On Memory and Photography

The rain is soft and cool, drifting down from the low clouds to rest momentarily on the green-spade boughs of the cedars before dripping, unheard, into the current of the river. The air smells of damp earth infused with the punk of the alders that grow thick along the bank. I wade cautiously into the jade-tinted water, bare legs numb to the cold and cursing the tiny pebbles, loosened by the current, that fill my battered tennis shoes.

Opening the bale of my reel, I unhook a tiny, single-blade spinner from the cork grip of my spin-casting rod and drive a pink salmon egg on to the size 8 Eagle Claw hook. With a flick of my wrist, the baited lure disappears into a standing wave with a quicksilver flash.

Through the thin monofilament line held between my index finger and thumb, I feel the Braille bumps of the lure bouncing along the riverbed cobble. Slowly, enticingly, I reel the lure back along a submerged trench next to a drowned log. I know that a trout is waiting there, watching the current sweep by. 



 
Although I did not catch that wily trout, the memory of standing in the Pigeon River on that drizzly morning remains.

Mental images of my interactions with the natural world still provide me with a measure of solid ground in an unpredictable world. They also fire an unquenchable thirst for further intimacy with nature, regardless of the discomforts of engaging wilderness on its own terms as I grow older.   

These memorable experiences can be subtle and many seem mundane in their recounting. I cannot put my finger on why some mental images of experience stay with me while others fade from memory. One thing they have in common is that they challenge my ability to relate them as a photographic image.

 As a photographer, I am often asked if my latest photo trip was successful. This is a fair question. The more important question I ask myself is, “Did you bring home images that define the essence of your experience?”  Probably they are the same question, stated in a different way. 




 An image that successfully relates an experience requires more than eyesight and technical knowledge to produce. When I am immersed in the moment, a part of the scene and not just a detached observer, that is when it happens most often.

In his book, Arctic Dreams, Barry Lopez paraphrased Elaine Jahner, a Lakota woman writing about the spiritual connection the people of her hunting culture have with the landscape.

 “Occasionally, one sees something fleeting in the land, a moment when line, color, and movement come together and something sacred is revealed.” 

I find this as true for a photographer as it is for a hunter.

©RW Domm 2015


Photos
Nikon D300

Wounded

He is dazzling, and she, modestly beautiful.  They glide together across the water, he with his bold white helmet sweeping back from a wild yellow eye and she, with her auburn war-bonnet crest scattering sunlight when she shakes the water from her body. He is a bold mosaic of black and white and she, the color of riparian shadows.

The hooded mergansers that visit
our pond each spring are shy. Unlike the resident wood ducks that explode from the water with a frenzied shriek when approached, or the mallards that scatter with a vaudevillian laugh, the mergansers quietly paddle to the furthest shore and disappear into the vegetation.

Whether they are feeding or resting on the water, they never stray far from one another and rarely does one dive to hunt when the other is already below the surface. They have each others back.

Out on the pond, they dive into the dark water again and again to return with another squirming meal, their compact form belying the efficiency with which they hunt. I have seen them bob to the surface gripping crayfish that snap at the air in a vain attempt to defend themselves, and tiny dragonfly nymphs that they toss into the air, catch, and swallow with a graceful flip of their head.

Careful observation of animals is both a necessity and the joy of wildlife photography.
When I was able to approach the pond unseen, I noted that the pair followed a pattern as they fed and rested. Every half hour or so, they completed a path that took them along the south shore of the big pond (spending extra time over a spot where crayfish seemed plentiful) and then, quickly through a narrow, shallow wetland, to our second, more secluded pond and back again.
 

To photograph the pair, I set up a portable blind where the big pond narrows, bringing the small ducks closer to shore. While they were out of site on the second pond, I slip quietly into the blind (no small task wearing hip boots, walking though a thicket of cattails, and carrying a 300mm, f2.8 lens on a tripod) and wait. Several long minutes pass before the red-winged blackbirds forget my noisy trespass and activity on the pond returns to normal.

Stricken with a photographer’s version of buck fever, my pulse quickens when the pair reappear on the pond and begin their slow passage toward my blind. Each time they dive and pop to the surface they are closer until finally, the male surfaces right in front of me. From my chosen vantage, the warm evening light dances off the scattered water droplets when he shakes himself dry. I press the shutter release and the camera springs to life. In one and a half seconds, I have ten images etched on the Nikon’s memory card.

The female swims into view and I swing the lens toward her. With a light touch of the shutter release, she snaps into focus and once again, I fire off a quick succession of photographs. I continue to track her passage past my blind until she is out of view, but I do not trip the shutter again. Something is wrong.


