PANORANIMALS
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It seemed easy enough… I read about the new polar bear cub at the zoo and immediately decided to go while he was still in the “cute” stage. Didn’t know what to expect but figured it’d be relatively simple to get a few “aw” pictures. The only special game plan was to wait for a snow day. Perfect. A snowstorm arrived in a few days and as I worked my way through morning rush hour, clichés of “shooting fish in a barrel…” rang in my ears. Slightly mistaken. There were two viewing areas. One from behind a barrier and chain link fence – not gonna work. The second was a half-enclosed shelter with glass - but only five meters wide for an overflowing crowd of families. The challenge. - The glass was covered with condensation on both sides from all the warm bodies making it difficult to focus. - There were dozens of kids plastered against it scrambling for a view and parents with strollers packed in behind them. I didn’t want to hit anyone swinging around 20 pounds of camera nor get in the way of them enjoying the cub. - The storm brought a cold snap and I’m a wimp when it comes to numb fingers, metal objects, little buttons, and fingerless gloves. Eventually. I contorted myself into a corner and with the sounds of kids laughing and cheering at the baby bear’s antics, settled in for one of the more enjoyable shoots I’ve done. … Not as easy as planned but more fun than I expected.
Lucky us. In June, on three separate occasions, we were fortunate to witness three painted turtles laying eggs along the bank of the pond. We marked the areas hoping to see them hatch. But even with three nests, it was a long shot that we’d spot the loonie-sized offspring emerge and work their way through the grass to the water. But the odds were with us. Not only did Terrie notice the tiny ground breaking disturbances of the first and second nests hatching – both birthings happened on weekends when I was home with the camera to capture the moments. Two out of three – not bad.
It’s sad when I have a good shot that’s missing a piece of the puzzle that would’ve made it a great shot- too good to toss - not good enough to do anything with. I have hundreds of them. The “ …make lemonade” technique. We had a major ice storm just before Christmas in 2013 that shut down parts of Ontario for several days. To pass the powerless time I shot around the feeder trying to capture high speed images of the birds in flight displaying their wings against a snowy background. The chickadees were the most plentiful so I positioned myself close enough to get good detail yet wide enough to keep them in frame as I tracked with them speeding to and from the feeder. My technique yielded several good shots. The cardinals were much fewer in number - slower and easier to track, but because of my proximity to the feeder the framing was tighter. As a result, in many shots the composition was poor or they were partially cut off. That was the case in this sequence of shots where I caught the female rising up and about to land on an off-screen perch. Individually they each had a certain beauty but none were good enough to stand on their own. It wasn’t until the following August while browsing through my good-not-greats that I happened across these again and solved the puzzle.
Tens of thousands of snow geese, sandhill cranes, and ducks make Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico their winter home. It is one of the premier bird viewing areas in the world. This is what I called the second staging pond. Shortly before dawn the geese would leave the two larger ponds in the middle of the refuge where they had spent the night and would congregate on this, outlying, smaller pond. Then just after sunrise they would leave en masse to spend the day in the cultivated feeding fields. In the afternoon, they reversed their routine, stopping off again at this pond to preen and rest before heading back to the two larger ponds for the night. After a few days, I figured out their schedule and would follow and/or precede the flocks to try and get shots of them landing and taking flight. My tracking efforts were rewarded late one afternoon when I got this wonderful panning sequence of them blasting off as they headed back to the main ponds. The final image is a composite of five sequential frames.
Another one of those shots that was supposed to be a shot of something else. A new family of geese had spent the night on the pond and I was out before sunup to try for pictures. I couldn’t get very close because they were already on the water so I just settled into the opposite side of the pond under the cover of some camo material and shot them as they fed back and forth along the far bank. It was a busy morning; first a couple mallards, then the kingfisher, some mergansers, and finally my favorite - wood ducks. Their colouring is amazing. It is so vibrant, so crisp and detailed, that it appears to be painted on. They’re skittish but they didn’t see me undercover so I was able to get several good shots of them cruising the pond. I shifted my focus to one who had wandered off by himself to feed along the edge. Suddenly the sunlight broke through the trees and he lit up like neon. I started blasting away. Then something spooked him and I could tell he was about to take off. No matter how much I anticipate it’s always tricky to keep up with birds launching off the water. I was lucky this time to get three shots off while keeping him in frame. The goose family only stayed the day and then moved on up stream but seeing as how it was the first goslings we’d ever had, I took it as a sign of good things to come.
This is a composite of a male trumpeter swan photographed during a snowstorm in late March. He and his mate were migrating north when they chose to wait out the storm on our pond in Tottenham, Ontario. That morning, I was surprised to see a pair of swans mixed in with the usual collection of geese and ducks that hang out in our open water. I quickly layered up, donned my waders and headed out, hoping I could get into position without scaring away the newcomers. I snuck up the creek to the dam under our bridge and hunkered down to get an eye-level view of the birds as they cruised around the pond, feeding and resting. The bridge protected me from the snow but the water, of course, was ice cold and my waders had a slow leak. So I’d shoot until my boots filled with water, sneak back inside to dry out, warm up, recharge camera batteries, and then sneak back out for another session. This lasted until the storm cleared in the afternoon and they flew off. The female was tagged and we later learned that she was a three year old released in Stratford, Ontario and spent her summers on Wye Marsh just north of us. She’d also been spotted several times in other area lakes. It was a great day of shooting and I knew I’d captured some memorable images but I had no idea just how lucky I’d been; the combination of snowstorm, diffused lighting, and super-telephoto lens created a unique effect that looked more painterly than photographic, giving them an angelic appearance.
