The forest has grown quiet around my cabin. It’s been happening for months now, the birds ended most of their enthusiastic, breeding-season singing back in July. But until the past few weeks there were still a lot of birds around. Orange-crowned Warblers giving occasional twittery calls, a stray White-crowned Sparrow making a loud tree-top chirp, or the sound of Sandhill Cranes, high overhead trumpeting their way to their wintering grounds in the lower 48.
Sure there are a few migrants still lingering, just moments ago I watched a lone Slate-colored Junco foraging through the fallen, yellow birch leaves outside my window. Yesterday an American Robin flew through the forest in front of the dog and I as we made our evening walk. Each time I see a migrant, I wonder to myself if it will be the last one until spring.
Only a few species of birds can withstand the brutal temperatures, snow cover, and darkness that a winter in Alaska’s interior can dole out. But those few are admirable creatures. Black-capped and Boreal Chickadees are equipped with an amazing ability to store fat, and conserve heat. While species like the tiny Boreal Owl rely on the carelessness of others to survive the long winter. It’s rare to see a Boreal Owl, but when I do, it is inevitably perched on branch above my bird feeder, waiting for a vole to brave the open air in search of some scattered sunflower seeds.
This time of year I find my thoughts venturing south. There is a biological term called “Zugenrue”, which means migratory restlessness. It’s a behavior shown by birds as they are getting ready to move with the seasons. They get agitated, forage enthusiastically, and are unable to rest. I think I suffer from something similar, minus the extra energy. My mind follows the birds, as they fly over the boreal forest, across the plains of the continent’s interior, over the Gulf of Mexico, and into the tropical forests of Central and South America.
What, you ask, does any of this have to do with photography? It doesn’t. It has to do with being a naturalist. I know a lot about birds because I’ve studied them for years. I love birds. I mean I LOVE birds. When I used to band songbirds, I’d catch myself holding one in my hand and simply admiring the way the feathers so perfectly aligned against the bird’s body, their dark glittering eyes. The subtle colors of even the most drab individual hold a profound beauty. Eventually, I’d snap out of my reverie turn, and open my hand. The bird, with ruffled feathers but unharmed, would take flight, rousing in the air to smooth itself and hurtle away through the woods.
This may sound strange, but I’d give up my photography equipment before I’d give up my binoculars.
Actually, I think this post is about photography, at least tangentially. You become a better photographer first and foremost by understanding your subject matter. I don’t care if you are striving to be a studio portrait photographer, to shoot weddings, or create fine art prints. Making connections and understanding your subject is the single most important factor in improving your images.
In Outdoor Photography this means you’ve got to be a naturalist.
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