W
ork ended at 4:30pm each Friday. 10 minutes home, 5 minutes forgetting to pack a toothbrush, and 3 hours in the fast lane later, Northport would see my long shadow slide into line. Some weeks the sky would be crimson and sulfur, others dark fronts would loom over the gloaming Door. 7:45 never disappointed.
As the ferry—almost always the Washington, by some coincidence—would drift beyond the breakwaters, I'd watch barn swallows darting between hectic dogfights with mosquitoes and their nests below the pier. Out on the Door and finally able to relax, I'd sit back on those white fiberglass benches we know all too well and enjoy a snack, watching cormorants diving and doing the same.
The woods feel different here. The birches and maples are at peace. I made this photo careening down the road on my bike, holding my camera with both hands. The calm, still woodland juxtaposes with the frantic nature of bicycle blur, which is wonderful pair of words. Read about other abtract forest shots here.
On especially clear nights, the sun's rays would bend over the horizon to catch beads of water pluming over the ferry's wake. Using motion blur, I smoothed the water's movement, distilling its form and color into an abstract portrait of the lake's undulation. Read more about this shot and other blue abstracts here.
Each sense would alert me at once upon returning to dry land. I would see, of course, the wonderful treeline which seems so different here. I would hear against the ferry's hull the gentle squeaks of hanging tires and deep echoes of lapping water. I would feel below me the bump onto solid ground, smell the approaching woods, taste in anticipation the meal my grandma had insisted on cooking, despite her fast-approaching bedtime.
Turning up the drive, gravel crunching below me, crickets and cicadas would call upon my arrival. My headlights would cut through the twilight, illuminating house and woods. After greetings, dinner, and—if feeling particularly masochistic—a quick swim in the cold dark lake, I would go to bed early, for I'd have to wake at sunrise to find the foxes.
This was my first full view of the fox kits. I had seen them running on the rocks, and walking to their den at dusk, but this was different. I used the bushes, vibrant with spring, to highlight the youthful curiosity of these factory-new fluffballs.
I had gotten the tip from my uncle. He'd seen the foxes, several of them, running under the shadow of a short cliff between the house and the lake. His eastern view of the lake meant I had to get up for sunrise to capture the foxes in any usable light; the sun always sunk below the trees around 4 or 5 in the afternoon.
So I got up early, and, after just half an hour of waiting, at exactly 8am on July 7, I took my first photo of the foxes.
I'm not sure how to describe the elation that comes with photographing an animal for the first time. It's not like winning a game or getting a raise; it's a gradual thing. You can't jump up and shout, of course, for fear of scaring the poor creature, so instead you let the joy sink below your skin as you wait, perfectly still but glowing within. As you sit, in pure focus, knowing you still have work to do here, the joy ferments within. Only hours later, once you've left their home and the fact of their presence you have fully imbibed, can you celebrate, and the joy rushes out, all the more wonderful for the time you spent out there, waiting for the world to perform.
One day around 3pm I was walking down to the water, and decided to sit by the den and wait for a bit. I'd never seen the foxes during the daytime, but I was tired, so I figured it might be nice. After a short while, I saw a pair of ears crest the gap between the rocks, and sure enough, they were followed by a kit. Luckily, the sky was overcast enough to soften the shadows and give me a fantastic portrait.
I don't really like this photo: it's much too flat and underexposed. I took it at 6:45am on an overcast July day, and I had very little light to work with. Nonetheless, it shows something none of my other fox photos have managed thus far to show: breakfast. Obscured by the foreground's pesky bush, a squirrel hangs limp in the mature fox's jaws. The age difference is clear between these two photos.
Over the coming weeks I would return to watch the den many times, sometimes photographing, sometimes just sitting. There's something very meditative about watching a pile of rocks; at first it seems a cruel self-punishment, but time passes quickly and before long the fox is there, staring up at me. Wildlife photography is said to be a combination of patience and luck, and I certainly had to have both last summer.
The best experience so far happened early on July 20th. I had gotten up early the day before and waited for an hour without result, so I wasn't expecting anything. However, I went through the motions just the same, and at 6:20am I slipped off my sandals—too noisy—and sidled down the steps towards the den. As I came around the corner I started: there, laying on a flat rock in the Sunday morning sun was a fox.
A red fox sleeps in on a lazy Sunday morning.
I instinctively rushed back up the steps and assessed the situation. I hadn't woken it, so I readied my camera and snuck down once more. I snapped my shutter only twice—I saw ears twitch but nothing more—and left it in peace.
While waiting for the foxes over those summer months, I managed to see some other creatures. I'm always astounded by how much the woods open up after just 5 minutes of silence.
I saw pelicans, cormorants, gulls (of course) and bald eagles flying over the water. Blue jays, hummingbirds, and robins darted between low-hanging cedar boughs, and butterflies floated from flower to flower. The world was abundant.
A blue jay gives me a hairy eyeball from the branch of a noble maple.
A cabbage white buttefly slurps some good nectar from dame's rocket.