Saturday, November 29, 2014

A Hungry Hawk Enjoys Lunch

November 29, 2014

A Hungry Hawk Dines on Pheasant (before Thanksgiving)

At a recent haze-canopied noon-time, Nora and I approached a line of Douglas fir trees on the east end of Bennington Lake.

I paused on the slanted trail below the west-facing bluff.
We had walked a little over two miles from the WW Community College athletic fields, along Mill Creek where we saw herons and mergansers, and along the the concrete channel toward the lake.
Nora sniffed ahead on the path as I scanned the trees for the  silhouette of a long-eared owl.
They often perched there on past winter-dark days.
 Then a thump, squeak and flapping of wings drew my attention to the bluff.

A hawk apparently battled something hidden among the tall grassy stalks.
The hawk’s curved beak  speared at something big in its grasp  but out of sight. 
Feathers flew.
Could be a pheasant?
We had walked past that spot, maybe 25-yards away, without seeing a pheasant hunkered in the grass. We had, however, heard several shotgun reports from the slope just beyond the  line of trees and close enough for me tense at the possibility of being pelted with  bird shot.
I considered a pheasant may have been wounded and run through the grass to the bluff, where the hawk had nailed it. The possibility that the hawk could get lead poisoned from a holdover of  old lead shot went through my mind as I continued to snap images.
Finally, to reach a better viewpoint, I moved slowly up the slope.
Even if I scared the hawk, I figured it would quickly return. Besides, I would have a better  view from the other side of the bluff, at least with the sun-lit haze at my back.
A wing -- surely a pheasant's -- flapped  into view as I swung the camera around and aimed it.
Nora, with her short  legs, remained oblivious of the drama.

Then Nora tumbled to the situation and dashed into my view through the view finder. I kept snapping images in case I could catch one of the hawk launching.

Suddenly, however,  Nora skidded to a stop and I looked down as the hawk launched.
Oh, well.

I would deduce later that the scowl on the hawk's face as Nora approached would have made anyone skid to a halt. And Nora has plenty of savvy for her size.
So we crossed over the bluff, and I noticed the limp, bloodied body of a rooster pheasant. Nora sniffed but walked on at my insistence.
No sooner had I turned around, maybe 10 yards from the corpse, than the hawk returned to ripping.
I had a better view, but with only a mound-like silhouette of the pheasant.  The hawk appeared to be swallowing chunks of flesh and feathers in single gulps.

We eventually moved on -- after I recorded 100-plus images of the dining hawk (which, on later research, I deduced to be an uncommon-to-the-area Northern Goshawk or, more likely a Northern Harrier or Marshhawk) -- back the way we had come and saw the same herons and mergansers on the stream and a distant deer in a stubble field.


Wednesday, 12-3-14

Today Nora and I passed the spot where the  above hawk dined on pheasant, and none appears to have been wasted.

 Also, I read Mike Denney's always informative U-B column today, and the photo of the Merlin gave me pause, especially with the white eyebrows. Perhaps the hawk above was a Merlin, although  I judged it to be too large and possibly a Cooper's hawk. Anyway, I used the book that Denny co-authored (Birds of the Inland Northwest and Northern Rockies) to make my shaky identification, and I'm sticking to it.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

November 17, 2014

It’s Not Good for Photographers to Live in the Past

Accepting that I could be stuck in the mud, formed by decades,  as a photographer, I should move, explore and perhaps comprehend that hidden truths may be captured and revealed with my images.
That is, open my approach to new, artistic  visions NOW as explained recently by articles in Outdoor Photographer Magazine.
I don’t recall their titles offhand, but they were well written and challenging by obviously talented and thoughtful photographers in the March and November issues of 2014.
Now I will view scenes as visual metaphors and use photographic tools to express personal concepts about them and, therefore, expressing truths about myself as a total lovable human being, not as simply a photographer.
I will move beyond capturing images OF natural scenes, great blue herons, great white egrets or launching mergansers; I capture images ABOUT my subjects, achieving a state of calm and flow, allowing a meaningful concept to color my vision.
More simply put, I hope, I will eschew snapping images OF subjects but search for concepts to capture ABOUT them. To repeat, by contemplating deeply and seeing presciently, I well create photographic visions about them, visions laced with  my very own personality.
Well, perhaps.
Setting out with camera in hand and finding a flat tire on the vehicle or slipping onto my backside during a freezing fog would  color my very own personal artistic vision.
Surely when a spanking new Nikon 600-mm lens -- I can daydream -- arrives by UPS, an explosion of  joy will permeate  my images.
As wells as my personality, at least for a few days or hours.
So, when releasing the shutter of my Nikon, I am imbuing an image with elements of myself, revealing that I am lazy, imitative, intuitive, bored, energetic, artistic or whatever.
I must come to terms with that reality and use whatever skills I have to generate the positive qualities of my character, of my state of mind, inherent in appropriately composed, focused, highlighted and processed images.
Or, if a scene so suggests, I should honestly reveal the negative qualities.
Well, perhaps?
Old dogs may (nay, must) learn new tricks. I say that after decades of working as an outdoor writer/photographer who fished, hiked, skied, beach-combed, and toured hunting camps, parks, wilderness areas and wildlife refuges in search of subjects to report about.
Photos accompanied my weekly reports, as visual support, helping readers see what I saw.