If you ask me, the redwing blackbirds had no right to harass the trumpeters. The swans were just passing by the bird’s nest area on their way to their own nest when the irate parents began dive bombing them and landing on their tails. They never attacked the cygnets and the adults were certainly not in any real danger. It just seemed like a case of blackbird bullying.
I spent the better part of May sunsets haunting a marsh along my route home from work. I originally attempted to get mostly red-winged blackbirds flying among the cattails but I’m a cheap date and pretty soon was shooting anything that moved. The grackles were great. They’re not as “popular” as red wings but were a bit slower which helped in my effort to get long sequences of flight.
Scootching made this shot possible. It’s often the case when I wake in the morning that I’ll look out from the bedroom window and see a heron on the pond. And as much as I’d like to go out to shoot I know from multiple past experiences that it’s almost impossible to get out there close enough to get a shot without spooking them. But occasionally there are two herons, which means there’s a chance that something interesting can happen between them as they jockey around the pond for territorial position. And while they distract each other there’s a chance they might not notice a big guy with a huge lens sneaking towards them. There wasn’t time to change so I just donned my camo hat and went out in my pajamas. I sat on my butt behind the camera and scootched forward along the wet grass whenever they weren’t looking. It took me a half an hour to work my way down the exposed hillside to the edge of the pond - a distance of a mere 60 feet. I finally reached the cover of the tall grass along the pond edge and from that vantage caught this sequence of one heron crossing to get away from the other. Then again, perhaps it was the pajamas.
Just one more and then I’m done. One more sighting. One more opportunity. One more shot. One more and I’m done for the session. Done for the day. Done for the trip. I’ve told myself those lies countless times but I can never seem to settle for just one more. Call it patience, determination, greed, whatever – I end up staying until I run out of subject matter, time, memory, power, daylight, or they kick me out of the park. But not this time. It was last light of day. There were several pairs of cardinals using the feeder. They would chase each other away as needed but each was getting their fill – except me. I hadn’t gotten a good shot all afternoon. Now it was getting dark and I was pushing the limit of acceptable image quality. Fingers were frozen and batteries were running low. I told myself I’d leave just as soon as the next cardinal flew into frame, regardless if it was a good shot, just as long as there was at least a feather visible. As soon as I saw her leave the branch I started shooting. Held the trigger down until she landed, grabbed a seed and flew off. I’d caught a glimpse of her in the viewfinder so I knew I had something but didn’t dare glance at the screen to review. I got up, stiff from the cold and sitting too long, grabbed my gear and headed in for the night. Jackpot! I’ll never lie again... ...honest
It suddenly dawned on me after a half hour of shooting, that the beautiful mist enveloping the birds on the pond had not been there before they arrived. It was so cold and there were so many thousands of warm-bodied, heavy breathing snow geese and sandhill cranes, they were generating their own fog. This was what I called the second staging pond; after the geese left the two larger ponds in the middle of the Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge, they would all congregate on this, outlying, relatively smaller pond and leave just after sunrise for the feeding fields. When they left they would blast off en masse, sounding like the roar of a jet, and creating a disturbance in the air that you could feel as they passed directly over.
The herons and the geese were arriving earlier every morning. To avoid having to wake up in the dark to get into position in the island hunting blind, and sit on a stool for an hour before they showed up, I decided to sleep overnight in the blind. The bad news was that it was cold. Despite several layers and a good sleeping bag, it was a restless night. Twice I got up to put on more layers. Then the heron landed and let out a loud croak twenty feet away. And finally a big tail slap from a nearby beaver woke me, no doubt upset by the roar of my snoring. But the good news was also that it was cold. Because when the morning sunlight hit the chilled water, it created a beautiful mist. And when the geese landed in this fog, breathing hard from flying, I was able to capture their warm, puffs of breath, backlit by the sunrise in the frigid morning air. Cool.
It began as a study of isolation. Amongst the tens of thousands of snow geese there stood, one, lone sandhill crane. There were hundreds of other cranes on the pond but most were grouped together along the edge of the sea of geese. Somehow this gal got stranded in the middle. The sandhills were already on the pond when the geese flew in. And when the geese come they arrive all at once and blanket the pond in a matter of seconds. So it’s likely that this crane was just caught off guard and when the feathers settled she found herself surrounded. It was an interesting juxtaposition. I shot a single frame with the crane centered and then recorded a few frames on either side imagining I would combine them into a panorama. Then she slowly began to move, picking her way through and high stepping over the congestion of geese. Gradually she broke into a trot, which became a run, and turned into a take-off as I merrily tracked along with her. It became a study in motion.
