Leaving Waterton National Park and heading toward Grasslands National Park on a cold, windy, and rainy morning last May, I was filled with a quiet thrill of anticipation. I had never been to Grasslands before. My photography adventures usually pull me toward the rugged beauty of the mountains or keep me close to home in the familiar embrace of the Boreal Forest. The open prairie was entirely new terrain for me—an ecosystem I knew little about, yet one I’d long been curious to explore. The stormy skies and windswept roads only added to the sense that I was on the edge of something unfamiliar and full of possibility.

I had come specifically to photograph burrowing owls for an upcoming campaign with the Canadian Conservation Photographers Collective—a group I’m passionate about being part of. This collective of photographers and videographers uses powerful imagery to educate, inspire, and tell conservation stories across Canada. The campaign focused on biodiversity loss, and the burrowing owl is one such victim—its population in steep decline due to the disappearance of native grasslands. As a wildlife photographer with a deep-rooted respect for the natural world, the opportunity to document this species in its fragile habitat felt both urgent and deeply meaningful. I couldn’t wait to see what this landscape would reveal—not just in images, but in the quiet truths that emerge when we bear witness to what’s at risk.

But the journey wasn’t easy. Google Maps led us astray, directing us onto over 200 kilometers of gravel road that began abruptly in the middle of a secondary highway. There were no nearby communities, no alternate routes—changing course would’ve meant backtracking nearly two hours on top of our already long seven-hour trip. My fifth wheel and I were less than thrilled, but my husband and I pressed on, navigating the lonely roads slowly and savoring the vast skies. Along the way, we spotted hawks circling above—harbingers of the wildlife we hoped to find.

We finally arrived at Frenchman Valley Campground shortly after supper. Park staff kindly offered tips on where to see burrowing owls—one of Canada’s most endangered birds. These small owls rely on intact grassland, nesting in abandoned prairie dog burrows. The loss and fragmentation of these ecosystems severely impair their ability to survive and reproduce.

Grasslands are often overlooked compared to forests or coasts, yet they are among the most biodiverse and threatened ecosystems on Earth. Grasslands National Park in southern Saskatchewan protects what remains of the northern mixed-grass prairie, offering sanctuary to a host of species endangered by agricultural expansion, urbanization, and climate change. Canada’s temperate grasslands are now among the rarest ecosystems globally.

Beyond sheltering species like burrowing owls, swift foxes, and black-footed ferrets, these prairies provide critical stopover habitat for migratory birds—hawks, ducks, geese, and songbirds all depend on them for food and rest during long seasonal journeys.

That first evening in the park, I experienced a moment of quiet magic. The sun was sinking low, casting long golden shadows across the prairie when I spotted them—two burrowing owls perched near a burrow, their wide yellow eyes catching the last light of day. They stayed only briefly before taking flight, perhaps off to hunt, but the encounter lingered. Seeing them here, even for a moment, was a gift—especially knowing how precarious their future is.

The next morning, I rose at 4:15 a.m., determined to capture better images. I was lucky—one owl stayed on its mound for nearly an hour, glancing around, lifting a leg occasionally, before vanishing into the burrow just as the black-tailed prairie dogs began to emerge. I spent the rest of the morning searching but found no others willing to pose.

Back at the camper around 8 a.m., I enjoyed a quiet breakfast—the kind that tastes better after an early morning out—tea warming my hands, the prairie sun rising outside. With a packed lunch and two enthusiastic dogs in tow, my husband and I set off to hike the 70-Mile Butte Trail, as recommended by park staff.

The trail began gently, winding through prairie so vast the sky felt pressed down upon us—wide, endless, alive with light. Our dogs trotted ahead, tails wagging, their noses busy with a thousand invisible stories. I expected wide views and birds, maybe. But I hadn’t expected the grasses to stop me in my tracks.

