Snowed In...Thankfully!

Pine siskin            9 December 2012

A beautiful and peaceful day, we were visited by a flock of Pine Siskins. 

In the natural world, autumn is a time to think about winter, to prepare for quiet days of snowed-in feasts.  As the first major snow fell in Northwest Wisconsin, we were thankful to find ourselves somewhat prepared.   I put bird feed out by the lilacs and settled in for a quiet day.  Snow shoveling is done by muscle here, so I took some time to gather up power in the comfort and warmth of the house.   Cindy saw the importance of getting the cross-country skis down from the garage loft.  Finally, we had an excuse to stay home, to stay put, to be silent and still.

 

Perhaps it is now cliché to talk of a cleansing snow, but it is the solitude and silence that cleanses the mind and soothes the heart.   Time is granted.  Precious time. 

 

 

I waited for the chickadees and the nuthatches, but they didn’t arrive.  Fluffed out on a branch or piled into a bluebird box, perhaps, the local birds were gathering up power too.   In a flurry of busy wings, a flock of 17 Pine Siskins descended upon our feeder and provided an afternoon of entertainment. 

 

They fed in phases, digesting and preening and drinking snow between feasts. Our lilac, laden with snow, became a windbreak and a place of refuge for the birds between feedings.  Tame and from the wild north, they allowed us to view them from the deck, just an arm’s length away, and without a care in the world.

 

 

Pine Siskin drinking from the snow...

All images were made with a beautifully refurbished Canon 7D and Canon 300mm f4 IS lens mounted on a Gitzo tripod. The 7D allowed me to shoot confidently at ISO 800 in the dark and overcast snowy conditions.  I opened up and overexposed 2 stops to add light to the siskins and to allow the snow to be exposed as white instead of gray.  In post-processing, I added some saturation and a pulled the shadows just a hair.  I made these images from the comfort of my kitchen table, the sliding door open, my tripod legs at the edge of the deck, and a pair of mocassins keeping my toes warm.  Outside, everything was muffled and quiet.  Peace on Earth.

Sands of Time...

A Gallery Tour in Nature             10 May 2009

Art is significant, giving humans chances to reflect, dream, and create direction in life.  Nature’s art is no different.   A walk through a natural landscape, slow and sauntering with senses tuned in to the surroundings, reveals an endless pallet of textures, colors, sounds, and meanings. 

 

Northern Cardinal

On this day, the old were joined with the new.  Saint Croix River fossil beds mingled with migrating birds, and I picked up a very deep sense of time in the day’s gallery.   All moments in nature have meaning, and it is the accumulations of these vast meanings that result in the day we have.  This is true on many levels from genetic molecule to multi-cellular organism to our own sense of place in the universe.  The fleeting moments of a living bird, thriving, migrating, or declaring territory depict the urgency of the new day.   The fossils afoot are a reminder that time is vast and that we are both witness of time’s continuum and caretakers of today. 

 

 Nashville Warbler

Live richly and be inspired.  There is no boredom.  The gallery is just outside.  Rich biological diversity exists on many levels…and in many ages.   Look closely.  When you discover something new, it often becomes a common and beautiful reality, accessible for the rest of your life. 

 

Yellow-rumped Warbler

The fossils depicted are from an ancient sea cliff and sea bed dating back more than 400 million years.  To touch the smooth shell of a brachiopod and to realize that its preserved likeness is almost a half of a billion years old is staggering to the mind.  Looking up into the trees to see migrating warblers, to be scolded by a nesting Northern Cardinal, to see the dance of light in the wings of a female Yellow-rumped Warbler, and to see a Nashville Warbler amid freshly unfurling maple leaves, I am reminded to remain bewildered and fascinated by my own gift of time.

 

I captured these moments in time with a Canon 300mm F4 IS lens and a Rebel xTi.  The light was warm, and the baby leaves helped diffuse it and keep it sweet.

Ghosts of the North

Northern Hawk Owl                           21 February 2010

I have a good friend who does not like the cold very much.  As I age, I am finding that I am the same.  As I work into my forties, the cold hurts.  Bruce agrees.   Bruce Leventhal and I have been friends for twenty years now, and we continue to amaze each other with a deliberate desire to throw ourselves into bitter winter mornings.  We endure honest, brutal pain for the spectacular images that rise up, almost as ghosts, from deadly, splintering cold.   Sometimes working without gloves at 24degrees below zero Fahrenheit, we shoot for the “fire mist” that rises from open water at sunrise.

Bruce and trusty tripod entering the bitter cold of a spectacular morning

 

Meeting in the dark of pre-dawn, we walk into silent, muffled, snowy winterscapes with deep and serious cold warning us to turn back.  We endure. The images are often unique and spectacular.  The physical abuse is equally spectacular, but it may not translate well on film.   When you see hoar frost and deep orange hues of winter, understand that the clear night sky and the rising cobalt blue day have allowed the warmth of the previous day to be squandered to outer space.   In the wrong circumstances, this kind of cold can be life-threatening.  

