little hope of recovery.
The cheetah population is heartbreakingly small, and there’s no longer enough genetic diversity among them. They face the problems of inbreeding—high infant mortality and increased vulnerability to disease. Combined with extreme habitat loss, their future is grim. Indeed, many believe the cheetah is already past the point of no return, and the current population just a fading shadow fading ripples of a soon-to-be extinct species.
But, for now, the cheetah is still here, and we still have the opportunity to admire first hand their beauty, grace, and determination. For me, the cheetah is the grand symbol of wild Africa.
An immense and unforgiving desert stretches across much of Botswana and reaches into Namibia and northern South Africa. This is the Kalahari Desert—a place where summer temperatures can soar beyond 100°F, and winters plummet below freezing. Whatever little rain falls here vanishes almost instantly into the sandy expanse that underlies the desert. And yet, despite its harshness, the Kalahari is home to an impressive variety of wildlife.
Among its most iconic inhabitants is a subspecies of lion uniquely adapted to these extreme conditions. Larger and lankier than their counterparts, the Kalahari Black-maned lions are built to endure the desert’s punishing temperatures and can survive for days without water. Their most distinctive physical attribute is, of course, the strikingly dark mane that sets them apart from other lions.
I encountered my first Black-maned lion in central Botswana during a multi-month photo expedition across southern Africa. I was traveling with a photographer friend, and we had left camp before sunrise, eager to capture the first rays of the sun filtering through the trees. The road we followed was more of a suggestion than a path, weaving through scrubby brush, and soon we pulled off to explore on foot. Each of us wandered in our own direction to create our own experience. We did not intend to go far, but in the pursuit of the perfect shot, “not far” became farther than planned.
As I moved through the sparse vegetation, I entered a small clearing, and there, just 15 meters away, sat a Black-maned lion. He faced toward the rising sun—and toward me. Our eyes met! He had already been watching me, his eyes half-closed against the sunlight, one paw lazily curled under his body. Despite our proximity, he seemed utterly relaxed, uninterested in me—perhaps only curious about this human wandering through his domain.
I stood there, sharing that quiet moment with him, before rationality took hold. I slowly but quickly made my way back to the vehicle, where we repositioned ourselves to photograph this magnificent creature more comfortably. The lion in this photo, "King of the Kalahari," is the very same one I encountered that morning—majestic, unbothered, and wholly at home in the wild desert.
The female only partially appears in this scene, not for lack of importance, but to signify the structure of the pride. A dominant male, or sometimes a coalition of a few sibling males, may oversee a dozen or more related females, protecting the pride’s cubs and resources. I avoided imposing human cultural ideals—like the notion of one male, one female, and their offspring—onto the intricate social dynamics of lions in the wild. That’s not their way. Instead, I sought to capture a moment of family life, one that resonates across species. Two cubs tumble and wrestle, while their sibling readies to chase a lizard darting among the rocks. The mother seizes the opportunity to nap, while the dominant male surveys his domain, regal and unwavering. Here, in this place and this time, he is king.
For me, leopards have always been one of the most awe-inspiring creatures, especially in their ability to hunt and thrive independently. Solitary by nature, they only come together for mating or when raising their young.
But sometimes, when the cubs have grown and are no longer dependent on their mother, but haven’t yet mated, they stick together for a while—sharing a tree perch and even hunting as a small, temporary group. It was this rare and fortunate scene that I stumbled upon with the help of my guide. Three leopards, all siblings, sharing a perch tree. They would occasionally wander off but always return to rest, nap, and prepare for the evening’s hunt. This tree, and the space extending just outside their circle of intrusion, became our home for the next few days.
With my Canon 1D mark II and a 500 mm prime lens nestled into a beanbag, I watched, waiting for moments of beauty. We too would wander during the quiet midday hours, photographing raptors or finding a shady spot to shelter from the sunlight’s burning rays. But the mornings and evenings belonged to the leopards. That was their time, and we felt privileged with the opportunity to observe from our well-chosen vantage point.
Living in a harsh environment without their mother to bring food, these young adults couldn’t afford the luxury of the carefree behavior of their youth. What I did see, however, was a constant shuffling of positions in the tree, each cat negotiating for the best spot—a place where they could rest but keep an eye on the surroundings. Their movements kept giving me new angles to capture them, creating opportunities for unique compositions. This, my favorite scene, took an extraordinary amount of time to get just right—with head slightly turned, ears pointed in the direction of the gaze.
I hesitated to title the image “Silently Watching.” While it does capture how leopards find their prey, it felt too menacing—a tone these majestic animals don’t deserve. Leopard’s hunting technique allows these solitary animals to capture prey that many other African mammals could not manage without the assistance of their pack or their pride.
It is ironic, though, that “silently watching” is exactly what I found myself doing for three days, waiting to capture this perfect moment.
The Grey Crowned Crane isn’t just Uganda’s national bird—it’s their national animal, chosen for its beauty and grandeur. Standing tall at over three feet with a wingspan that stretches nearly seven feet, it commands attention. But beyond its elegance lies a sad truth: despite its fame, this majestic bird is endangered, its habitat slowly shrinking away.
