Floating Blinds and Prairie Potholes Trip Report: Part 1

There is a stillness to the prairie that belies its age, a silence carried on the wind through endless miles of grass, where sky and earth seem held in quiet negotiation. But buried beneath this austere calm is a story vast and restless; a geologic odyssey that shaped one of North America’s most vital, and often overlooked, landscapes: the Prairie Pothole Region.

This place is born of upheaval. Hundreds of millions of years ago, a shallow inland sea once stretched across what is now the Great Plains, an ancient basin formed in response to the slow, grinding collision of continents that birthed the Appalachians to the east. Eons later, the earth convulsed again with the rise of the Rockies, and the land was caught between the weight of mountains and the draw of retreating seas. Over it all came the ice, miles thick, when the Laurentide Ice Sheet descended from the north, scouring the land. And when it finally receded, it left behind countless of shallow depressions, scooped into the clay and shale like thumbprints in soft earth.

These are the prairie potholes, millions of ephemeral ponds scattered across the grasslands like fragments of sky fallen to earth. Their waters are steeped in the minerals of ancient marine beds, giving rise to a richness that defies the starkness of the surrounding plains. In these shallow basins, water lingers just long enough to spark life: insect hatches, amphibian blooms, and the crescendo of a breeding season for birds whose migrations span continents.

The grass itself is no accident. To the west, the Rocky Mountains cast a long rain shadow that starves the air of moisture as it moves east. What falls is sparse, sculpting a sea of grass where few trees dare to grow. In this matrix of water and wind-blown steppe, these scattered wetlands nestled in a parched and open land, a paradox of fertility emerges. The potholes act as oasis, not only hydrating the prairie but fueling one of the most spectacular wildlife phenomena on the continent.

Here, in this unassuming cradle of sky and grass, up to 80% of North America’s migratory waterfowl are born and raised. Ducks, geese, grebes, and shorebirds nest by the millions in this intricate mosaic of wet and dry. It is, by every metric, one of the most important wetland systems on the planet, rivaling the Amazon in its ecological importance, if not its grandeur.

Day 1

We spent the first day acclimating clients to an unfamiliar idea: that they would wade into sloughs and marshes, through mud and water, braving the unseen, armed with thousands of dollars in camera gear lashed to floating contraptions hoping for the best.

Our classroom sessions blend the technical with fieldcraft and natural history. Out here, understanding how to use a camera is only part of the equation. This is not the sedentary ease of photographing brown bears on a riverbank or egrets in a Florida estuary. This is something else entirely. It’s a discipline built a complete reliance of the LCD screen, nuanced autofocus strategies, and a willingness to move through the water like a creature yourself. Photography in this realm demands a different way of seeing, and a wholly different way of being.

Still, all the technical knowledge in the world won’t help if you can’t approach your subject. If you can’t keep the subjects at ease, move into position with the right light, the right background, at the right distance, you will have a hard time being a wildlife photographer. The key lies in fieldcraft: understanding where you need to be in the landscape, where your subject will be, how they will use the terrain. It’s knowing the difference between a shape that calms and one that startles. It’s how to move like wind over grass rather than a boulder rolling toward the water. Mastering this allows you to get within twenty feet of animals that are nearly impossible to approach otherwise.

And fieldcraft means little without natural history. Each species is its own biography. A ruddy duck is not a western grebe. Their rhythms, their thresholds, their priorities—especially at this exact moment in the breeding calendar—are entirely different. Blue-winged teal and northern shovelers respond differently than redheads and canvasbacks. To understand these differences is to understand how to behave around them, where to find them, how to approach them, how to photograph them. Knowledge of biology is the scaffold on which the photograph is built.

This is not a workshop about being handed settings. It is a masterclass in the synthesis of these concepts, where success hinges on your ability to combine the technical, the ecological, and the behavioral into a single cohesive practice.

These themes echoed throughout the workshop, but on this first day, we plunged headlong into the deep end of the pool; a crash course at the graduate level.

From there, we assembled the floating blinds and made our way out onto the prairie. We suited up, reassembled blinds and immersed ourselves in the world of floating hide photography. The goal was acclimation: how to move within the blind, how to read the feel of the mud underfoot, how to navigate unseen obstacles, how to approach wildlife, how to control yourself, how to be present and in the moment.

And soon enough, the group was lined up at the edge of a sandbar mere feet from American avocets and Wilson’s phalaropes as we tested newfound fieldcraft, discovering what it means to become part of the landscape.

Day 2

My alarm went off at 3 a.m. Coffee. A final check of the essentials: chest waders, wading jacket, fleece-lined pants, a small kit of tools in case someone needed help with their blind. More coffee. I always rise early enough for a little reading before the day begins. This morning it was a book on the Greek and Roman philosophers whose thinking shaped the political imagination of America’s founding fathers. Light reading, apparently. Then more coffee.