 

Winter wildlife in Northern Wisconsin occupies a different set of ecological niches.  Those who remain year round dramatically alter their ways of life when the cold sets in.  Many who arrive here in winter have come from the far boreal, Canada’s deepest evergreen forests where humans sometimes do not even exist.    

It is these high boreal species that make the winter pain turn to pleasure.  Our adrenaline is fueled by those animals who fail to understand “human.”  These are the fearless and untainted residents of truly wild places.   To them, Bruce and I are Ghosts of the North, merely harmless specters of shadow that move about at the fringes of their daily pursuits of survival.     We work in humble respect for the animal’s own needs as it balances on the razor’s edge, but we are invigorated by such stunning and cooperative subjects.   Pain is currency, and an agreeable contract is reached. 

 

 

Bruce and I have flanked a very cooperative Northern Hawk Owl.  We are working slowly to bring the light to our advantage, and the bird is not even intrigued by our lunging steps as we plow thigh-high through the glistening powder.   We stop to catch a breath and to survey the conditions unfolding before us.   In the distance, a growing crescendo, a wailing siren, we hear a wolf howl.  The wolf continues to howl for a while, and, in my mind’s eye, I see where it is.  Just a half mile away, it is working to the end of a forested peninsula and may well be ready to cross into an endless sea of frozen sedges. It never manifests to the eye, remaining a fellow northwoods phantom. The Northern Hawk Owl tips his head quizzically, the sunlight bouncing from a deeply yellow eye.  He looks fierce for a second but settles into a nearly comical cuteness.  He stretches and fluffs a luxurious coat of long feathers.   Our cameras hum to life.  Fingers grow cold again.  Snow freezes to knees where heat escapes clothing.  This is winter.  This is winter living.  I feel alive!

 

The rewards are addictive. Why do we keep destroying ourselves?!?  Working with such animals creates an intense emotional high coupling with the heroic feelings of euphoria that follow working in such conditions.  We continue to damage our fingers and toes for the love of the art. It is worth it, so, so worth it!  Sometimes, as all of the pieces come together at once, the light, the composition, the unique moment, the thrill of being nothing more than an invisible ghost bearing witness to such wildness, it seems all a dream.  Maybe that is just the numbness setting in.   As we age, our bodies are paying the toll.   But now, as winter arrives, I find myself hoping, wishing, dreaming of brutal cold.  I want the orange fire mists that rise from the water.  I want the front row seat to willing wildlife.  I want, again, to be a Ghost of the North.   And, with the sorrow I feel in each passing February, year after year, I have to wonder.  Maybe we don’t dislike it at all.  Maybe such brutal conditions in winter are forces we have grown to deeply love.   I miss you, Winter.  Come back brutally, harshly, in epic cold. There is art to be made.

These images were shot with a Canon 30D and a Canon Rebel xTi, using Canon 300mm f4 IS L and Canon EF 100-300.  Bruce and I did very well on this day! in 2010.  It is great to have a friend who is also a survival buddy!   To more great cold days ahead!
The Northern Hawk Owl... Hawk or Owl?  It is an owl, but it lives a diurnal (daytime active) life.  In many ways, its form and functions are convergent with hawks and falcons, but the facial discs are still used to locate mice beneath the snow.  While it flies swiftly like a hawk, this bird is all owl by phylogeny.   Northern Hawk Owls cache food in standing dead trees, and this Northern Hawk Owl was observed to catch and eat short-tailed shrew (Blarina brevicauda) and red-backed vole (Myodes gapperi) in the hours and days I observed it.  Twice, I observed it tend to food caches. 

Cedar Waxwing

A Moment Together, a Memory Made                                      18 November 2012

Just ten years ago, my back yard was an empty, barren patch of monoculture grass.  It was a typical, hot, boring yard.  I worked hard to change that, planting white oak, red maple, tamarack, paper birch, yellow birch, river birch, red osier dogwood, winterberry holly, dogwood, white pine, white spruce, raspberry, and sugar maple.  Two walnut trees and an American elm have arrived on their own, the walnuts with thanks to the forgetful neighborhood squirrels.  Just ten years later, my birches are taller than the house, and I have two spectacular woodlots in the corners of my yard.   My yard is now a bird photography studio.   At last count, 79 species of birds had visited my yard.  Pardon the shameless pun, but my yard has really taken flight.

 

 

Today, my son discovered a waxwing in the yard.  It was wild and free, but, perhaps something it ate, it wasn't very alert.  Where I have seen tame waxwings along Lake Superior's North shore, this one was too tame.  While it appeared to be in perfect condition, it seemed disoriented and wasn't able to fly away.  Sometimes waxwings eat fermented berries, and sometimes they get a toxic dose from their food.  Perhaps this was the case. 

