Category Archives: Nature Photos

The lineup

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I began this morning wanting to talk about the vulgar phrase “trash birds,” but unfortunately I have neither the strength nor energy to do so.  I promise to kick the tires of that lousy clunker at a later time—when I feel up to it.

In lieu of what no doubt will start yet another war between me and a portion of the naturalist community, let me instead share a few of the images I came across as I searched for illustrative photos to go with my rant.  Here are some rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia), one of the top three “trash bird” species in North America.

Rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) lined up on the pier (20081101_14291_n)

These were taken more than two years ago with a point-and-shoot camera, which I since bequeathed to my mother.  At the time, I was playing with a polarizing filter (along with the ever-present UV filter).  A UV filter is an always thing: put one on each of your lenses and leave them there at all times, putting all other filters on top of the UV filter.

But the polarizer?  Well, when shooting in direct sunlight especially, a polarizing filter works wonders to increase color saturation and contrast, not to mention minimizing reflections.  Yet it’s the former part of that—color saturation and contrast—that matters most.  Because direct sunlight not only causes harsh shadows, but also it’s so potent that it tends to overpower colors, leaving them washed out and lifeless.

You can actually get better colors on a cloudy day.  Still, a polarizing filter does a great deal to fight off sunshine’s overbearing disposition.

Rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) lined up on the pier (20081101_14290)

Thus, as I sat on the pier in Sunset Bay, my favorite haunt at White Rock Lake, this dule of doves, or flock of pigeons depending on your avian vernacular in this case, came to rest near me.  They all lined up on the edge of the pier, some even getting so close that I could no longer focus on them because they were within the minimum focusing distance of the camera.  I shot many photos of them as they relaxed with me on that warm and sunny November day.

Rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) lined up on the pier (20081101_14289)

It seems obvious that the entire lineup would have been perfect had there not been that one outlier: the dimwitted numskull in the background facing the wrong direction.  I remain unclear on whether that particular bird was just being contrary or if it was thicker in the head than this species is known for.  The empty “Who?  Me?” look I received each time I fussed about it makes me believe the latter more than the former.  But who am I to question the synaptic potency of any creature?  I’ve certainly had my share of “Duh!” moments.

Fuzzy turtle travelin’

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In June 2009, during a walk at White Rock Lake, I stood on the footbridge spanning the inlet to Heron Bay (the lagoon behind the paddle boat house).  Sweat ran down every part of my body as I stood smothered in Texas summer: oppressive heat and humidity.  I had already decided to get in the car and go home, if for no other reason than to turn on the air conditioning in the car before I melted into a puddle.

Walking across the bridge, I noticed something swimming near the surface.  It paused even as I turned to snap a few photos.  It turned out to be a red-eared slider (Trachemys scripta elegans) with algae growing on its shell.  Yet I forgot about the photos, something I do often considering the volume of pictures I take.  It wasn’t until April 2010 when I stumbled across those pictures again and posted about the fuzzy turtle.  I included this photograph:

A red-eared slider (Trachemys scripta elegans) with algae on its shell (2009_06_21_024620)

That happens to be a crop of a larger image.  Here’s the original:

A red-eared slider (Trachemys scripta elegans) with algae on its shell (2009_06_21_024620 original)

As has been the case with every photo I’ve licensed, I gave nary a thought to the image after I posted it.  Then in October 2010 I received an e-mail that said, in part,

I have seen your photos of a turtle covered with algae on the web (‘fuzzy turtle, april 15, 2010). The algal growth represents one of the algal species (Basicladia spp.) I have been working on during my PhD, which I just completed as a draft. I would like to use the image of the turtle for the introduction chapter of my PhD thesis (Leiden University, the Netherlands)…

Of course I was interested.  When contacted about licensing a photograph, anything for nonprofit, conservation, education and/or science garners my immediate interest.  And it helped to see this in the initial request: “I would send you a copy of the book once it’s printed.”  I always like to see how my work is used and I appreciate that consideration being understood, especially when it’s understood at the time the initial request is sent.