We arrived at the marsh by 5:30 a.m. I’d budgeted at least an hour to get everyone suited up and their blinds reassembled. This was the group’s first morning in the water with wildlife and cameras. The first outing is always a bit clumsy. There’s a lot to take in: the sensation of being in the water, the disorientation of being so low to the surface, the cumbersome nature of the gear, and the challenge of navigating a new environment. I plan for that.

Not long after sunrise, we slipped into the shallows. Each photographer had their post: a point in the cattails, a bend in a side channel, a narrow cut through the littoral edge. We hadn’t even finished getting everyone into position when eared grebes began paddling over to inspect us. Blue-winged teal dropped in nearby.

For three hours we stayed in the water, surrounded by yellow-headed blackbirds calling from the reeds, Forster’s terns circling and occasionally landing atop the blinds to preen, and a wide cast of waterbirds drifting in and out of view.

Back at the hotel, we regrouped for a debrief. We reviewed species, worked through technical challenges, talked through image-making approaches, and planned for the evening’s return.

That afternoon, with time to spare, we got back into the marsh a full hour before the light began to soften. Afternoons are always trickier than mornings. The light is harsher, and the birds more alert. They see you getting into position from a long way off and respond accordingly. So, we go in early, even if it means waiting. This way we’re already part of the landscape when the activity picks up.

We split the group. Half followed me to a new section of the slough, while the others went with Annalise. Where the morning had been filled mostly with eared grebes and ruddy ducks, the afternoon offered something different.

The western grebes arrived in force, elegant, theatrical, and full of choreography. We watched courtship dances unfold in real time. Blue-winged teal continued to dazzle. A pair of redhead ducks settled in to preen just in front of the blinds. Northern shovelers carved lazy paths through the cattails. Coots clashed in muddy duels while pintails and white-faced ibises passed overhead in low, whistling flight.

By any measure, it was a successful day. Everyone had their first full experience using the floating blinds. All came back with strong images. One participant said they didn’t even need a camera, that just being there, at eye level with the birds, was enough. A window into their world.

Day 3

Early alarms and coffee once again. Another chapter from a book. Then back to the marsh. Rinse and repeat.

Floating hide photography puts us at the mercy of the elements in ways that few other forms of wildlife photography do. In Yellowstone in winter, it doesn’t matter if it’s 40°F or -40°F. You’re still going heading into the field. Bluebird sky? OK. Let’s do it. Blizzard? Even better. But when you’re in the water, conditions matter. Wind, especially, changes everything.

This morning, we arrived to a stiff south wind, blowing 20 miles per hour; what sailors refer to as a “fresh breeze.” Any other direction and we might have worked around it. But whitecaps churned across the open water we needed to cross. Birds had vanished deep into the cattails. The marsh, which the day before had teemed with life, now felt empty and inaccessible. Rather than force the issue, we called an audible and returned to the hotel for an image review and some classroom time.

Typically, mornings on the marsh begin in stillness. The air is calm, the light soft, the water like glass. But as the sun rises and warms the land, thermals rise and the wind follows. A breeze in the afternoon is expected. But this much wind in the pre-dawn dark was a signal that something big was brewing, and we’d need to prepare.

Back at the hotel, we dove into images from the previous day. One participant had captured a remarkable series: a drake ruddy duck pounding his oversized blue bill on the surface, whipping up a froth of bubbles beneath his chin. With a sudden lunge, he surged forward, pushing the bubble mass ahead like a rolling cloud for the nearby hens to evaluate. I’ve seen this courtship display many times, never had I seen it photographed like this, mid-lunge, the bubbles fanned out like smoke on water.

After the image review, we turned our attention to the forecast. The morning wind was just the start. A massive storm was forming, one that threatened to rewrite the week. We had begun the workshop in the grip of an early May heatwave. At one point, temperatures climbed past 100°F. The water and our early and late hours had buffered us from the worst of it, but now, everything was set to change. Forecasts called for temperatures in the 30s, winds reaching 55 mph, and rainfall so intense it could account for one-fifth of the region’s annual total.

Storm systems like this form when hot, humid air from the Gulf of Mexico crashes into frigid Arctic air diving south. The result is volatile and sometimes spectacularly so. Forecasts shift, of course, and we planned to track the system closely. But if it held its course, backup plans would be needed.

That afternoon, the wind dropped just enough to make the marsh workable again. We returned to the slough, discussed where species were holding, which pinch points might funnel birds toward the blinds, and how best to position for the coming light.

By the time we pulled out of the water, each participant had captured thousands of frames. And for a day that began with the threat of a total washout, it turned out to be time well spent.

