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

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

I'm leaning against the wall of a seedy tavern in Williams Lake, British Columbia—a buckaroo town if ever there was one—waiting for two brothers to take me fishing, when a young cowboy ambles up. We're dressed alike: cowboy hat, boots, Western shirt, Wrangler jeans, and a big, shiny belt buckle. "You're from National Geographic, ain't ya?" he says.

"Why are you asking?" I respond with surprise.

"Because you're wearing an out-of-town hat."

Slightly embarrassed, I survey the bar's clientele and realize he's right. I'm wearing a beat-up, black Stetson I'd bought years ago in Pendleton, Oregon. It's the only one of its kind in the room.

The young man told me that when new ranch hands show up at work, locals check out their hat, boots, chaps, rope, saddle, bridle and bit, and can tell where they're from. Their gear is a giveaway; it's made to function in the terrain where they work.

"If it's not functionable, it's not worth wearing," says Colter Schlosser, a cowboy from British Columbia. But function and fashion are not necessarily mutually exclusive. Look at the photo of Schlosser, and you'll see what I mean. This month, Robert Draper and Robb Kendrick decode the elegant appearance of a Canadian buckaroo and the no-frills look of his Texas counterpart. Cowboys and their gear are hardly stuck in the past. Everything evolves in response to the demands of economics and the push of technology. Computer-based ear-tagging aside, some things never change—like the telltale shape of a hat.

Just ask a buckaroo from Williams Lake.

Photograph by Robb Kendrick

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.