Moving Parts

Photography is a process. Visual storytelling is an end goal.

While I like to think I’ve scratched the surface of each, I just don’t believe I have. I’m caught between developing as an artist, and simply documenting the natural happenings before me. I build a portfolio, then shred one. A recycling occurrence, year after year, photo after photo. I think I’m onto something. I’m dry. A great photo one day, a dud the next. The tides forever turn.

What’s happening here? A moment; an unfolding of events that I was fortunate enough to witness. I had a camera with me. This is a photograph of something that happened, not art. Nothing more than a document in the form of pixels, information, a report. A few ravens, a few eagles, a deer carcass. Together, they tell the story of winter in central New York.

I am not an artist. I’m simply a medium, conveying nature’s stories to others.

Square one, it’s nice to see you again.

Unpredictable

Amidst massive ecosystems, the smallest predators thrive.

A northern pygmy-owl, no larger than a spruce cone, knows how to thrive. It hunts birds from dead trees, voles from the shrubs. It has evolved false eyes behind its head, meaning it’s rarely in danger. It’s underwhelming size, yet sheer capability to take large prey means it hunts undetected, and when necessary, disappears into the trees with ease. It flies fast, and hard, with precision like no other.

When one happens upon a pygmy-owl, the unpredictable sets in. Sit back, and observe one of nature’s finest works unfold.

A Creek, and Its Teachers

A creek winds through Yellowstone’s northeast corner year-round. Soda Butte Creek, to call it by name. Despite sub-freezing temperatures, a couple feet of fresh snowfall and winter only weeks away, it flows continuously, supporting many facets of the Lamar Valley ecosystem. It’s accompanied by the most brilliant and variant hues of willows, towering spruces and snowy peaks. Running water, the soundtrack to it all.

I took a walk along Soda Butte Creek a few mornings ago, to meet the moose that reside there; two rather impressive bulls. As I approached, they foraged, glancing over every so often as if to keep tabs on me. I was not a threat; I never am. I laid in the snow, about a knee’s height of it, taking photos and admiring one of the more remarkable situations I had ever found myself in. Time passed easily, and before long, only a shallow creek separated me from 2,000 pounds of wild animal.

Others have written lots, perhaps even entire books, about the emotional experience one endures when a wild animal accepts you into its presence. It’s truly a feeling like no other. For at any moment, either one of those bulls could have taken no more than a few full strides, crossed the creek, climbed the bank and charged its antlers through me, or at the very least, fled to the other direction. Had I been holding a rifle, maybe they would’ve. Instead, we went about our own. The bulls clashed antlers a few times, shoving one another back and forth before pausing for more shrub consuming. I laid there in awe, freezing cold and alone, sporting a smile bigger and brighter than the sun. It was simply beautiful. A dream. Fifty minutes or so elapsed before the moose loped away ever so freely into the woods to bed down. By then my frozen fingers and snow-covered camera lens were glad it was quitting time.

If I were an author, and maybe someday I will be, I would pencil in a chapter about this particular day, and these particular moose. Experiences like this, and I am creating quite the list, mold me as a being. Although part of me wishes I was not human, and that I was oblivious to the damage and destruction we have left this planet and its perfectly evolved ecosystems to deal with, the greater fraction of me is glad that I am. For if I can’t someday muster up the written words and photographs necessary to make a noticeable difference, I can at the very least advocate for the components necessary to have moments like these.

Wild places, wild animals.

I’m sure I’ll meet these bulls again, perhaps further down the creek this time. I imagine they’ll be sparring away as usual, nibbling on the willows between rounds. Maybe I’ll bring warmer gloves.

Until then, my mind wanders.

At a Day's End

At a day’s end, the mountains glow. The valleys below stare in disbelief at the color, the contours of the ridge, and the wonder that exists above them. The winds fade, overwhelmed by silence, a sense of peace, as the world awaits for morning.

Up here, on this mountain, we are alpenglow.

Let them stare at us.

If I Were Ansel...

Killer Whale

I’ve thought hard about what an up-close encounter with an orca in the Pacific might be like, but nothing could prepare me for the actual event. It’s honestly a miracle that I locked my 500mm lens onto this beautiful animal in that split-second that she surfaced, but thanks to it, that moment will live forever. Still smiling.

Kyle