Day 4

By now, the storm was no longer a possibility: it was a certainty. The forecast had only grown more severe. It was building in size and intensity, and it was tracking straight for us. At best, we had one more morning on the water before conditions would make it unsafe to continue. Fortunately, as always, we had contingency plans waiting in the wings.

Back out on the marsh, the wind had yet to rise, and the light came soft and low through the morning haze. This would turn out to be the most productive morning of the entire trip for some. One participant captured what many consider the holy grail of floating hide photography in the Prairie Potholes: a full sequence of two western grebes performing their famous “rushing” display.

In perfect synchrony, the birds rose and sprinted across the surface of the water, feet slapping against the pond like skipping stones. It’s a behavior that happens fast, usually too far out to capture properly. But on this morning, the entire scene unfolded right in front of him. As is typical of these workshops, there was nothing but celebration. Everyone was genuinely thrilled. High-fives went around when we saw the shots; shared joy, the kind that comes from witnessing something rare, and from knowing what it took to be there when it happened.

After lunch, we reconvened in the hotel lobby. The storm was imminent. Winds had begun to climb – fiirst 30 mph, then 40, then 50. Thunderstorms were sweeping in from the southwest. Tornado watches lit up across the northern plains. Cloud-to-ground lightning was being reported. The workshop, at least in this location, had reached its natural endpoint.

Our plan was simple: get everything cleaned, packed, and ready to move. A trip to the local carwash gave us the chance to hose off mud-caked waders and floating hides. Then we set about organizing gear and preparing for what came next.

The backup plan was ambitious but solid. We would head west to Medora, North Dakota, and base ourselves in Dickinson. There, in Theodore Roosevelt National Park, we would turn our attention to a new chapter: photographing the wild horses of the North Dakota Badlands. I’ve led several dedicated workshops in this region and know the terrain well. Bison, elk, badgers, pronghorn, mule deer, black-tailed prairie dogs, and of course, the horses, roam freely through an austere and dramatic landscape. If the storm was going to chase us out of the marshes, the badlands would offer a worthy alternative.

The group was unanimous. Everyone agreed it was a great rebound.

We spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning and repacking, then sat down for a celebratory dinner just in time to watch the first storm bands roll in across the prairie. Lightning arced along the horizon. The wind rattled the windows. The next chapter had begun.

Day 5

Medora, North Dakota sat on the western edge of the storm: a sliver of calm between the front edge of the squall and the dry high plains beyond. That gave us reason to be optimistic as we headed out into the driving wind and rain for the two-hour journey to our new base of operations.

This sleepy, dust-swept depot that’s part tourist outpost, part Wild West show, part gateway to Theodore Roosevelt National Park, was once a place of refuge for the man who would become the 26th president of the United States. It was here, amid the raw and broken spires of the North Dakota Badlands, that a young Theodore Roosevelt came to lose himself. And in doing so, began to put himself back together.

In the span of a single black February day in 1884, Roosevelt’s wife, Alice, died suddenly of kidney failure. Only hours before, she had given birth to their daughter. And if that weren’t enough, his mother passed away of typhoid fever - on the very same day, in the very same house. Grief-stricken and unable to bear the weight of life in New York, Roosevelt boarded a train headed west. He had no real destination. He rode to the end of the line and then took a stagecoach to the end of its own. When he stepped down onto the dirt streets of Medora, he had arrived not by intention, but by necessity.

What he found was a landscape as severe and untamed as his sorrow. He spent weeks on horseback, sleeping under wool blankets in the freezing wind, chasing strays through snow and sagebrush, riding out both literal and metaphorical storms. And as wilderness so often does, it met his suffering with silence and space. Here, on the hard ground, something shifted. The wildness began to mend.

One morning, standing beneath the fluted buttes and torn ridgelines, Roosevelt turned to his guide, pulled out a bank note, and asked him to purchase a ranch in his name. Stock it with cattle, he said. He would return. For now, he had to go back east and set his affairs in order. But the land had done its work. He would not forget it.

For the rest of his life, Roosevelt would oscillate between the public eye and this private frontier, between the drawing rooms of New York and the wide and wild skies of North Dakota. He served as deputy sheriff of Billings County before becoming police commissioner of New York. He wrangled cattle and rode with cowboys before rising to Assistant Secretary of the Navy. Even as he ascended into national politics, his heart was tethered to the badlands where he hunted, wrote volumes on natural history and conservation, dueled in a war of words with the most famous biologists and scientists of the time, and found in the American West not just solace, but clarity.