Grasses. I had never given them much thought beyond shape or color. But here, they were everything—delicate, wiry, feathered, fine. Some stood tall and proud; others curled low to the earth. Who knew there were more than 70 species of grass in this park alone? I knelt often, camera in hand, enchanted. Light danced on seed heads like lanterns, each breeze revealing a new texture. It felt like photographing a language I hadn’t known existed.

As we climbed higher, the land unfolded in golds and greens. Coulees etched shadows into the earth. The distant hills softened in the sun’s haze. The butte offered sweeping views, yes—but it was the details that lingered. The quiet complexity. The hidden diversity. The magic in slowing down long enough to truly see.

Though I had come to photograph burrowing owls, I quickly realized Grasslands National Park held far more. Over 70 percent of North America’s northern mixed-grass prairie has vanished or been fragmented, making this park vital. Park staff are even reintroducing native sagebrush to restore habitat for the greater sage-grouse, another endangered species.

The park’s mosaic of landscapes—shrublands, coulees, wetlands, rock outcroppings—support a wide array of vulnerable species. Beyond the burrowing owl, Grasslands shelters endangered species like the greater sage-grouse, mountain plover, sage thrasher, and short-horned lizard. Threatened species include loggerhead shrikes, Sprague’s pipits, prairie dogs, plains bison, ferruginous hawks, and swift foxes. Species of concern range from long-billed curlews and northern leopard frogs to prairie rattlesnakes and peregrine falcons.

Each morning before sunrise, I was already out scanning the hills. Though I searched in the evenings too, dawn always proved more fruitful. The burrowing owls reminded me of snowy owls—watchful and wary. At first, I tried approaching slowly, zigzagging and pausing, but most would take flight before I got close. I realized I needed a new approach.

So I crawled. Flat on my stomach, I inched forward, pausing every few feet to shoot. Some mornings, it took twenty minutes just to get within range. But it worked. The owls stayed. I used a 2x teleconverter on my 400mm lens to close the distance and waited for moments of stillness to press the shutter. When the sun grew hot and the owls disappeared underground, I would back away—grateful for the stillness, for the trust, for the image.

Afternoons were spent exploring the sagebrush flats, always alert for prairie rattlesnakes. I hoped to glimpse the endangered sage-grouse and its extravagant mating dance, but they stayed hidden. Still, I was rewarded with sharp-tailed grouse performing their own dazzling displays, and once, a rare sighting of an American bittern in a quiet marsh.

Despite my brief visit, I felt deeply connected to this place. Its vastness, its silence, the life stitched into every inch of grass and stone. And with that connection came a sense of urgency. Every acre of native prairie lost is a thread pulled from a fragile fabric. Species vanish not in a blaze, but in silence—and once gone, they don’t return.

I began to dig deeper—into books, into conversations with conservationists, into the shared stories of grasslands across borders. In Montana, the American Prairie Reserve is working to restore fragmented habitat and reintroduce species like the bison, sage-grouse, and black-footed ferret. The bison, once numbering in the millions, are now ecologically extinct across much of their range.

In Canada, conservation efforts are centered in national parks. Elk Island in Alberta has been pivotal in breeding and reintroducing bison—including a major effort in 2006 that brought bison back to Grasslands after more than a century. In Waterton Lakes, a small captive herd has been maintained since 1952, with individuals reintroduced following the 2017 Kenow wildfire.

Still, the threat remains. In 2022 alone, roughly 1.9 million acres of Great Plains grasslands in Canada and the U.S. were converted to cropland. That’s an improvement from previous decades—but still unsustainable. The Northern Great Plains lost 480,000 acres that year alone—an area twice the size of New York City.

Other regions, like the Flint Hills of Kansas and the National Grasslands managed by the U.S. Forest Service, offer hope through collaborative conservation with ranchers and Indigenous communities. These partnerships are vital—balancing ecological restoration with economic sustainability.

I plan to return this June—not just as a photographer, but as a storyteller. Because stories, when told with reverence and truth, can stir people to care. And caring is where change begins.

We must care. These grasslands matter—not only for their beauty, but for the role they play in the survival of species, in the health of our planet. The creatures who live here matter. And their stories are worth telling.