When, as I passed a pond  or a crossed stream framing the locally iconic Eagle Cap Mountain, for example, I dropped my pack,  pondered the scene until I determined the best vantage point for capturing the image, reflections of the mountain and a cobble-stone cloud cover if possible.
 One goal (concept?), more professional than personal, occupied my mind: compose, focus and expose the most interesting photo possible for my readers.
I wanted an attractive, straight-forward photo that would represent the beauty of the scene truthfully.
I never thought the image could or would suggest what a wonderful, smart, insightful and prescient person I am.
Or even what a scofflaw and laggard.
Also I don’t recall feeling a special calmness or flow (beyond collecting images alone with my ideal companion Nora the Schnauzer (after Sadie the Dalmatian) in the Eagle Cap Wilderness on a perfect blue-sky, cloud-scattered day).
This absence of a precise personal concept  reminds me of a quote attributed to Ansel Adams, one of the premier nature photographers and photographic innovators:  (OP 11-14) “There is nothing worse than a  brilliant image of a fuzzy concept.”
Oh, if only I could produce images and concepts similar to his.
Adams, by the way, held sharpness, clearness and definition in  preeminent regard, so he may have felt some disdain for the opposite (brilliant concept, fuzzy image, which I can produce without half-trying).
I’m also concerned about the criteria that Adams and others employ to claim photography is an unique art form:  Photographers may create a view of the world with a sharpness and detail not  possible with any other medium (huh?) and photographers start with an image of reality, seen through a lens and recorded on film or a digital sensor and painters, etc., don't.
This postulates that while photographers see and record reality through a lens. Painters and sculptors start with nothing but a blank canvas or block of  granite and produce something from nothing.
Actually, I see strong likenesses here between photography and, say, painting: A photographer records a scene with a camera through a lens; a painter records one with brushes and paints, through the lens an eyeball. Both record on a blank sensor or canvas.
An ocean-side scene (“the sinking sun flung a carpet of gold across the sea” from a story by P.G. Wodehouse) illustrates:
Very calmly she moved to the edge of the cliff, arranged  her camp stool, and sat down. Neither of  us spoke a word. I watched her while she filled a little mug with water from a little bottle, opened her paint box, selected a brush, and placed her sketching block in position.
She began to paint.

She records the westerly view from Lime Regis in England through the lens of her eyes onto her sketch block. She interprets reality as an impressionist or a realist given what her vision and skills allow.

Then Wodehouse uses words to describe the scene as it fades away:
To the westward the sky had changed to the hue of a bruised cherry. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the sea looked cold and leaden.

The distant blackbird whose earlier song had been the only thing to break the silence “had long since gone to bed.”

