Winter white

Every year's seasons have their own gifts and rhythms. I associate winter and white; my mother had winter-white slacks that were more cream than nurse-white and allowed her to wear the shade before Easter. Most folks equate winter's white with snowfall, I'm sure--especially given this year's early blizzards up north. The Outer Banks' winter-white is mostly feathered, not flaked. Northern Gannets dive offshore. Egrets and ibis are seen in greater numbers. For the past several years, a couple dozen American White Pelicans joined their smaller cousins, our brown pelicans, at Pea Island, so they've been added to the list. Last year, a major irruption of Snowy Owls deep into the south brought at least two young birds to Ocracoke for more than a month, with stops for one in Hatteras in late November. So far we have not had any owls, but I am still watchful. Conditions seem promising as they are once again on the move south. What we do have that is unprecedented are huge groups of the white pelicans--as many as 150 have been reported! I've photographed between 40 and 50 in one group while noticing other groups of similar size at greater distance. Brown pelicans feed by high-diving (or in the case of younger birds, low-flopping) into the water and coming up with fish for themselves. The White Pelicans do not dive; they swim in unison, herding fish so all can feed at once. It's an interesting and fun strategy to watch. If you are in the area, they are worth a trip to the North Pond, which is just north of the Visitor Center on Pea Island. The dike there is easily walked. They are the largest American bird most of us will ever get to see. Only the California Condor is larger. The white pelican has a wingspan up to nine feet; Bald Eagles in comparison are six to seven-and-a-half feet and our resident brown pelicans measure six to eight feet.

This photograph says "fall" to me. There is a quality to the light I begin to see in autumn, as the days shorten and the sun's circuit is lower in the sky. The clouds change too and lower overall humidity creates skyscapes we don't often see in summer. Some of these are over-the-top vibrant, great swatches of intense pinks and oranges streaking through the sky and gilding the sea. Other times, as on this evening, the palette is more subtle. If you look closely you can see bands of light and dark shining up from the horizon at an angle. Those sun rays you see shining from behind a cloud on a bright day are called crepuscular rays, and when they appear opposite the sun's location, as here, you are really seeing the opposite end of those rays as they arc across the sky to the other horizon. It's a neat phenomenon and one I look for at sunset at the ocean, when the sun is actually behind me, sinking over the Sound. The gentle curve of a line of pelicans flying back to their roosting grounds for the night adds to the feeling of rest and serenity I associate with this time of year. Here's another example of "anti-crepuscular rays" -- the correct name for their appearance on the opposite horizon and one of what we more typically see, shining out from the sun itself.  I always think of Glory, when I see them. 

High Drama

Late yesterday afternoon, our Outer Banks weather deteriorated as a strong low pressure system brought colder temperatures along with high winds and seas out of the north/northwest. Most of our coastal storms are nor'easters, and in fact, the wind vacillated between north and northeast yesterday afternoon before the brunt of the storm arrived.  The shift to northwest winds today sent spray flying skyward against a sunset-brushed sky. I love the sea and sky in all sorts of weather, and was out near dusk both yesterday and today to witness the spectacle.  Here is what the sea and sky looked like late yesterday afternoon.

And here is the same general stretch of Nags Head beach taken 24 hours later. Both are beautiful in their own way. This is the main reason I am a photographer: to stand as witness to the offerings of sea and sun and sky and earth, and with my "yes" as I click the shutter, to give thanks.

Last night, I had a wild dream in which a huge flock of small, dark birds was swirling against a dark blue sky.  One small section of the sky had some wisps of what I guess were meant to be cirrus clouds, and as the birds reached that part of the sky, even the clouds began to whirl and take wing along with the birds. I was mesmerized in the dream, and tried to photograph the phenomenon.

A few hours later, driving the beach road on the way to the gallery, I was startled to see a huge flock of small, dark birds flying and swirling over Jockey's Ridge. I pulled over to try to take some photographs, hoping to find out what these little birds are. I suspected I was seeing a migration in progress, but whose?

Closer focus revealed that the birds were Tree Swallows, who gather in flocks numbering in the tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands as they migrate south for the winter and back north in the spring. I had not seen such a large flock of birds since childhood in northern Virginia. While the sky held more clouds than my dream (and the clouds were stationary), I immediately connected my daylight experience to my dreamtime one. 

I turned around and drove into Jockey's Ridge State Park but by then the flock had moved out of my view. As always, I am so grateful for the opportunity to be witness, to be present, to give voice, to give honor, to give thanks. 

The Rainbow Path

In January of 2013, I signed up for a regular emailed newsletter/blog by photographer Kim Manley Ort. I'd found her work while googling the term "contemplative photography" and was inspired by both her artistry and her heart. This month I have treated myself to her four week online course on Simplicity in Photography. The above is one of the images I created in response to one of the course's assignment prompts.

I'd gone to the ocean near the close of day, drawn by beautiful clouds and a rushing sea. And I made the photographs I typically make in these conditions: wide-angled to give honor and voice to the entire landscape. But Kim's prompt invited me to look closer, and give space to space, in this case the reflection of the clouds shimmering in the wave wash. Here, they took on abstract rainbow colors even as the sky dazzled above them. Instead of being merely one small part of a larger, more detailed landscape--at best a supporting cast to sea and sky--the reflections became the subject. I call the image "The Rainbow Path." It reminds me that I do well to reflect on where I place my feet (and my attention) so I don't diminish the very elements that make my life the most beautiful.