This is a composite – what I call a Panoranimal. However, unlike most of my digitally stitched works that are sequential frames of action, this composite was made from three separate dives. Same bird. Same location. Different dives. Second: We’re lucky in that we have kingfishers that fish on our pond. So, four summers ago I placed two tall dead branches over a narrow, shallow channel. The location was the perfect distance from my shooting blind for me to capture full frame images of the birds when they perched. Coincidentally it turned out to be a good fishing spot and I witnessed lots of activity. At first I was happy just to get shots of them sitting on the branches eyeballing their prey below or preening after they returned from a dive. I also got nice shots of them with their catch, repeatedly slapping them against the wood to finish the kill (or soften the bones?). Even got a picture of one flipping it into his mouth with the fish suspended mid air directly above his throat. But the kings were always too fast for me to capture a complete series of them diving. Consider what is involved: I had to anticipate their start, then follow them darting straight down twelve feet in a second, hitting a different target location every time, while keeping them in focus and in frame – a frame BTW that was barely big enough to accommodate them with their wings fully extended. I made numerous attempts every summer. I slowly got better. The cameras eventually got faster. Until one weekend while a persistent kingfisher was making repeated unsuccessful dives I captured enough sequences to complete the shot. At last.
Sequential composite of a junco launching from the iced curly branches of a witch hazel.
The herons and the geese were arriving earlier every morning. So to avoid having to wake up in the dark to get into position in the island hunting blind and sit for an hour before they showed up, I decided to sleep overnight in the blind. The bad news. It was cold. Despite several layers and a good sleeping bag, it was a restless night. Twice I got up to put on more layers. Then a heron landed next to the tent and let out a huge croak. Finally, a big tail slap from a nearby beaver woke me, no doubt upset by the roar of my snoring. The good news. It got colder. When morning sunlight hit the chilled water it created a mist. And when the geese landed in this fog, breathing hard from flying, I was able to capture their warm, puffs of breath, backlit by the sunrise in the frigid morning air. Cool.
Finally. I spent a week in Algonquin Park in the Fall hoping for a good moose shot. Although the number of moose was apparently up, the number of sightings were definitely down. Park personnel, tourists, and other photographers, were all surprised by the poor showing. I did see moose and got pictures but nothing really special. I even stayed an extra day and left the park after sunset hoping for one last opportunity. Two weeks later on a whim I drove back up just for the day to give it one more try. I arrived before sunrise and spent the entire day searching. I checked with anyone I ran into for reported sightings, hiked the trails, hid along the shore, and tried making moose calls. Nothing. As the sun was setting, I said goodbye to a group of photographers who were staking out a likely spot and headed for the road hoping I might catch something on my way out of the park. I was nearing the exit, the light was gone and I was planning dinner, when up ahead I saw the unmistakable dark form of a big bull lumbering along the edge of the woods heading for cover. I pulled over and jumped out, grabbed my gear and raced to set up before he disappeared. There was a cow and young bull ahead of him that had already reached the distant trees. They would’ve vanished into the dark but they ended up on a path that led them back toward me and what little light was left. My moose luck had changed. About time.
It’s not what you may think… It’s not the sun. It’s not just the moon; it’s the supermoon. Okay, technically it was the night after the super-full-moon. It’s not the traditional island-view of Toronto we’re used to seeing. It was shot from 60K north of downtown in Caledon, using 840mm worth of lens. It’s not a cheat. The moon appears huge because: Obviously, the farther away, the smaller the city appears. But as I used a super-telephoto lens, downtown appears large in frame. And since the moon stays relatively the same size no matter where you are, and because during that “super” cycle it was roughly 13% larger, it appeared huuuge compared to the buildings. It’s not a comp. I didn’t move anything. This was the moon’s actual trajectory. That strange howl you might’ve heard that night, downtown? That was me whooping when I saw it passing perfectly behind the CN Tower. Photoshop was used only to stitch the sequence together. It wasn’t (just) luck. I used an “app” (LightTrac) to determine when and where to position myself. It was lucky: - That I had access to the perfect viewing location. - That the horizon was free of cloud-cover yet cloudy enough overhead to add interest as the moon peeked in and out of view. (The night of the supermoon it was completely clouded at the horizon and only clear well above the skyline.) And, it was lucky that everything came together perfectly.
This is a three-image composite of a great blue heron as it was taking off from the pond.
Sometimes I learn the hard way. I was positioned on a hillside, shooting elk in this meadow, when I decided to have a quick look around the bend of the hill. Well, one bend led to another until I found myself about 50 meters away from where I’d left my camera set up – when I spotted what I thought might be a wolf moving through the tall grass. I raced back, berating myself along the way, and sure enough by the time I returned, what would have been a full frame shot had become much wider and getting more so by the second. It turned out to be a coyote. He was pouncing in and out of view, as he worked his way quickly across the clearing. A few camera clicks later he disappeared into the tree line. I learned a valuable but what should have been an obvious lesson that morning; Always take the camera.
