PORTFOLIO SELECTS
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We have a big pond right outside the back of the house and every summer we’ve been fortunate to have at least one family of mallards make it their home. In fact, the last two seasons they’ve shown up on exactly the same day – June 10th. I try to be ready to photograph and spend as much time with them as I can during their first few weeks when their cute factor is way off the charts. Sometimes I get in the water to move around and shoot them from eye level. Other times, like for this image, I shoot from the cover of a blind. It’s impossible to tell them apart from their markings but it’s easy to see personality differences right from the start. Some are very timid and barely leave mom’s side. Others are more daring and venture farther away until she silently signals and they race back, virtually running atop the water. And, there appears to be three parade modes. There’s the one where mom leads and they all trail behind single file. There is the cluster mode with mom in the middle of the group. And then there is this arrangement where the chicks take the lead and proudly parade themselves around the pond.
Snow geese. Bosque del Apache, New Mexico, United States.
One of the wonderful things about water is the reflection. Not only does it mirror the subject matter, it also introduces colours from the background that would otherwise get cropped out. In this image, it reflects the unbelievable vibrant greens of the spring grasses of the distant pond bank that contrast with the ducklings swimming in the near shadows.
This little guy bravely approached me as I floated nearby in the water to see what I was. He got a good look at what must have appeared to be a big black eyeball (my foot long, seven inch diameter telephoto lens) and turned back to report the news to mom.
Humpback whale, Bay of Fundy, Nova scotia.
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 the 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.
Chimney swifts, Wolfville, Nova Scotia.
Red tailed hawk
Bears in trees were everywhere. The whitebark tree pine cone seeds are a big part of the bear's diet. At the higher elevations in Yellowstone Park, Wyoming, there is a run of whitebarks along one of the mountain passes. Unlike other pines, these cones don't drop off; the bears must either rob the secreted caches of birds and squirrels, or do for themselves. The first week in October they were out in full force doing for themselves. The bears appeared to climb effortlessly and seemed at ease no matter how precarious the perch. If a cone was out of reach they’d either bend the limb as they wished or snapped the limb right off and plucked the cone like a grape. Some would daintily pick out the seeds with their claws and others would just chow down on the cones. This day it was raining steadily so I had to shoot from under a camera covering. I’m not crazy about shooting bears while using it because I can’t tell what’s going on around me. Plus, it was overcast and the bear was buried in the dark of the tree cover. But just when I was ready to pack it in he popped up into this open area of the tree top. He casually bowed a few limbs to get his treat, then looked my way to give me the shot and let me call it a day. Quite a sight.
Humpback whale, Bay of Fundy, Nova Scotia.
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.
Danger was all around. They were closing in: pushing me, tugging at my legs, herding me, all sizes and ages, and all with a gleam in their eye. Usually I shoot alone. But that’s impossible at the zoo. I was in the midst of a dozen families of giggling kids shrieking at the site of huge bears playfully charging the windows of the underwater viewing room of the polar bear pool. I concentrated, trying to catch the bears as they darted past the windows, not knowing which of the five portals they might go to, trying to get a clear shot without hands slapping at the glass, and trying not to trip over kids or the armada of strollers. I also didn’t want to hog the view. So I stepped back and shot from behind the little mob, holding my camera overhead. Pretty soon I was giggling along with everyone else as the bears dove, tumbled, and bubbled about to the delight of their audience. Sure I missed some shots but it only takes one. And this one was it.
It was the Christmas holiday and I set out that morning trying to get the definitive photograph of a chickadee. There were at least a dozen of them around the feeder when a pair of cardinals showed up. The male was the more cautious and kept his distance but this gal came right in to feed despite my presence. She shielded herself from me by staying deep inside the lilac making it difficult for me to pull focus through the branches, but a few times I was able to snake my way through and grab some shots. Then she hopped up to this perch in the (somewhat) open, tilted her head at me, paused just a beat in a perfect pose, and flew off, but not before I rattled off a few frames. There wasn’t much light but the muted shades of the winter branches were the perfect match for her pale shades of brown and red. Voila! The chickadee would have to be for another day. That day I had my cardinal.
I was having fun with the chickadees around the feeder, taking advantage of a warm November day - trying to capture the last of the fall colours. I started out under the cover of camouflage but soon abandoned it when it became obvious they could care less if I was around. It's funny. The other, bigger birds are always very wary but not these little guys. They don't care who's around. They just want to eat and, if you're in the way, they'll use you as an interim perch to get to the food.
I missed it. It was a challenge to follow the moose as she moved across the meadow drifting in and out of clear view. The tangles of branches kept grabbing the focus and I had to keep shifting positions in deep snow to stay alongside her. Eventually she moved so deep into the woods that I had to let her go. I was hoping for something more interesting than just a cow in the snow, but other than a few peek-a-boo poses from scattered clearings I didn’t think I’d gotten any good photos. It was only later in the evening while editing, that I discovered the beautiful abstract pattern created by the branches silhouetted against her dark fur. Even if I had just been watching rather than concentrating on shooting it’s unlikely I would have seen the effect. A perfect example of the power of the still.
