By the Dawn’s Early Light

A Nature Photographer’s Enthusiasm for Promised Light  13 July 2009

Awake at 3:45 AM is the standard for a field ornithologist surveying bird communities. I love the old fighter pilot terminology for this, “O’Dark Thirty.”  By that measure, the wake-up at 4:10 AM for a wildlife photographer is “sleeping in.”  In the long summer days of June and July, dawn takes its sweet ol’ time, waking and stretching and yawning for nearly an hour before the deeply orange sun breaks the horizon.   Dawn rolls out with a slate blue sky, wiping stars slowly away.  It progresses into a pale orange glow that pushes the blue away, sometimes with a nearly white, pale blue line of separation.

 The sun begins to hint at an arrival, and the world begins to glow, seemingly from within, as the clear sky erupts with color from the East.  By this time, my kayak has slipped into wild waters.  I’m on the trail of loons who, one evening before, hinted at a mass arrival in the morning.   I think I know where they’ll be, and I paddle with anticipation, my camera wrapped in a light rain coat and nestled with care ahead of my kayak’s cup holder.  The Common Loon holds many gifts that, for those who sleep in, are not too common.  My camera awaits this uncommon spectacle.

My knees protect the camera from the lake’s danger like a mother loon.  The water is smooth, silk, glass, and my kayak sends a gentle ripple of transformed, deep woodland reflections to each side.  As the sun seems to ignite rising fog, the loons begin hailing their arrival with flight tremelo songs.  In an act of purely aesthetic joy married to calculating science, I close my eyes, raise my chin to the sky, and triangulate with precision the vectors of loon arrival. 

Aiming the kayak for the first splash-downs, I work carefully, respectfully, calmly into position to intersect a loon social gathering.  The sun is at my back, rising along the horizon, providing perfect nature photography light, masking my human form.  Loons on the water hail inbound loons with a higher pitched social “Hoot,” and more loons make their plunging descent into the lake.  They enter into their circle dance, a strange, promenading square dance that goes on almost every morning in loon country. 

Each loon, bill turned downward to the water, seems to look into the circle and study each and every bird in the dance.  When a loon dives, the crowd bristles with anticipation, a loss of trust, a worry about pecking order aggression from the depths below.  Often, as a loon surfaces, the whole group of loons begins to splash and dance about, chasing, dipping, diving, surfacing, whirling, and calling.   There are moments of serene unity, moments of closeness, and dramatic moments of indecision and chaos.

Yodel calls by males in the group proclaim intentions for mates and territory.  Brisk confrontations sometimes end with a high-energy “penguin dance,” a burst of power on the surface of a once-calm lake.  Sitting low on the water, a kayak among loons gives an incredible perspective into the lives of these ancient water birds. 

By the time most people have taken a first step from the comfort of a bed, I have greeted the dawn, paddled wild waters, and learned more about a small group of birds than a volume of books could ever convey.  By 7:45 AM, I am already pulling the kayak to shore.  It has been a great day.  The best days begin with a dedicated, early start and the dawn’s early light.   

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Special Thanks to Fran and Dick Bukrey for their generosity and hospitality.  It was the gift of a 2X teleconverter from Dick back in 1986 that gave me enough success that I was encouraged to move forward in the pursuit of bird photography.  And it was the magic of their kayak and lake home that put me in position to make these images.  Thousand Thanks!

All images were taken with a Canon Rebel XTi (my “expendable” kayak and pack camera) and my older Canon 300mm f4 IS.  The Canon Rebel XTi has a 10 Megapixel sensor and delivers professional quality, but the sacrifice in price leaves me with a slower frame rate and a longer memory cache time.  For every three images captured, four were never made when comparing to my Canon 40D.  Still, I think I did alright.  Early light on the water can be deceptive, so I routinely under-expose 1/3 stop to prevent "burn out" on the loon's white highlights.  Using the early light of morning and a fast shutter speed to freeze dancing waters makes for drama in an image.  Photography is intended to allow pensive reflection within a moment in time, and wild waters, warm light, a quick shutter, and a kayak's perspective deliver this well.  The images of this loon's "penguin dance" were made after an intense confrontation between loons.  If a loon ever does this dance in the absence of other loons, it is very likely that you have caused it extreme stress, indicating that you should back away and give it the space it needs.  While we interact with the wild, it is important that we offer our sincere respect.