Two important tenets of wildlife photography are to keep an animal’s body (and most other subjects) parallel to the plane formed by the back of the camera, and to make sure the animal’s eye is in focus. The former practice ensures that the depth of field at the aperture you have chosen is used to its fullest potential and the latter creates intimacy between the viewer and the subject. As the female merganser passed in front of my blind, I noticed that her eye looked odd, as if it were out of focus even though I had trained my focus point over it.

Later, when I looked closely at the
photos I had taken of the mergansers, I could see that the female had somehow lost an eye. If it was a defect or an injury she had suffered it is hard to say, but a cloudy, white orb filled her right eye socket. The wound did not prevent her from successfully hunting, and, since she had paired up with a male, apparently the rest of her life was proceeding normally as well.


Another unfortunate tenet of wildlife photography is that photographs of injured or other “imperfect” animals don’t sell. Despite the photographs that are used in calendars and magazines, most animals (and people, too) carry the scars of life. Many market-driven wildlife photographers discard photographs of “damaged” subjects or manipulate them into perfection using Photoshop.

Regardless, real natural beauty thrives despite the bruises and imperfections; and true grace is more than fine feathers, fur, or skin.

As the ice goes out this spring and the migrating ducks return, I am watching and hoping that the wounded merganser returns. If she does, she is welcome to all the crayfish she can catch.


  ©Robert W Domm 2014

        All Photos
          Nikon D300
          Nikon 300mm f2.8 lens
           ISO 400

Wilderness Light Painting

Rabbit Blanket Lake

Darkness, real horizon-to-horizon nighttime blackout, is rare these days. Even in rural areas, the glowing aura of distant towns and the flashing strobes of passing aircraft compromise the night sky. Experiencing a landscape lit only by the faint glow of the Milky Way is a pleasure reserved for wilderness travel.  When I am on a trip far from man-made lights, I enjoy photographing the pristine darkness of the nighttime sky.


Using an SLR atop a tripod to capture enticing images of the night sky is something most
photographers can pull off with a little knowledge and good technique. When photographing the night sky, I include a portion of landscape like the silhouette of the tree line or a single, leafless tree on a thin slice of foreground. This technique grounds the image and gives the viewer a point of reference. Simply pointing your lens at the sky will render an image of stars, but chances are the viewer will have no idea what they are looking at. I have found that including the reflecting surface of a calm lake in the foreground adds loads of visual interest to the image.

To add a little extra magic to a nighttime scene, I use a portable light to “light paint” trees or other foreground objects.

I first came across the light painting technique in View Camera Magazine a few years ago. The artist had used an impressive array of  batteries, automobile headlamps, and long, multiple exposures to paint the ruins of medieval churches and castles with light. While the resulting photographs were stunning, applying this technique on a wilderness trip is not practical. Instead, I use my powerful Pelican “Heads Up” headlamp to do the painting.

To light paint a scene that includes the starry sky, secure your camera with a wide-angle zoom lens to a tripod. When your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, compose the photograph through the viewfinder (or live-view if you prefer).

Since there is very little ambient light to work with, set the ISO setting to 800 and the aperture to either wide open or stop the lens down one stop. With the focus set at infinity, set the shutter speed to 30 seconds. A shutter speed longer than 30 seconds will render stars as steaks of light instead pf pinpoints. With all lights off, open the shutter using a remote shutter release.
 
While the shutter counts down 30 seconds, run a beam of light over the foreground trees or landscape as if you were painting it. Avoid leaving the light in one spot too long or overexposed “hot spots” will appear in your photograph. Paint only the objects you want to see illuminated in the photograph, leaving everything else in the dark.

Light painting takes a little practice, but if you willing to stay up a little late you should be able to bring home some great images the first night out.


Photo: Rabbit Blanket Lake, Ontario
©RW Domm 2012
Nikon D300  Tamron 17-35mm f2.8
30 sec f3.5  RAW file

Outfoxed

                                  

                                             Outfoxed

One evening, while looking out my kitchen window as the last light pulled away from the winter landscape, I saw a red fox running atop the frozen crust of February snow.  It was crossing a neighbor’s farm field with the nervous, zigzag steps of an animal clearly uncomfortable at being out in the open. Although I could see that it carried something in its mouth, the low light had robbed the scene of detail so I could not tell what it had caught.

 As I watched, the fox abruptly turned away from crossing the field and chose instead to disappeared into the evergreen landscaping surrounding our neighbor’s house. I watched until dusk turned to night but never saw it re-emerge.

Catching a glimpse of such a shy animal is, for me, like receiving a rare gift. The opportunity to photograph an animal as beautiful as a red fox is even rarer. Several years ago, I had such an opportunity.