I eventually agreed to the request and sent the original unadulterated image file.  It seemed my fuzzy turtle was traveling to the Netherlands Centre for Biodiversity Naturalis.  And I never asked if it spoke Dutch before I shipped it overseas.

Only a month after originally contacting me, Christian sent a new request.  Though originally intended as the introductory image for the first chapter, she said she liked the image more than expected and wanted to use it on the book’s cover instead.  She wanted to be certain that was OK with me.  Um, let me think about that.  YES!

Then less than two months after she originally contacted me, Christian sent another e-mail, this time asking for my mailing address.  I was excited.  I couldn’t wait to see the book, to hold it in my grimy paws, to read it with that inner tickle that screamed, “Hey, dude!  Your frackin’ photo is on the cover!  Look!  Look!  Loooooook!”

After enough of our ice storm double whammy melted last week and it was safe enough to walk to the mailbox, I was pleasantly surprised to find a package from the Netherlands.  And inside the package: a copy of “Phylogenetic, taxonomic and biogeographical studies in the Pithophoraceae (Cladophorales, Chlorophyta)” by Christian Böedeker.

Cover of 'Phylogenetic, taxonomic and biogeographical studies in the Pithophoraceae (Cladophorales, Chlorophyta)' by Christian Boedeker featuring a photograph of mine on the cover (HPIM0034)

That photo scarcely does the book justice (photography isn’t my strength at the moment, I assure you).  The cover has an underlying color scheme that makes it look like it’s painted on canvas, thus giving it great visual texture.

But what about the contents?  Oh, it’s a delightfully heavy bit of science that made for a wonderful read.  And when I say a heavy bit of science, I mean that in the most complimentary way.  Christian has done some fantastic work in an area that lacked serious study, and her book shows just how much this science was needed.  To wit (from the back cover):

The confused taxonomy of the Aegagropila-clade was clarified using methods of molecular phylogenetic inference, resulting in the re-instatement of the Pithophoraceae, descriptions of two new genera and several nomenclatural changes.

With ample color images, maps, tables and illustrations to complement hundreds of pages of research, I feel a great deal of pride seeing my photograph on the cover.  As science is a dear passion of mine, licensing this photo gave me satisfaction beyond measure.

I’m eternally grateful to Christian Böedeker for contacting me and letting me play a small part in her work.  I’m also thankful for her consideration in sending me a copy of the book once completed.  Of all the photos I’ve licensed to date, this one has the most meaning.

To whom it may concern

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Mom recently said to me that she knows something’s wrong if I’m not writing.  How telling.  True, sure, but nonetheless insightful for its simple clarity.

Fox squirrel (a.k.a. eastern fox squirrel, stump-eared squirrel, raccoon squirrel or monkey-faced squirrel; Sciurus niger) resting atop a fence (2009_06_06_022664)

So yesterday, when my eighth blogging anniversary came and went, I sat on the fence regarding how much I felt like posting about it.  Then the day slipped by, a wisp of smoke grasped and lost in the same moment.  Which didn’t bother me.

Abstract photo of the keyboard of my laptop (190_9006_ab)

Because for months now my keyboard has looked less like a communication device and more like an impassable desert.  I felt daunted as I sat in front of it, unable to resurrect even the most fleeting word combinations from the dark and barren landscape at my fingertips.

Heavy morning dew on a blade of grass (20080824_11348_ab)

Substantial thoughts and ideas, let alone the ability to make them manifest, quickly vanished in the light of day, nothing but morning dew of the mind.

The sun setting behind thickening clouds (20081011_13814_ab)

Yet in the sunset of these ruminations dawned a jarring realization.  Though the past year has held its share of challenges, some of which I must carry with me beyond this eighth anniversary, part of my worsening blog malaise stemmed from a disturbing truth I have to face: in the past year, I broke my cardinal rule by allowing someone to influence—Nay, not just influence, but rather to control what I blogged, even if indirectly.

Why didn’t I post anything about The Kids last year?  Why did my writing degrade into nothing short of mundane documentary, a blow-by-blow, dry, uninspiring mess?  Even though the past several months and their inimical ways share part of the blame, here at the beginning of my ninth year at the keyboard, why has blogging become so intimidating, so resented?  It all boils down to a boy and how I let him indirectly manage my personal journal.