Nature photographers record the real world, the living reflective light that records images on film or a digital sensor.
Painter and sculptors don't?
This is a strained distinction, if a viable one, used to falsely lift a worthy craft to the next level.
A rose is a rose is a rose, no matter what it's called.
A writer may see dramatic sunsets, store the images on his memory (sensor, film) and paint them with words when desired.
Eduard Monet lugged his gear (paints, brushes, easel, eye sight and canvas rather than a camera and a tripod) out into the natural light and recorded reality first hand from the impressions made on his senses.
His preoccupation with light reflecting on lily ponds lasted for about 20 years.
He belonged to a movement bent on the expression of perception before  nature.
Painters also employed models, human and otherwise. Relying on seeing shape, light and color, they produced images as realistically as their, skills, equipment and vision allowed,  much as photographers do.
To say they create something from nothing ignores reality.
And in terms of an accurate, detailed and sharp rendering of reality, or phantasmagorical visions of it, cameras may be quicker but painters can be just as detailed and sharp. Consider painted images in field guides of birds and on stamps.
Consider the crisp images of Salvador Dali.
And those who argue that a picture is worth a thousand words, perhaps they just can can’t read, can’t write and can’t think. I read that somewhere.
Be that as it may.
If my  mud isn't too thick,  intend to experience that calmness and flow that will elevate my photography to the next level.
As Monday’s outing began with no flat andbut with a clear blue sky, a refrain played through my mind “On a clearrr day, you can seee foreeeeverrr,” but by the time Nor'ta the Schnauzer (wriggling with eagerness) and I arrived at Rooks Park, haze hung heavy on the southern horizon and a leaf removal crew’s mulching machine rent the air with a jaw-tightening grinding.
I slipped Nora into her red Ruff Wear coat against 15-degree air. Wearing several layers with two hoods, I pulled on mittens with a flap over my finger tips until time to press the camera’s release button,.
I carried the Nikon D3S with the 24-85 zoom lens, capped with a circular polarizer, and a Manfrotto tripod and ball head.
With a gnashing grinding in the background and shadowy men moving beneath dark trees, I stopped at the empty playground, still covered with a thin blanket of week-old snow.
A sense of  loss pervaded the scene, absent of children and darkened by shadows from the trees, with a gray  haze to the south.
Sadness of  the scene lay on me for several moments as I pondered and pondered, circling the scene and studying composition options.
Eventually my mood lightened as the presence of the sun, directly in my face, forcing light through the haze and the still limbs of tall cottonwood trees, dawned  on me.
I saw the light.
 I set up the gear, composed the scene to include the sun, lowered the shutter speed, stopped the aperture down to f/22. Although checking the histogram proved nearly impossible in the shadows, facing the sun and with tears welling in my eyes, caused by the chill, even when I turned my back to the sun.
I wanted the sunlight  to form a bright, optimistic star in the tree, but I could not tell from the playback or histogram.
I realized, however, that I underexposed the first image and made an effort at correction.  I could not tell if I succeeded and moved on.

We crossed the bridge over Mill Creek and climbed the trail overlooking the stream above the dam. Three deer browsed among the  thick grasses, shrubs and the rust-colored massive metal devices holding cables to prevent logjams from damaging the dam during spring runoff,  and I pondered the scene for a concept.
The deer of course, would be barely visible (if at all) with my short zoom lens wide open, but it occurred to me that this Corps of Engineers flood control project miniaturized the deer and, perhaps, all of nature.
Anyway, feeling I’d had a concept, and with the light behind me, I captured the image.

To cut back on a story that promises to get way out of hand, let me summarize: On a trek of about three miles to Bennington Lake and back, I seeped my personality into many scenes and felt the calmness and flow.
I especially pondered over images of  Nora waiting in a trail and looking back patiently for several minutes to be sure I followed;

of rolling wheat-stubble fields sheathed in shallow snow;

and as she waited in a dark thicket where a fallen tree smacked of  nature's power and the impacts of time.

Finally, of the loneliness suggested by the sun-darkening canopy over a winter-dressed field with a winding snow-covered service road running through it.

Back at the park, the symbolism of the bridge connecting two opposite sides, one shaded, unpaved and gravel covered and one paved and warmed by the sun, of Mill Creek. People lean on this rail, facing downstream and let the current carry stress away.

We  paused and pondered an ice-covered pond reeking of winter's isolating tone, yet sharing a pleasing, intricate design and surrounded by warm-feeling golden grasses and shrubbery.

On  Tuesday, with my resolve to step up to another level somewhat, well, resolved,  trees shrouded with frozen fog stopped me in my tracks near the community college.
The way one stood straight and firm and two bent toward each struck me as representing a meaningful concept. So, I paused to ponder.
When I couldn't put one into words immediately, because Nora sat patiently nearby on the icy frost, I felt guilty and, to her ear-flapping joy, moved on.
Anyway, I suspected whatever concept I devised could be easily shared or ignored, not recognized or actually considered a foozle by viewers.
Ah, such is the artist's dilemma.