I photographed the little Cedar Waxwing at length, taking advantage of every moment, every perch, and every favorable ray of light.   When all was done, we thanked the bird in a most appropriate way.  I defrosted some blueberries, got them to room temperature, and we fed the waxwing! A berry is a berry, whether in the hand or on the twig.  This waxwing didn't hesitate to swallow down four big Michigan blueberries.  A little while later, it took two more. Not sure if this little bird will survive, but we are thankful to have crossed paths with it.

 

 

The Cedar Waxwing is named for its love of diminutive cedar cones as food and for the waxy "drops" that are present on the secondary flight feathers of birds in breeding condition. 

I made these images with a Canon 300mm f4, IS lens and a Canon 40D.  When planning a landscape, water feature or bird feeder with bird photography in mind, don't forget to study the light!  A landscape artist can maximize the available light and quality of light with strategic placement of feeders and strategic plantings.  Good Luck!

On the Move, November Wings!

A Sandhill Crane Sunrise                         November 4, 2012

November has arrived, and a renewed sense of urgency moves on the wings of migratory birds.  The toughest birds have lingered here, gambling on the weather, feeding up and putting on migration fat.  Others have already arrived from the boreal, and the air is alive with the mechanical twitters of redpolls. 

At 4 AM, the stars shone brightly in the sky, and clouds, few and far between, promised to allow the sunrise through to set our artwork aglow.   Bruce arrived early, and we headed north together in pursuit of opportunity, a moment or two between marks on the calendar to create, be inspired, and refresh the soul in the realm of nature photography.   The Sandhill Cranes had lingered on, and we were going to paint images with brushstrokes made up of the workings of their lives.

Closer to our landmark, a large mass of clouds lingered, changing our perception of what a morning would bring.  Think fast, adapt, and create in a new direction.   Bruce had put his technical expertise into motion and advised, "I'm going to open it up and shoot at least 2/3 stop over.  I want to pull as much out of this as possible."   I did the same.  

It wasn't pea soup light.  It wasn't a bust.  Instead, the softly filtering light broke through a window in the clouds, illuminating roosting Sandhill Cranes in a warm glow.  To our surprise, the cranes, far and wide, held on to their roosts.  They spent the sunrise stretching, dancing, and mingling.  They weren't leaving.  They weren't flying to feed.  The light was perfect, and they were sitting tight.   In the chill of the morning, we watched the "Jack Frost" patterns of ice creep further and further into the wetland, gaining nearly six feet of new skim in an hour.   The ice grew, and the birds sat.  Warm light, ice cold.

Then, as if to spite us, the sun fell behind the cloud mass and hundreds of birds roused and lifted into the air. Ha ha, very funny.  Adapt again!  We can't script nature.  It does what it does, and we witness it peacefully through the lens.   Sometimes, in the greatest sort of way, it almost seems as if nature intends to script us, a big game where we are made the fool.  

But we are crafty fools, and we know how our gadgets work.   We know where the cranes are going.  When they land, we'll be saying "Hello" again, putting the light in our favor.  The Chess game continues...

All images were made using Canon 40D and 300mm f4 IS Canon lens.  Many were also photographed from a Gitzo ball head on a Gitzo Reporter basalt tripod.  For comfort, I used a folding hunting stool, but I didn't stay seated very often!

Pause to Reflect...

Trumpeter Swans                   2 November 2012

Today, with a sigh of relief, the quarter of the school year ends.  My teaching grows less stressful for a few weeks. I stand for a few moments, taking in the sights and sounds of a flock of migrant Trumpeter Swans.  My work stress lifts away on a subtle autumn chill like mist from the pond.   It all seems so small scale, so insignificant in the wake of climate change and superstorms.  There exists a great paradox in nature.  While so many have suffered the unexpected setbacks of an unprecedented hurricane, I stand in awe of a single flock of swans that nearly outnumbers the global Trumpeter Swan population of the year 1910.  Conservation moves in the right direction while environmental policies of a larger scale slide dangerously close to the brink.    We have replaced the punt guns of market hunters with a hungry and exploiting infrastructure.  While we protect the skin and flesh of our wild lands, we have begun to eat our planet from the inside. 

My kids watch the flock of swans with interest.  They are thrilled and inspired.  Shimmering reflections from a gray sky and birches shine silvery on a calm water covered in swan down.  Among the fifty unbanded adult and young swans, Wisconsin-banded birds 18P, 15P, 88U, 89K (an old friend), and 53K busy themselves in social swan talk.  Twenty-ninth Lake, Polk County Wisconsin, 2 November 2012, is a place free of worry and alive and vital in the present.  Today, that is where I chose to dwell.