Wildlife Photography: How to lose friends and exasperate people.

Sea cliffs - Lunga, UK

Imagine the scene.  There’s me perched on top of a high cliff, pointing my camera down towards the crashing waves a few hundred feet below.  The sea gulls are flying below me and the guillemots are perched on the lower cliffs (wimps).  I’m motionless with fixed vision, some would say fixated.  Katherine, my wife, is sitting next to me.  I’m waiting for the conversation to start, you know, the conversation every wildlife photographer dreads:

Katherine: What are you doing?

Me: I’m taking a photo.

Katherine: No you’re not.

Me: What?!

Katherine: You’re not pressing the button.

Me: There’s more to taking a photo than just that.  I’m waiting for the right moment.

Katherine: How will you know the right moment?

Me: I’m just waiting for a seagull to fly through that gap there at the same time as a wave crashes on those rocks. 

Katherine: I see.  And what do you think the chances of that are, exactly? 

Me: I don’t know ‘exactly’.  Probably not great, but there are waves and there are gulls, so there’s chance it could come together.

Katherine: Mmm.  Can’t you just photoshop one on?

Me: What?!

Katherine: You know, add the seagull on after.

Me: **!*?! No! of course I can’t. *!*?! What must you think of me? [mumble grumble mumble grumble]

Katherine: I just think it would be easier.  No one would know.

Me: I’m not doing it – that’s for photographers who can’t be bothered to learn how to photograph, and painters who can’t be bothered to learn how to paint.

Katherine: meow! Someone got off the wrong side of the boat today.

Moments later, and a gull flies into the space.

Katherine: Look, there’s one now!

**Click click click click**

Katherine: Can we go now?

Me: Not yet – it wasn’t quite right.

Katherine: Why? What was wrong with it? It’s what you said you wanted.

Me: No – the angle of the wings wasn’t quite right, it didn’t have the right definition in its outline.

Katherine: Oh for goodness’ sake.  Okay, I’m going off to make a phone call.  Then can we go?

Of course, this is only the conversation in my head, the one I’m dreading gets started.  I’m dreading it because there’s no defence to the antisocial behaviour of a wildlife photographer, and I’m acutely aware of the disruption that carrying a camera can create on a family trip – it’s something I feel extremely guilty about.

But it’s not what really happened. In actual fact, the conversation goes something like this:

Katherine: What are you doing?

Me: I’m just waiting for a seagull to fly through that gap there at the same time as a wave crashes on those rocks. 

Katherine: Cool – I’m going off to watch the puffins try to land.  They’re hilarious.  I’ll give you a shout before the boat leaves. I wouldn’t like you to get stuck on the island alone like you did last time [sadly, this part is true].

Me: thanks, I’ll join you at the puffins in a moment.

Katherine: no hurry.

What a star.

Fire and flowers: photographing with hay fever.

Foxglove at sunset - Nottinghamshire, UK.

I have hay fever.  Unlike many people’s hay fever, mine always rears it’s ugly, mucous-filled eyes and streaming nose in July. (Sorry, was that too graphic?).  This is a problem for photographing wildlife.  Some subjects are easier than others, and you might think I would stay away from flowers, but it’s much easier this way.

I was out last night photographing brown hares in the fields round where I live.  The technique is simple: lie in a concealed ditch, covered in camo netting, at the side of a field and wait quietly for as long as it take.  Within an hour or two, the hares will usually be around and passing by, but you’ve already seen the flaw in my plan.  Do you see the problem? Wait...quietly...very...ACHOOO!!...quietly.

After some good close encounters were ruined, I gave in about 20 minutes before sunset, having gained only some distant shots of the hares (and no longer being able to open my eyes anyway).

 

Brown hares have big ears specifically to help them stay away from sneezing photographers.

 

So instead I walked up into a stretch of woodland to photograph a few woodland plants and maybe see if I could find some deer.  I ended up photographing foxgloves as the sun set behind the trees.  I wouldn’t usually use my long lens (500mm) for photographing flowers, but it was already on my camera from the hares, and it gave me a nice vantage point that I wouldn’t otherwise have been able to achieve: with such a narrow field of view, I was able to place the foxgloves directly in front of some intense pockets of light that were coming through the trees from the sunset (even if I had to stay a good five metres from the foxgloves in order to fit them in!). 

So maybe the hayfever helped me think differently about how to photograph flowers.  But I still wish it would just go away so I can open my eyes again.      

Birds at the table? Let them eat cake.

A visitor came to the table where we were eating lunch.  A little chaffinch.  She was eager for the sugar, the fat, and the crumbs of our cakes were good. 

The cakes were our little treat we gave to ourselves bought from a little tea shop after a short walk on a long, hot day; quite naughty, really.  Such a close encounter from such a bold but slender little chaffinch was perhaps the better treat however.  We moved the plate a little closer to her, away from ourselves, and we encouraged her to eat.  She flew away with some, perhaps carrying it to her nest, and then she returned for more.

Cake is good for birds.  Bread is less good, like eating an innutritious stuffing, it fills them up and does little else - and it can be quite harmful to young chicks (read the RSPB’s advice here).  I should like to be a bird.  Perhaps little chaffinch chicks don’t have to eat their crusts.  Perhaps they can skip straight to dessert.

So if a bird comes to your table, don’t offer them bread. Let them eat cake.  It'll do them good (and, if I may say so , it'll do you good too).

The photographer and the solitary piper

I can’t stay away from Mull.  Most people who have been there can’t.  I spent a few days up there last week and, even though I didn’t do much photographing, there’s still such a wealth of wildlife that the camera kept creeping out.  Even the backdrops along the shore, those washes of pastel blues and yellows, are a distinctive sign of this beautiful place.