The first time I witnessed the snow geese arriving I didn’t know where to begin to shoot. Thirty thousand birds landing en masse, squawking, flapping, and settling down on this huge pond in just a little over five minutes is a lot to take in. How do you pick a shot out from all that? How do you capture the frenzy as well as the calm with so much to choose from across such a wide expanse? Fortunately, it was a routine that they repeated daily during their winter stay at Bosque del Apache in New Mexico. It gave me plenty of practice and by the end of my first week there I’d found the rhythm and figured out my approach. DAWN was taken several minutes after the mass landing frenzy as the stragglers caught up with the rest of the flock. The cold temps combined with the warm bodies and the sun hitting the frigid water as it cleared the distant mountains, created a beautiful misty backdrop for their graceful winged poses. The field of action was seventy meters distant so I swept across the pond with my 600mm and stitched the results into this panoranimal. Other than that, nothing was done to alter the image. The morning light, atmospheric distortion, and slow shutter speed, naturally combined to give it a painterly look.
This is 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 the snowstorm, diffused lighting, and super-telephoto lens created a unique effect that looked more painterly than photographic, giving them an angelic appearance.
I was surprised when I arrived at the site. I had been seeing full frame photos of puffins from this area, yet because of the lay of the land, there was no way that I could hope to get that close – even using my powerful, 600mm, super-telephoto lens. Elliston, located on the Bonavista Peninsula of Newfoundland, is a popular destination for tourists seeking puffins because of its easy access to view the birds. The trail to the colony leads right to the edge of a steep cliff. Just beyond there is a series of sea stacks – pinnacles of sheer rock, plateaued on top and peppered with the burrows of thousands of puffins. But the chasm that separates visitors and the nearest nest is at least seventy-five feet. How did people get close-ups? I asked around but none of the other photographers that were there could figure it out either. I assumed there must be another location and decided to shoot where I was, then scout around for the better site. I settled onto the edge and began looking for interesting compositions of the birds congregating around their burrows. I noticed an area where they were launching and landing and tried to catch them at various stages of action. There was continuous wind from the sea that channeled up along the face of the cliffs. The puffins had an easy time taking off but the shifting updrafts made their landings a little tricky. The situation was actually to my benefit; the stiff air currents pushed up at the birds as they tried to touch down slowing the action and allowing me to capture long sequences of the birds coming in for landing. It was one such sequence that became FEET FIRST. I felt I’d exhausted the possibilities from my location, said goodbye to my fellow photogs, and hiked back to my vehicle. As I was starting to drive off I spotted a couple locals and inquired about getting better access. They said if people stayed back from the edge and gave the birds some space, eventually they would come over to the viewing ledge. Before they could finish speaking I parked, geared up, and was trotting back to spread the gospel.
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.
Sometimes I learn the hard way. I was positioned on a hillside, shooting elk in this meadow, when I decided 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. When he moved onto this little rise, about a hundred meters away, I got my first clear shot at him. A few clicks later he disappeared into the tree line. The distance, morning lighting, and the thick layer of frost gave a painterly quality to the image and I was very pleased with the results. I was pleased as well to have landed the shot at all and, at the same time, learned a valuable lesson; Always take the camera.
That spring I hauled several dead tree limbs on to the island so the birds could use them as perches. The results exceeded my expectations, because not only did we end up hosting a family of four kingfishers, but we also attracted a flock of cedar waxwings. Every morning and evening, about a dozen of them would gather on the branches and use them as a launch for their bug hunts around the island airways. This is a composite of five images taken over a few minutes, one evening in July.
It looked like a scene out of prehistoric times - huge, horned beasts ambling across a desolate landscape. As they grunted along, their clouds of breath mixed with the surrounding geyser plumes. The smell of sulfur from thermal springs filled the cold morning air. It was a small herd, moving steadily east. I followed them until the last silhouette disappeared into the mist. Then they were gone and I realized I was standing alone in the middle of a cloud. I couldn’t see them but I could hear their grunting. I thought it best to leave and worked my way back west toward open sky and present day.
I couldn’t believe my luck. In the past 8 years, we’ve twice had trumpeter swans on our pond and then only for a day. So when Terrie called at work with the news of a swan, I came home right away hoping to catch it in the evening light thinking it might be my only opportunity. It’s very difficult to approach our pond without being seen so I loaded my gear on a sled and dragged it behind me in the snow as I belly crawled to the bridge to hide behind the dam. I shot from there until the light ran out, and then retraced my crawl back home so I wouldn’t scare him away. Next morning I was relieved to see he was still there. I crawled back out into place before sunrise and shot until I had to leave for work. It was Friday and I hoped if he spent the weekend I could shoot the entire time. Better than that - he stayed the next two weeks.
Sandhil cranes, Bosque del Apache, New Mexico.
There are thousands of sandhill cranes who winter at the Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge in southern New Mexico. They spend their nights sleeping on the big ponds of the flooded fields and during the day, they feed in the fields that have been cultivated to provide food. They're relatively shy birds and keep their distance from all the park visitors, but their daily routines are fairly predictable. So photographers can stake out along the edges of the ponds and the fields during the "golden hour" of light in the morning and evenings and capture them in all their grace and beauty as they travel past.