While photographing early-spring wildflowers on a forested hillside in Michigan’s Waterloo Recreation Area, I met a friend who was out, binoculars in hand, searching the treetops for migrating warblers. She told me of finding an active fox den at a nearby location in Waterloo, and being familiar with the area, I pressed her for details on the den’s location. It turned out her directions were precise and I had no problem locating the den. I resolved to set up a portable blind the next morning and attempt to photograph the family of fox.

At 5:30 AM the following morning, I sat shivering in my blind about 60 feet downwind of the den with my back to the edge of a small copse of trees. The den lie inside a small hillock covered with blackberry bramble and, from my position, I had a clear view of two of the three excavated tunnels leading inside. I waited as dawn slowly unfolded.

As if cued by the first morning sunlight spreading across the landscape, a small kit emerged from the den. After sniffing around for a few moments, he sat down facing the rising sun at the entrance to the den. With as much calm as I could muster, I checked the settings on the camera and pressed the shutter release. The kit’s ears twitched, but its eyes remained riveted straight ahead. In a moment, I would know why the youngster’s attention never wavered.

From across the field, the sunrise at her back,came the vixen carrying a hapless robin to feed to her offspring. A second kit came out to greet her when she arrived at the den but quickly, all three animals retreated underground. Transfixed, I waited to see what would happen next.

Several long minutes passed before the vixen emerged from the den. She paused, bathed in the morning light and I once again pressed the shutter release. Immediately, her head snapped around and she fixed her stare on the blind.  I took a couple more shots before she turned away and trotted off. I knew my cover was blown.

I waited twenty minutes or so and then, as quietly as possible, I took down the blind and left, taking care to remain downwind of the den.             
                        
Several days passed and I decided to try to photograph at the den again. After arriving before first light and waiting as I had before, sunrise came and went without a glimpse of either the kits or the vixen. I waited until the sun was high in the morning sky before quietly slipping out of my blind and packing up to head home.                             
  
As I stretched my stiff limbs and looked around, I saw the vixen sitting on a hillside behind my      blind watching me. I had been outfoxed!  I left quickly and never returned to the den.

©Robert W Domm 2014
www.robertdomm.photoshelter.com


Photos
Fox Kit and Vixen
Pentax LX   Pentax 500mm f4.5
Fujichrome Velvia

Do you always carry a camera?

                                                   
          
One Sunday morning in February, I repeated what has been a happy ritual for me for a very long time; I took my dogs for a walk. Although the dogs don’t seem to have a particular day that they favor, as their routine is firmly established, a faithful stop by the walnut tree to see if the squirrel is out and then bounding off to the path that circles the meadow, I favor Sunday for the quiet. This particular Sunday morning was especially so.

The winter air was frigid, and the cold wrung out the air’s scant moisture as tiny crystalline snowflakes that hung suspended and dazzling all around me. Braced by the wintry temperature and captivated by the morning calm, I was puzzled when a rhythmic whistle, a sound that was at once familiar and out of place, came toward me from above.  I looked up and out across the brown stubble of my neighbor’s cornfield.

Fifty feet above the rolling field, pounding the air with powerful synchronous wing beats, were two tundra swans flying directly toward me. Now in many places, seeing tundra swans is common, but in my own yard at that moment, they were as unexpected as a rare tropical bird.

I stood spellbound as they passed overhead through a halo of glittering ice crystals, stark white against the pale morning sky. Only the sound of the wind whistling through their long, white primary feathers confirmed that they were not an apparition. Seconds later, they banked over the treetops and were gone. 

The intensity of the moment passed and my focus softened. The morning’s stillness returned.

 “I love this place,” I said aloud, to no one.

Moments like this, even those from many years ago, live in my memory as a vivid picture. Could a photograph of such an unexpected and captivating event return me there with the same intensity as my memory does? On the other hand, perhaps I would have lost the moment fumbling with camera settings and the experience would have become a recollection of frustration.

It is true that a being a photographer has made me more observant so that, even without a camera in my hand, I am always looking for that perfect composition. Keeping your senses in tune with your surroundings also means that you will see things that others miss. Call it an obsession or simply practice, but seeing the world through a photographers eye has made me appreciate the beauty all around me, whether or not I get a photograph.

Creating an image to share an experience is why we take photographs. For me, better to go out with the purpose of creating a photograph than to let the camera get in the way when life hands you a moment of astonishing and profound beauty. Better to simply enjoy and remember those moments that we happen upon when we least expect them. 

©RW Domm 2014
  www.robertdomm.photoshelter.com