Today, Theodore Roosevelt National Park stands as a monument not only to the man, but to the landscape that shaped him. It’s a preserved shard of time, a living polaroid of the world Roosevelt knew. Herds of bison still move through the sage. Wild horses roam the clay ridges. Prairie rattlesnakes coil beneath the cottonwoods. Elk bugle from the draw. Pronghorn cut across open flats. The buttes rise from layers of ash and basalt and coal and petrified wood, evidence of a land as old as it is wild.

And it was here, in this hard country that once helped heal a president, we would spend the rest our workshop.

Day 6

The storm was beginning to ease its grip on the Dakotas, at least at its western edge. Rain still fell, but lightly. The wind, though persistent, no longer roared. Tornadoes, like so many rodeo lariats cast from the sky, had moved east over Minnesota. The Dakotas, battered but intact, were left to recover under a slate-gray sky.

We began the morning with a hike into the hills to see and photograph the geological wonders known as hoodoos - those wind-carved columns of stone that stand like sentinels of deep time. Along the way, we spoke of geology, of the strata of ash and clay, the old volcanic beds and petrified trees. We folded in the region’s human history too, as tends to happen on game drives through U.S. national parks. The conversation meandered through natural history, wildlife biology, and the layered story of this place, both ancient and recent.

Before long, we spotted our first band of horses perched on a small plateau, with the striated badlands rising behind them in perfect, textbook form. The stallion, a blue roan, was caught in the middle of a seasonal family drama. Last year’s colt, now grown enough to be seen as competition, was being pushed out. This is the rhythm of things: colts are typically ousted after a year or so, while fillies are allowed to remain. Once evicted, the young males roam alone until they find others like themselves forming bachelor bands.

Bachelor groups are a gift to photographers. Young stallions are full of restlessness and energy, piss and vinegar. Boys will be boys, seemingly across nearly all species of mammals, and their sparring is all play with purpose. It’s how hierarchies begin to form; how future dominance and power dynamics will unfold across the herd in years to come. By contrast, family groups, bands, or harems (call them what you will) that are composed of a stallion, a few mares, perhaps a foal or two, are sedate in comparison. Think middle-aged suburban family on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Stillness can be beautiful, but it demands creativity to turn that quiet into a compelling image.

And that’s the challenge. To make a photograph of a wild horse that doesn’t look like it came from Old MacDonald’s farm takes effort. It takes intention. Flying manes and tails help, flared nostrils can do the trick in tight portraits. Badlands in the background? That’s the good stuff. You look for tension, for moments between the moments: a stallion chasing off a colt, a mare stepping in to intervene. That’s the raw material of good storytelling.

By afternoon’s end, we had photographed two distinct bands of wild horses, the sweeping beauty of the badlands, and black-tailed prairie dogs just beginning to emerge from their burrows after the storm. Bison appeared on the distant hills, and while we caught glimpses of pronghorn, those ghosts of the Pleistocene, hey kept their distance. Still, they sparked conversation about what once was: a continent filled with cheetahs, camels, lions, elephants, horses, and zebras: species that all evolved here before crossing the Bering Land Bridge eastward, just as moose, gray wolves, and grizzlies journeyed the other direction into the not so new “New World.”

We stopped for lunch at a remodeled version of an old bar I used to frequent where bathroom graffiti were nothing more than cattle brands scratched into the walls marking the pride of ranches spread across this corner of the Dakotas and eastern Montana like stars in the prairie night.

The nostalgia hit harder than expected. Sitting there, with boots and camera gear piled in the truck bed, I found myself missing my old life in the West, those long dust-choked years in the sagebrush of Wyoming and Montana. The wind, the sage, the silence between towns. There’s something in this country that stays with you.

That afternoon, we made the long drive through the endless prairie back to our beginnings.

Day 7

Departure day. We gathered for breakfast beneath the fluorescent glow of the hotel lobby, dining on the gourmet pairing of powdered eggs and half-frozen sausage somehow overlooked by the Michelin Guide. We said our goodbyes, helped with last-minute travel logistics, and brought the workshop to a close.

It had been a week of shifting plans and sudden turns. What began in the still waters of the prairie potholes had ended in the wind-swept ridges of the badlands. The storm reshaped everything: our schedule, our setting, and in some ways, our sense of what this week would be.

But change, of course, is the only constant. Nature is a study in impermanence. Wildlife photography lays that bare, perhaps more than any other pursuit. Light fades. Winds shift. Animals vanish. Storms arrive out of nowhere. One moment you’re watching grebes rush across the water at dawn, the next you’re hosing mud off your waders while tornado warnings sound across the plains. All you can do is adapt.

And adapt we did.

What we lost in predictability, we gained in experience. The images made, the moments witnessed, the conversations shared - none of it would have happened without the curveballs. The prairie gave us beauty. The badlands gave us wildness. And between the two, we found the kind of serendipity that only comes when you’re willing to follow where the wildness leads you.