I had a similar response to the frosted grasses appearing to stand on a island of ice in the stream (that sounds like Hemingway's "Islands in the Stream"). It felt really cold and forlorn until several American Wigeons floated close, giving the scene a sense of community, Or something.

Then, while I aimed my lens at mergansers on the water, a jogger on the other side stopped and aimed her phone at the bank 100 yards to the south. A six-point whitetail buck posed majestically from 60-feet high on the bluff and surveyed its domain. Nuff said, although with hunters in the area, I suspected it would be dethroned before another spring.

Then, speaking of majesty, a noble great blue heron stood statue-like on an ice-rimmed rock.
It ignored my presence as I moved close enough to see chips of ice on its cloak.

My final step in the project was to process the images with Photoshop Elements 12, which allows,  with a push of a  button or the moving of a slider, many post-camera corrections and additions of artsy effects, if the user is so technically skilled and inclined.
I'm a novice, alas.
Anyway, while doing so, I pondered a legendary poet of nature, William Wordsworth, who spent his 80-year lifetime (1770-1850) developing calm and flow in the presence of natural scenes, storing deeply felt images with his senses, or the sensor of his mind,  and later drawing on vivid memories (images, smells, sounds, touches):  "I have owed to them/ In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,/ Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;/ And passing even into my purer mind,/ With tranquil restoration: (from "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abby, on  Revisiting the Banks of the Wye").
I enjoyed the the outings, especially while pursuing such an uplifting  goal, with Nora. And she enjoyed them, period.
Yet, did two days of seeking and pondering successfully raise my photography to the next level?
Perhaps it doesn't matter.
Being stuck in the mud may be OK after all, at least if you keep on keeping on.

I almost forgot. I processed an Eagle Cap scene in Photomatrix in: It moved me to another level and projected a concept of the scene and possibly revealed my personality to viewers (both of them):

Sunday, November 09, 2014

The Colors of Fall, with Wildlife

The Colors of  Fall, with Wildlife

Ah, Fall!
Here at last.
How I love it, and I'll count the ways, somewhat.
Take yesterday, for example, I woke to an ice-blue sky, that endured from dawn to dusk, with a mild breeze chilling the 65-degree sun patches that spotlighted the birds bobbing on the Mill Creek mirror's technicolor blend of burnished golds, ruby reds and lingering greens of the ample shoreline foliage, as well as the banks beside ponds at McNary Wildlife refuge at Umatilla.
We have the many winged visitors heading south, and stopping over to rest, along the Pacific Flyway: mallards, wigeon's, great white egrets, hooded mergansers, wood ducks, and shovelers, common mergansers, white pelicans, bald eagles, and any number of surprises.
Some like it here and remain.
The legendary variety of this stormy Northwest season adds a pleasant spice to dog walking with Nora the Schnauzer that eases the summer's abusive heat, and I welcome it.
As today's 10-day weather forecast predicts, this variety will  include 19-degree nights, as harbingers of winter, within a fortnight.

Deer also wander about Mill Creek (Rooks Park area) and Bennington Lake.  A woman in purple may paddle across the lake, viewed between yellow cottonwood leaves. And, at dusk, the sun sinks behind the dam.

Today, for another example, slate-gray clouds filled the front window pane at first light, and the initial backyard visit with Nora the Schnauzer revealed a thick, fluffy blue-gray canopy stretching toward each cluttered horizon, and by the second trip out a soft drizzle caused Nora to pause before venturing onto the rumpled carpet of yellow-brown leaves.
At colorful Pioneer Park, the melancholy tone of the day altered slightly to fit the spirit of the season.

I love the fall. It may be my favorite season.
Well, except for the spring when the flowers bloom, the leaves sprout and a plethora of migrating visitors head north again to breeding grounds.
Actually, I don't mind the winter, either. A number of  birds hawks, eagles, herons and Pelicans -- to mention a few -- spend winter months in the Walla Walla Valley and at lakes to the north (especially eagles at Lake Coeur d'Alene, Lake Pend Oreille and Roosevelt Lake).
Traipsing around in the winter poses few problems for me, or for Darlene and Nora. We dress warm and head out.
Only during those beastly dog days of summer do we (except for Darlene) suffer beneath that blistering sun.
We look forward heading north soon.