That idea made me angry.  And since anger is more useful than despair, it spurred me forward, urged me back to my roots, forced me to decide resolutely that, like I said five years ago to another friend for the very same reasons, this is my blog, my journal, my home on the web.  If you don’t like it, just go away.

While I still have trials to win and obstacles to overcome, that hangup seems to have stuck in my craw for far too long.  It feels good to finally cough it up.

And to show my resolve in this matter, here’s a picture of the Shadow, al-Zill.

A close-up of al-Zill, one of my cats, as he looks out the window (20080613_06470)

He’s watching things blow away on the winds of change.

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Photos:

  1. Fox squirrel (a.k.a. eastern fox squirrel, stump-eared squirrel, raccoon squirrel or monkey-faced squirrel; Sciurus niger)
  2. My laptop’s keyboard
  3. Heavy morning dew on a blade of dallisgrass (a.k.a. water grass or Dallas grass; Paspalum dilatatum)
  4. An autumn sunset at the family farm deep within the Piney Woods of East Texas
  5. al-Zill, or sometimes “the Shadow” and “Little Terrorist”

Wicked fast

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At the north end of my patio where the fence meets the wall, a tiny space only two inches/five centimeters wide and four inches/ten centimeters deep rises from the ground to the top of the fence.  It’s the space between the last fencepost and the joist.  Because it’s nestled behind a thick hedge and sheltered from the elements, all manner of critters find their way into that minuscule crevice.

I’ve been forced to evict paper wasps who wanted to nest there.  I’ve seen spiders chase each other and prey through the shadows.  I’ve watched mud daubers find the tiniest cracks where they could climb inside the wall and hide their offspring.  And the anoles long ago found they could live inside the wall by navigating through those same cracks.

Given the narrow yet deep shape of the recess, I’m often left with no option but to watch whatever is in there rather than photograph it.  Because none of my lenses fit through the opening, and having the wall on one side and the fencepost on the other makes positioning a camera an exercise in frustration.  The only pictures worth keeping are those taken by standing back and zooming into the dark abyss.

On a warm afternoon not too unlike the past few days, I noticed something hidden in that spot, something that demanded my attention.  Because whatever it was, it remained in a perpetual state of motion.  Being a fan of natural light, I fired off a few shots knowing precisely what I would get.

A blurry shot of a crane fly bouncing up and down at lightning speed (20080314_02768)

The blur does little justice to how fast this insect was bouncing up and down.  To my eye, it looked like an ethereal shadow hovering just above the wall, some dark specter made of smoke and whispers.  But don’t take my word for it.  Here’s a video to show you what I’m talking about.

Wicked fast, eh?  But blurry photos and videos don’t answer the question of what it was.  Yet the behavior and shape go a long way in answering that question.  Were I to guess based only on that evidence, I’d say it’s a crane fly.  Everything about the body matches, and crane flies notoriously use the rapid push-up maneuver as a diversion against predators.

But only a clear image of the beast would be definitive, so out comes the flash for an awkward attempt at capturing a picture.

A crane fly (20080314_02771)

Despite having to step away and zoom in just to get the flash to light up the space, it seems obvious my assumption was correct: it’s a crane fly.

I know what you’re asking.  But what about that long proboscis?  Yes, it threw me for a loop when I first looked at the photo.  Crane flies generally have a small proboscis, yet this creature has one that would terrify anyone frightened of biting insects.  In fact, it looks more like a giant mosquito with that menacing mouth.  So what gives?

Well, there’s a handful of crane fly species with the elongated proboscis.  It’s not common but it’s not unheard of.

And since its position kept me from getting any clear shots with details, I can’t pin down an exact species or genus.  Nevertheless, it was cool to watch because I’d never seen one do that at such a high rate of speed.

Oh, and I was the threat the fly was trying to confuse.  When I finally stepped away hoping it would calm down so I could get a better shot, it flitted out of the alcove and vanished in the bushes.  Just my luck.