This photo-image was captured from a small boat on the shores of Lake Victoria. Time spent on a boat was a welcome variation from all the hours in the Toyota that we lived and camped in during a trip around the lake. Lake Victoria is the second-largest freshwater lake in the world. Nearly half of it lies within Uganda’s borders, making it a prime place for a close encounter with these graceful birds. I was lucky enough to be “buzzed” multiple times by pairs of Grey Crowned Cranes, their low flight over the boat gracing me and my camera with their majesty.
When I first heard the name “Grey Crowned Crane,” I found it a bit puzzling. After all, its crown is a striking golden hue. The “grey” actually refers to the bird’s body, while the golden crown remains a radiant highlight of its appearance. There’s also a Black Crowned Crane, which sports a black body but still wears the same golden crown. It is only the Grey Crowned Crane that graces the wetlands of eastern Africa.
In the wild, the odds are stacked against lion cubs. Fewer than 20% make it to their third year. As newborns, they are especially vulnerable – disease and starvation take their share. Being small and helpless, they are easy prey for an array of predators: hyenas, leopards, martial eagles, and even other lions from their own pride. Infanticide poses one of the greatest threats. When a new dominant male takes over a pride, he often kills any cubs fathered by his predecessor—a harsh evolutionary strategy to ensure his own lineage survives.
So, although their risks are great, they are not under the cub’s control. Their mother is their protector, hunter, and guide, managing their fragile lives with steadfast determination. While she performs her duties of motherhood, the cubs use their time playing – critical to hone their social and hunting skills - napping in the sun, and problem solving the small predicaments of their young lives.
This scene unfolded in Serengeti National Park, on the edge of a granite monolith rising above the vast surrounding grasslands. These rocky outcroppings are a refuge for lions—providing an escape from flies, a place to relax, and a vantage point to survey their surroundings.
On this day, three sibling cubs lounged together on the smooth granite slab, occasionally wandering off but always returning to sprawl out under the sun. I positioned my safari vehicle to capture an upward view, framing the cubs against the sky and the edge of the rock. Then I waited as the hours passed, watching as they shifted, explored, and nestled back together, capturing carefree moments of this sweet time in their lives.
Of all my images of lion cubs, this is my favorite—a tender moment of youth in a life that balances on an edge between beauty and hardship. In this moment, they are not predators or survivors—they are simply siblings, living together at home in their wild and untamed world.
As a wildlife photographer, exploring the Botswanan outback during the sweltering mid-day heat was challenging. By then, most animals sought refuge from the relentless sun and were completely inactive. Birds of prey, however, still chose perches with commanding views of the surroundings to wait out the hours until the sun sank lower and their prey became active. So, when mornings faded into oppressive heat, I would ready my cameras – secure my Canon 1D mark iii with a 500mm lens and my Canon 7D with a 100-400 zoom to the passenger seat, and venture onto the dirt roads of the wilderness in search of raptors. On this special day, my star subject was a Bateleur Eagle.
The Bateleur Eagle, whose name means “tightrope walker” in French, is famed for its dramatic courtship displays. The male performs steep, daring dives toward the female as she flips upside down mid-flight, flashing her talons as he rockets past. Together, they engage in a thrilling aerial dance of chasing and being chased, barrel-rolling through the air, and slapping their wings together with a force that can be heard far away. It’s a spectacle of wild beauty and a rare privilege, for those lucky enough to witness it.
These eagles are as colorful as they are captivating. Medium-sized and low flying, their narrow wings and notably short tails make them easy to recognize during flight. They prefer open landscapes, where their habit of perching on low snags makes them a golden opportunity for a photographer, and which is where I captured this image. The majestic Bateleur is a reminder of nature’s amazing and unique creatures.
One of the Bateleur’s more fascinating traits is its ability to wear its emotions on its face—literally. The orange skin on its face and legs turns a vivid red when it’s agitated or disturbed. In this photo, I found myself a little too close for its comfort. After ignoring the eagle’s barking-like warning calls, I was rewarded with an especially bright display of its fiery temperament, captured in the intense color of its face.
As a wildlife photographer, if I had to pick only one park in all of Africa to visit, it would be Serengeti National Park. It lies within the Serengeti range, a vast region of grasslands that is the home of one of the greatest migrations of hoofed animals on Earth, including wildebeest, antelope, and of course, zebras. The park was established in 1951 and has been protecting its wildlife ever since. The animals here have become so accustomed to safari vehicles that they pay almost no attention to them. This allows photographers to observe, and photograph, most of the behaviors of animals living in their natural way.
Spend enough time observing mammals (and birds), and you’ll likely witness them occasionally rolling in the dirt. Zebra are prime examples. Sometimes they do it alone, but often they gather in small groups, engaging in what’s called dust or sand bathing. The usual explanation is practical—it helps remove parasites, or in the case of zebras and horses, it’s a way to dry off after a workout or a rain shower. But I think there’s more to it than that. I believe there often is a social aspect to it, a kind of shared joy or playfulness in the moment.
In this scene from Serengeti NP, amidst giant herds of wildebeests, three zebras all decided it was the perfect time to take a dust bath together. As I watched them roll and kick up clouds of dust, I couldn’t help but think they were enjoying themselves. Maybe I’m thinking too much like a human, but don’t they look like they’re having fun?
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