For more on Kim's work, or to sign up for her emails, see  http://www.365daysofinspiration.com/blog/

Ah (choo!), Autumn...

I'm writing this blog as a sort of apology to Seaside Goldenrod.  I love it. I love how it cloaks the dunes in bright, vibrant yellow just after autumn's official beginning, just as the sea oat stalks are beginning to turn a darker brown.  Yet I am aware how many folks suffer with seasonal allergies, and I--in my ignorance--have laid some blame at this plant's feet, er, roots. Well, not roots. The culprit is in those pollen-laden bright yellow blossoms. The very blossom that makes Seaside Goldenrod so attractive to my photographer's eye and heart is the exact same one that brings sneezes and sniffles to others, my husband included. I almost hate to admit that I love it.  They don't call it "ragweed" for nothing, right?

Actually, those in the know (and in a minute that will also include you) don't call it ragweed at all. Turns out Seaside Goldenrod and "ragweed" appear similar, and are both members of the aster family, but are at best distant cousins. Ragweed is prolific, putting out (hold your nose here) as many as a billion grains of pollen per plant! Light, easy-to-transport on the wind, ragweed's pollen is responsible for up to half of all cases of hay fever each year. Not so with Seaside Goldenrod. Its pollen is much heavier, and stickier, depending on insects like bees and butterflies to pollinate it rather than seaside breezes.

So go ahead! Take a deep, salty breath! Join me in celebrating this lovely herald of fall!

I love watching the moon rise as the sun sets. Often the setting sun's color will be picked up by the rising moon. Living near the ocean means--in theory--that one can view the moon rising above the horizon, not merely shining overhead when the sky is fully dark. I say "in theory" because any haze, or clouds, on the horizon will obscure the moon, especially while there is still some brightness in the sky. Every once in a while (read, once in several months or even years), all the conditions are ideal and I can photograph that event. Such was the evening of the full moon rising in October, 2010 over Hatteras Island, taken from the upper end of Ocracoke.  That image is below. Along with it is a bonus, this morning's moonset, or nearly so, shortly before sunrise, as the moon went into a total eclipse.

Here, full disclosure is in order. This composite image is just that. I have artificially placed the moon right below the one above it in order to illustrate the shadow's passage across the moon's face, NOT the accurate position of the moon as it slowly sank in the sky. I created the composite from several separate images created between 6:05 and 6:23 a.m. To repeat, the position of the moon relative to the one above it is arbitrary; the illustration is meant only to show the progress of the eclipse itself.

Two weekends ago I had the joy of introducing Ghost Crabs to a private workshop participant; she marveled, as I always do, at how quickly they scurry and scuttle and how apt their common name is. Even when I am on the lookout for them, they often reveal themselves only in motion, so well are their bodies camouflaged against our coarser grained sands.  This little crab did not let us get as close as the crab I encountered several years ago. Its gift came in less than a second of time, as it lowered its eye stalks to...I could only speculate. Obtain a better focus on the big creatures who were intensely interested in its movements? Communicate a back-off warning?  I called the second image, "Don't Even Think About It!" in an admittedly anthropomorphic interpretation of what would seem in a human expression to be a narrow-eyed squint.

Actually, Ghost Crabs lower and retract their eyestalks into groves on the front of their shells in order to protect them. Less than a second later, the stalks were upright again. Ghost Crabs have 360 degrees of full peripheral vision so perhaps it was trying to get a better look at us.  I'm not sure my own eyes and brain would have registered the movement, fast as a human blink, had I not been looking through the lens. I often return knowing I have more to learn, another of photography's blessings.

September, 2014; Nikon D800; ISO 400, 1/200 sec, f/16, 300mm

Ghost Crabs and minding your manners

This Ghost Crab changed my life.

All summer, I'd tried unsuccessfully to take a close-up picture. I didn't own a wildlife lens yet; my pictures depended on proximity. Every time I approached, each little crab would dart immediately back to the safety of its hole. In early August, I finally spied my prize: an extra large crab on the beach near the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. I took a step, the crab disappeared, and my frustration level soared. As if to taunt me, the crab came back out, too far away for me to have a printable image.

In that moment of frustration, I received a gift of calm. I realized I had never asked any of the Ghost Crabs if I could take their picture. I'd assumed my right to do so, human hubris at its worst. I'd never once thought "please" or "thank you." So I asked. For the first time, a Ghost Crab let me come closer and closer. I took one photograph with each step. I had a second epiphany; I needed to be completely candid. I stared down at its little eye stalks. With a deep breath, I confessed: I am going to sell your picture. I winced; surely the crab would disappear forever now. But no. It moved back and forth on either side of its hole but never went back inside. I kept eye contact, moving slowly, amazed at how my earlier frustration had melted into this newly felt calm.  Children love you, I told it. They are going to love seeing your photograph up close.  Finally I was bending over it, at the closest focus distance for my lens. That click is this image.

At that, the Ghost Crab skittered backwards a few inches and turned sideways, as if to say, all good? All finished now? I stepped slowly backward.

Since that day, I have had the honor of saying please and thank you many times over to wild birds and animals, and even to the land at large. This blog is the result of these ongoing encounters.

August, 2006. Nikon D70s, 1/400, f/10, 70mm (105mm equivalent)