Woodland

I

love the winter woodlands. The raw silence that comes with a cold wood is an irreproducible atmosphere in which every detail is amplified. Each crunch of snow booms underfoot, each fleeting bird showers the ground with snow from disturbed boughs, and each hinting animal track screams to be followed.

In summer the world is busy, and everything competes for attention. When the snow falls, it covers the chaos; the world is fresh and young and innocent. In the woods, knee-deep in the snow, I can give each facet of the landscape the time it deserves. The wildlife, too, though dwindled in number is more easily tracked and studied. It's easy to find birds in the warmth of the summer, but in the depths of winter there's a kind of mutual respect. The cold equalizes; I may have more pairs of gloves than the woodpeckers, but not when I want to use my camera. The photos below are the result of a give-and-take: I gave pain and numb thumbs and wet socks for my bounty, for the silent catharsis of the winter woodlands.

These downy woodpeckers are wonderful birds to photograph. From within the silent woods comes their intense and hurried peck, and like a moth to light I follow it. With intense, singular focus wait, and with time and stillness, the woodpeckers come. Perhaps they're curious, and perhaps they're in service to an intense focus of their own; whatever the reason, they see no danger my low silhouette. I take hundreds of portraits of these birds before they leave, seeking new trunks.

I've taken plenty of sharp, still portraits of woodpeckers. For the most part, they're boring. They lack emotion, and don't tell a story. I needed a new way to capture these curious birds. By slowing my shutter speed I managed to blur their incessant pecking; this highlights their characteristic behavior and gives them life.

Above, the sliver of tree is the only thing sharp and in focus. This unique technical choice articulates their intense focus; in a sense, this photograph is from the perspective of the woodpecker. In this moment of hunger, all that the bird sees, all the bird knows, is the tree. To the woodpecker, that layer of bark is all that exists in the world. Thus, the photo tells a compelling and, most importantly, unique story about the woodpeckers of the forest.

While on the hunt for woodpeckers, many smaller birds would dart past me. From bramble to bare bramble the chickadees would dance, only still for seconds, starting at the slightest hint of movement. One day, as I stood still, silently imbibing the dormant meadow, a chickadee landed in a mess of bright dogwood just meters away. Despite the twig-tangle, I managed to focus just in time and made this photo, before I was once again alone with the wind.

Returning to the car after a long day in the woods, I had all but packed up my camera when I noticed, at the end of the path, a long-eared owl perched on a bare, hollow branch. I approached slowly, and the owl only stared, wide-eyed, unmoving. Woodpeckers scrounged and clamored in the canopy above as I got closer. I sunk into the snow, resting the hood of my lens on a snow-glazed branch. My pants soaked. I shifted in the cold; the owl glanced up. I had my shot.

One cold, clear February morning, I wandered out into the snow-draped woodland in search of woodpeckers. Having no luck, I decided to walk the bare cornfields on the way back to my car. I'd never been that way before, and as I crossed through a break in the thin treeline which divided the fields, I saw movement in the woods below. Sure enough, a thin pink tail, a foot or two in length, was snaking through the snow. My eyes followed it as it shot up a small sapling, and when they reached the top I was amazed.

An opossum perched in a crook, its little fingers grabbing the branch, its head slightly slumped. I began to move, in order to better my angle, but my concentration upon the opossum was too great. Suddenly, the ground below me gave way, and my boot shot down into what I had thought was the frozen earth. I pulled myself out, collected myself, and looked down in the hole. Three feet below, a brook gently ran.

It was then that I remembered the opossum, and, fearing it to be long gone at the sound of my fall, I looked up. To my surprise, it was still there, lazily watching my escapade with bemusement. I took a few photos and left it in peace.