An Evening UTV Adventure in Lake Mead National Recreation Area

The desert glows like liquid gold at this hour. It’s what photographers call the magic hour—that fleeting time when the sun sits low on the horizon, painting everything in warm amber hues before surrendering to night. I’ve witnessed this transformation thousands of times throughout my 81 years, yet it never fails to stop me in my tracks, forcing me to just sit and marvel.

Tonight, I’m not on horseback as I would have been in my younger days back at the family ranch. Instead, I’m perched atop my trusty Yamaha Rhino, a vehicle that would have seemed like science fiction to my father. The juxtaposition isn’t lost on me—this modern chariot carrying this old cowboy through ancient lands.

The Call of the Desert

Lake Mead National Recreation Area has been my playground for decades. Long before retirement, I’d escape here whenever life allowed, trading the pine-scented mountains of my youth for these stark, beautiful badlands. The recreation area sprawls across 1.5 million acres of the Mojave Desert, straddling Nevada and Arizona, cradling what was once the largest reservoir in the United States.

Tonight’s ride isn’t aimless wandering. I’m on a mission, camera gear secured in the back of my UTV, hoping to capture something special—the wild burros that roam these parts. These hardy survivors have fascinated me since I first spotted a small band of them nearly forty years ago, their silhouettes stark against the setting sun, much like I hope to see them tonight.

I navigate the well-worn trail with practiced ease, the UTV’s suspension absorbing the desert’s attempts to jostle me. The engine’s steady hum provides a mechanical counterpoint to the profound silence that blankets the desert. It’s a comforting sound, reminiscent of the tractors and trucks that were the soundtrack of my ranching days.

Desert Wisdom

The Mojave isn’t for the faint of heart. As a young man, my grandfather taught me to respect this land—not to fear it, but to understand it. “The desert doesn’t hide its dangers,” he’d say in that gravelly voice of his, weathered by years of barking commands across open range. “It shows them plain as day. That’s more honest than most people.”

I’ve carried that wisdom through my life, finding truth in it whether I was mending fences in mountain pastures or navigating corporate boardrooms during my brief, uncomfortable stint in the “civilized” world before returning to my roots.

The UTV climbs a gentle rise, and I cut the engine at the crest. From this vantage point, Lake Mohave stretches before me, its surface a mirror reflecting the dying light. The infamous “bathtub ring” of mineral deposits marks where water levels once reached, a stark reminder of the ongoing drought that has plagued the Southwest for years. As someone who’s depended on water my entire life—for crops, for cattle, for survival—the sight of that ring always sends a chill down my spine despite the evening heat.

The Modern Cowboy’s Horse

My Rhino idles quietly as I scan the landscape with practiced eyes. Folks sometimes ask why a man raised on horseback would trade hooves for horsepower in his golden years. The answer is simple: these machines go where horses can’t, last longer in this heat, and don’t complain nearly as much. Plus, they carry my camera gear without getting spooked by a rattler.

UTVs like mine have transformed desert exploration. What once required days of careful planning and arduous travel can now be accomplished in an afternoon. The purist in me occasionally mourns this change, but the pragmatist—and my arthritic knees—appreciates the innovation.

I’ve outfitted my ride for serious photography work. Custom mounts hold my stabilized video rig, allowing me to capture smooth footage even on rough terrain. Specialized storage compartments protect additional lenses and gear from the fine dust that seems to infiltrate everything out here. Solar panels mounted on the roof keep batteries charged for extended expeditions. It’s a far cry from the 35mm Nikon I carried in a battered leather case during my youth, but the purpose remains the same—to capture the soul of this land and its inhabitants.

Wild Burros: Desert Survivors

The sun dips lower, and I decide to push on. Wild burros are crepuscular creatures, most active during dawn and dusk, and I’m hoping to catch them in their evening routine. These aren’t just any animals—they’re living history, descendants of the burros that carried prospectors during the mining booms of the 19th century.

When the mines went bust, the burros stayed, adapting to this harsh environment with remarkable resilience. They’re technically non-native, introduced by Spanish explorers centuries ago, but they’ve become as much a part of the landscape as the creosote and Joshua trees.

The burros of Lake Mead National Recreation Area have faced their share of challenges. Drought conditions have reduced their water sources, and human encroachment continues to shrink their territory. Conservation efforts have sparked debates between those who view them as invasive and those who see them as cultural heritage. As someone who’s witnessed the complex dance between human interests and wildlife for seven decades, I understand both perspectives while firmly believing these creatures deserve their place here.

I round a bend in the trail and bring the UTV to an abrupt halt. There they are—a small herd of wild burros grazing among the scrub brush about a hundred yards ahead. My heart quickens as it always does when I encounter wildlife. No matter how many times I’ve seen these animals, each meeting feels like a privilege, a secret shared between species.

The Art of Wildlife Videography

With practiced efficiency, I power down the UTV and reach for my gear. Years of experience have taught me how to move quietly, how to set up quickly without drawing attention. These days I shoot with a Lumix FZ2500 for low light work and a FZ80 for high-resolution stills, both a far cry from the equipment I started with back when “digital” meant using your fingers to count.

The equipment may have changed, but the fundamentals haven’t. Patience. Respect. Understanding animal behavior. Reading the light. These are the cornerstones of wildlife photography and videography, whether you’re capturing wild horses in alpine meadows or burros in the desert lowlands.