This time I was away on a family holiday, but wildlife photography is best done alone.  At best, it requires acute concentration combined with a sense of inner stillness.  When working with nature, you follow its rhythms and moods, forcing nothing, no clock ticking, no specified time to stop and go home (except for the setting sun, of course).  The sandpiper is a good illustration of this lifestyle; a largely solitary bird that thrives in this environment.  Much as I love solitary days, however, I couldn’t live like this; not all the time.  

We were on the way back to for dinner when I took this.  We stopped to watch some seals in the water and I crawled down to the shore.  Then we went back and shared a hearty feast, all four of us, leaving the sandpiper to its solitary life.

Hedgehogs at home

I've hardly taken any photos this year - this is not a bad thing. I've just been spending time doing other things I enjoy, mostly music, extensive weekly travelling (the freelance/part-time jobbing lifestyle) and spending time with the people who matter most to me when I'm at home. I'm lucky that I make a living from something that I love, but nature for me gives meaning to everything else in life, so it's important to make time for that too.

But nature always starts at home, and here at home, the hedgehogs are back in the garden. Last year, we fed and fattened them up through the summer and autumn months, and we have three regular visitors in the garden now. I've even managed to convince my wife that I shouldn't mow the lawn as it doesn't look natural in the photos. But it's getting a bit long even for the photos now, so that won't last long. After all, the hogs keep their little snouts close to the ground, buried in the grass, lifting them only to breathe the air and lick their lips. It's tasty outside. Really tasty.

Split Rock and Starry Sky

Split Rock and Starry Sky, Isle of Mull
(one exposure of 90 minutes)

“We should not regard the courses and revolutions of the heavenly bodies as the operations of some deity who dutifully performs these functions…we must consider that it is the task of natural science to determine with precision the causes of the most important phenomena and that our happiness is bound up with understanding of the nature of celestial phenomena.”

Epicurus (741-271 BC) in a letter to Herodotus (translated by George K. Strodach). 

There are some places on earth that we travel to just once, and some places we return to again and again.  In many cases, the destinations that require our repeated attention may be grand, celebrated cities, landscapes, forests or wildernesses, but sometimes there are small features, little crumbs of interest that ask to be tasted again and again. 

I have a fascination with this rock.  It brings to life so many things I’m interested in – the permanence of nature, the wearing effect of time on the geological elements.  It’s a huge natural monument, about 12 feet tall and split right down the middle as if some giant had pounded it onto the ground in order to split it and search for fossils. 

Split rock in silhouette: a trial photo I took to get the right composition
for my Starry Sky picture (though I quite like this one in its own right).

"Sometimes people say that staring at the night’s sky makes them realise their insignificance against the vastness of the universe, but this experience had the opposite effect as I realised that I was held, transfixed within a system of working nature more magnificent than I could possibly comprehend."

I’ve been trying to do something photographically interesting with it for years.  I found it impossible to escape the famous split rock photograph of the late Galen Rowell (see below), but also I wondered if there’s something else I could add.

Galen Rowell's classic photo of a split
rock and a cloud.

 But Rowell’s wasn’t the only image I couldn’t get out of my mind.  The other was Wenzel Hablik’s 1909 painting, ‘Starry Sky. An attempt’, a picture of the cosmos against an earthly landscape which combines astronomical observation with a fantastical vision of the cosmos.    I can still remember the moment I saw this painting for the first time, and was struck by Hablik’s combination of nature and Expressionism in the boldness and colour of the shapes creating a great arc in the sky – it seems to combine realism and mythology all in one, which is what I generally try to do in my photography.

Wenzel Hablik, Starry Sky, an attempt (1909)

For my Starry Sky photo, I made a composition of the rock in silhouette against the darkening sky, being sure to face north in order to catch the swirl of stars around the northern star.  In the final version, I wasn’t able to silhouette the stones due to feint reflection of distant street lamps, which lit them gradually and made them visible throughout the 90 minute exposure (though they were still too dark to say by the naked eye).

I took just one, 90-minute exposure, between about 11pm and 1:30am, spending most of that time lying on the beach watching the shooting stars in the sky. 

Sometimes people say that staring at the night’s sky makes them realise their insignificance against the vastness, but this experience had the opposite effect as I realised that I was held, transfixed within a system of working nature more magnificent than I could possibly comprehend.  

Save the Vale!

I heard this week from wildlife photographer Terry Whittaker that there are plans to sell of parts of Reddish Vale Country Park in Stockport for development.  This is a site which means a lot to me as this is the place where I learnt about nature more than anywhere else.  I have spent countless hours here over the years walking, watching and photographing the wildlife, and not to mention just sitting for hours of peace.  I used to live in Reddish just a short walk away from the park, and even since moving to Nottinghamshire, I still make sure I return to the park as often as I can.  This is a beautiful stretch of land which currently supports a great number of land and water species and offers a great haven in the growing sprawl of Manchester’s urban life.

I have tried to demonstrate the diversity of  habitat here with my  pictures, all of which were taken within about 50 metres of each other at the park – there are so many worlds within that little space of land.  However, photographs can offer only a taster, and can never truly do justice to representing the true smell of fresh air and the sound of birdsong continuing undisturbed.  If you're in the area, please pay the park a visit and see for yourself.

Our green land deserves to be valued for itself rather than being considered a tabula rasa for building developers. 

Please sign the petition here.

For more information on Reddish Vale Country Park, its campaign and its stunning scenery and wildlife, please visit the website here and then please visit the park.