http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/plitvice-lakes-autumn-croatia/

Six weeks. Four limited-AI drones, five camp sites, and two close calls with local megafauna. The bear-like thing with the projectile claws had been easy enough to dispatch. The giant worm had not been, and they’d lost a drone and almost a hundred pounds of food in their escape. That aside, the reviews were coming in and they were glowing.

The beauty of a garden planet where it was always autumn was as breathtaking as they’d anticipated. Polychromatic trees filled every inch of landscape. The whole world bloomed in rich earth tones – browns and tans swirled with orange and yellow and a dozen shades of red. Rivers meandered through forests that the most idealistic, fantastical landscape artists on Earth wouldn’t dream of painting.

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/pronking-springbok-karoo-africa/

The springbok herd had vacated the plateau shortly after dawn. A ripple of concern had coursed through them, something intangible that each felt but hardly understood. So they had abandoned the tall grass of the height for the tall grass of valley below. It was from this vantage that they watched one of their number fly.

From the edge of the herd, a young male lifted into the air while casually grazing. Confused, he leaned his neck as low as it would go, took a bite at the grass and missed.

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/macaskill-mountain-biking-scotland/

He stood on the peak and felt the rising sun warm his left cheek. Stretched out over the surface of the world, from horizon to horizon, a glorious sunrise bathed the waking mountains. The pre-dawn ascent had been exhilarating and difficult. Yet it was only a minor preamble to the purpose of the trip. Angled down before him was the task that called to him.

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/beaver-winter-frozen-montana/

The river was a slushy mess for ten minutes before he came across the beaver. Water trickled in some parts, stood frozen stiff in others. It had been three hours since he’d seen or heard another living creature. In the forest in the middle of the winter, it wasn’t unusual to go alone for some time. Three hours was longer than he’d expected, and under other circumstances he may not have felt so ill at ease. Alas, these were not other circumstances.

Carefully, the tracker made his way to the water’s edge. He gave the living statue a quick once-over, and nothing seemed untoward. Outside of the poor guy’s frozen state.

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/berlin-architecture-reichstag-ludwig/

Two orange cones dropped onto the street. With one last cough, the engine cut out, and the van fell quiet at the curb. Two workers, civil servants in yellow overalls, swung open the back doors of the maintenance van. One grabbed a digital clipboard from a slot on the van wall. The other began to strap on a clunky power wash backpack.

“It’s not too big, I hope?”

“It is not.” The clipboard loaded a fresh checklist, and the man ran his eyes over it despite already knowing just what they would need.

“Because last time it was half a church,” the guy putting on the backpack said. “Getting the juice everywhere took absolutely forever.”

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/myanmar-people-morning-cattle/

Morning sun warms the only calm we’ll see today. Quickly, we gather up the children. They move sluggishly until we promise them they can ride the cattle. That inspires some welcome pace from the young rascals.

The road is our only lifeline all the way out here. The ocean is hundreds of miles away. Our rivers are small which makes them ideal for drinking water, bad for travel. From farm to farm, for weddings and funerals, the road is our conduit and our keeper. And there is nothing I love more than the road in the morning.

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/ermine-gran-paradiso-unterthiner/

Sturdy wooden wheels clunked over the snow-swept road. It was preceded and followed by the softened thump of hundreds of hooves and feet stomping on the powdery path. A half mile of road was covered by the king’s convoy. He was traveling home after a successful trade negotiation with the people of the Seaside Empire. Despite the weather, the mood of the entourage burned warm and pleasant. In a few days, they would be welcomed back with hearty congratulations for a job well done.

In the King’s coach, his Highness quietly read a book. It was one of his favorites from his youth spent abroad. It revolved around a central moral question posed by a magician whose talent was overwhelmed by his ambition. Though the King did not consider himself a superstitious man, he always read this book when he returned from a successful campaign abroad.

On the opposite seat, a duke looked out the window at the passing of the world draped in white. His expertise on the history of the Seaside Empire had been enormously important in the negotiations. More reward awaited him back at the capital, but the first honor was a seat in the royal coach with no one else but the King himself.

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/tyrolean-alps-hike-adventure/

At the mountain’s base, there is a town huddled among the spires of the regal pines. The people in town work hard, and they honor the gods of the water and the land and the sky. For as long as there has been a town in this place, there has been one of their number singled out for special duty. This was the Summiteer.

At the mountain’s peak, the Summiteer can read slivers of the future. In their wisdom, the gods of water and land and sky left clues in the stars, hints as to what may come. When the wolves swept across the land, the gods left instructions on how to safely negotiate with their diplomats and avoid a fight. During the droughts, the gods gave hints on how to make what water they had last.

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/fireflies-night-tennessee-liittschwager/

One week earlier, the first fireflies began to drift into the unremarkable patch of forest. They meandered with haphazard progress over the green grass and fallen leaves and rotting stumps. And yet they moved with uncharacteristic purpose, gathering at the start of a vague slope upward.

Six days passed, and more fireflies poured into the area. By day they slept, recharging, awaiting the arrival of their brethren. By night, they bobbed around the small copse, feasting on the pollen and nectar from the last of the spring’s flowers.

In the afternoon on the seventh day, the muted crunch of boots rang off the trees. A father and his son hiked up a low rise and into the area. Each was burdened with a sizeable pack. The father paused and assessed the area at the bottom of the slope. Eventually, he pointed to a spot just beside an old tree stump.

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http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/monument-valley-storm-arizona/

It wasn’t a big crowd, but then it never had been. Three trucks were huddled along the side of the makeshift road.  Several people milled about. Obviously this was not the most accessible place on earth, and carpooling just made good sense. Someone had thought to throw a cooler in the back of one of the pickups.

They’d gathered a few hours earlier, but it had taken years to assemble. Each had done research individually which had led, inevitably, to them meeting each other. Some had interviewed local folklorists. Some had braved the web of illogic that supports the internet’s conspiracy theory message boards. Others had followed notes in old books, whispers in old songs, memories they were certain did not belong to them.

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