I mount the FZ80 on my gimbal for stable footage and position myself carefully, using the UTV as a blind. Wild burros aren’t typically aggressive, but they’re wary of humans, and rightfully so. Our species hasn’t always treated them kindly.

Through my viewfinder, I count seven burros—two jennies with foals, a dominant jack watching over the group, and two younger males keeping their distance from the territorial leader. Their coats range from soft gray to warm brown, blending perfectly with the desert palette. Nature’s camouflage at its finest.

I begin recording, keeping my breathing steady to maintain the camera’s stability. The evening light bathes the scene in that golden glow photographers chase around the globe, but which I’ve found right here in my backyard. The burros move with unhurried purpose, their large ears constantly swiveling to catch any sound of potential danger.

Finding the Story

Documentary work isn’t just about capturing pretty pictures—it’s about finding the story. As I film, I look for those telling moments that reveal character and relationship. The protective stance of a jenny as her foal explores a patch of desert wildflowers. The subtle dominance display when the jack flattens his ears at an approaching younger male. The synchronized drinking when the herd approaches a small seasonal pool hidden among the rocks.

These moments connect viewers to the animals’ experience, bridging the gap between species. In my decades of wildlife photography, I’ve found that people protect what they connect with emotionally. If my work helps forge that connection between viewers and these wild burros, perhaps it contributes in some small way to their conservation.

The light changes subtly as the sun slips lower, casting longer shadows across the desert floor. I adjust my exposure settings accordingly, thankful for modern camera technology that allows me to shoot well into twilight. In my early days, we’d be packing up by now, film stocks unable to handle these low-light conditions.

Desert Wisdom

One of the jennies suddenly looks up, ears pointed forward, alert to something beyond my perception. The others quickly follow suit, their bodies tensing. Years of experience tell me they’re preparing to move on—something has spooked them.

I continue filming, capturing this moment of collective awareness. Through my lens, I watch as the jack takes the lead, guiding the herd away from whatever perceived threat has disturbed their evening meal. They don’t panic or bolt, just move with purposeful efficiency—another desert lesson in how to handle adversity.

As they disappear among the chaparral, I lower my camera, satisfied with the footage I’ve captured. This is why I come out here, again and again, despite creaking joints and the protests of concerned family members who think a man my age should take up safer hobbies like golf or shuffleboard.

The connection to these wild places and wild creatures keeps me vital.These expeditions have become more than a hobby—they became a lifeline, a reason to keep going when age threatened to swallow me whole.

The Journey Home

The sky transitions from gold to deepening blue as I pack up my gear. Stars begin to appear overhead, impossibly bright against the darkening canvas. I take a moment to just stand there, one hand resting on the UTV’s frame, and breathe in the cooling desert air.

This evening delivered exactly what I needed—not just footage for my ongoing documentary project about desert wildlife, but that irreplaceable feeling of connection to something larger than myself. It’s the same feeling I used to get watching summer thunderstorms roll across our family ranch, or sitting beside mountain streams so clear you could count the pebbles ten feet down.

I fire up the UTV’s engine, flick on the LED light bar that turns night into day, and begin the journey back to my modest home on the outskirts of Lake Mohave. Tomorrow I’ll review the footage, select the best sequences, and add them to my growing library of wild burro encounters. Perhaps they’ll feature in my next exhibition at the local nature center, or in the documentary I’ve been slowly piecing together over the past two years.

Preserving a Legacy

At eighty-one, I’m acutely aware that I have more days behind me than ahead. This knowledge doesn’t depress me—it motivates me to make each remaining day count, to continue documenting these landscapes and creatures I’ve loved throughout my life.

The wild burros of Lake Mead National Recreation Area represent something essential about the American Southwest—resilience, adaptation, and quiet dignity in the face of challenging circumstances. Qualities I’ve tried to embody in my own life, through good times and bad.

As my UTV navigates the familiar trails homeward, I reflect on how fortunate I’ve been to witness these animals across the years, to chart their struggles and successes through my viewfinder. In a world increasingly disconnected from nature, these encounters feel more precious than ever.

The desert night envelops me, stars overhead and headlights illuminating the path ahead. Another successful expedition comes to a close, but I’m already planning the next one. There’s a particular valley on the Arizona side of Lake Mohave where burros gather during the full moon to drink from a hidden spring. If conditions are right, I might capture something truly special there next week.

This old cowboy may have traded his saddle for a UTV seat, but the spirit of adventure that pulled me toward distant horizons in my youth still burns bright. As long as these wild places exist—and as long as creatures like the hardy burros continue to roam them—I’ll be out here with my cameras, capturing their stories, one frame at a time.

The desert has taught me many things, but perhaps the most important lesson is this: beauty and meaning exist wherever you take the time to look for them. Tonight, I found both in the ancient gazes of wild burros, silhouetted against a Lake Mohave sunset.

About the Author spent his early years working his family’s cattle ranch in Kansas before pursuing a career in wildlife photography. Now retired, he dedicates his time to documenting the wilderness and wildlife of the American Southwest, with a particular focus on the wild burro populations of Lake Mead National Recreation Area. His work has been featured in New Mexico Outdoor Sports Guide blog and hundreds of NMOSG YouTube video publications.