The one that got away

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Jain recently said in a comment that she found it a bit of a relief to know I harbored no magical photographic powers, that I did in fact miss opportunities from time to time.  I laughed about that because, like all photographers, I tend to share the presentable images, not the numerous mistakes and poor shots and otherwise unsightly pictures.

Which brings me to April 14, 2010, when I posted this on Facebook:

Copperhead on the patio.  Nearly stepped on it when I walked out the door.  To say we surprised each other would be to understate matters tremendously.

In point of fact, it was a southern copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix contortrix), a venomous snake, and this is the serpent in question:

Blurry photo of a Southern copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix contortrix) (20081004_13084)

Given how stunning these reptiles are and given the unprecedented opportunity to be so close, how could I possibly screw up the photo?  Well, let me tell you a tale…

There are two sets of French doors in my home.  One is in the bedroom and the other is in the office.  Both open to the patio.

On that warm spring day, I opened the bedroom door and stepped out.  Before my foot hit the ground, I became immediately aware of something right outside the door.  Something right under my foot.

It was the copperhead.  Apparently it chose that spot to grab some afternoon sun.  What it didn’t know was that its position put it right in one of my worn paths leading to the patio.

At that specific part of stepping outside, I had my own forward momentum to deal with, but I also had the momentum of the door which I had already started to pull shut behind me.  The combined inertia would basically push me out the door no matter what else happened.

On top of that, my right foot already hung above the snake and carried its own downward momentum pulled by the force of gravity.

Basically, all the physics added up to a major quandary: I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t finish stepping down, so what to do?

I did what anyone would do: Even as my existing motion carried me through the doorway and toward an encounter which would be ill advised for both parties, I used my left leg to push up so I could hop over the snake.  This kind of last-minute change in an otherwise committed movement rarely works out with grace.  In this case, knowing that became doubly complicated by the fact that, suddenly realizing its predicament and choosing to scoot from beneath impending doom, the snake moved.

It moved into the spot where I hoped to land my clumsy hop!

At this point, it became an entertaining dance of me doing my best to float on air whilst avoiding a serpent who became increasingly worried for its health and therefore moved with more purpose.

I stumbled, hopped, skipped, and made it across the patio in what had to look like the worst ballet ever performed.  And even as the snake slipped between my hopscotching feet, I rebounded off the fence at the same time that I grabbed it to stop from tumbling face first to the concrete below.

With the camera held in one hand, my body dangling precariously from the fence with my feet splayed behind me in a frozen fall, I snapped the shutter purely by accident.

By the time I righted myself, the snake had vanished around the corner.  I couldn’t blame it for beating a hasty retreat.  I certainly posed no threat other than being the looming giant who would crush you while clumsily falling atop you.  And I had to believe the snake shook its head as it left while simultaneously thinking to itself, My word, man, learn to walk already!

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Notes:

[1] No, I’m not too proud to share bad photographs.  In fact, it’s cathartic.

[2] There are seven venomous snake species in the DFW Metroplex, four of which I’ve seen and/or photographed around White Rock Lake: western cottonmouth (a.k.a. water moccasin, black moccasin or black snake; Agkistrodon piscivorus leucostoma), timber rattlesnake (a.k.a. canebrake rattlesnake; Crotalus horridus), massasauga (a.k.a. black rattler or black massasauga; Sistrurus catenatus), and copperhead—both the southern copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix contortrix) and the broad-banded copperhead (a.k.a. Texas copperhead; Agkistrodon contortrix laticinctus).  Texas coral snake (Micrurus tener), western diamondback rattlesnake (a.k.a. Texas diamond-back; Crotalus atrox) and pigmy rattlesnake (a.k.a. ground rattlesnake, eastern pigmy rattlesnake or bastard rattlesnake; Sistrurus miliarius), the other three venomous species in the area, I have yet to see around the lake.  ‘Yet’ being the operative term.  (I have seen those species elsewhere.)

[3] There are at least 30 species of nonvenomous snake in the DFW Metroplex, so there’s no need to worry.  The odds of encountering a venomous snake are quite small, and the vast majority of snake sightings are of nonvenomous animals.

[4] Copperheads might be venomous, but they are docile creatures who focus on escape before defense.