Patricia Caulfield

 

 

 

I recently learned of the death of photographer and editor Patricia Caulfield last September. (I'm surprised I missed it at the time.) Many people know her as the photographer who successfully sued Andy Warhol for copyright infringement. But I remember her for a much more personal connection. Though I never met her, Caulfield’s work had a powerful influence on me, making me think about photography in new ways.

 

 

 

Before her book on the Everglades was published in 1970, the photographers I was most familiar with - people like Ansel Adams and Edward Weston - were westerners, and their work reflected the western esthetic of heroic landscapes and strong contrast, as well as the commitment to maximum sharpness and depth-of-field they shared with other members of Group f/64. Caulfield’s work was different, and not just because it was in color. There was a sense of mystery in her photos that was no less awe-inspiring than that of Adams, Weston, et al. She photographed in every kind of light, day and night. She used sharpness and depth-of-field in creative ways, and was not afraid of motion blur, underexposure, or grain when it suited her purpose. (Given the iffy quality of color film in the sixties, grain wasn’t always a choice, but she made it work to her advantage.)

Was this a gender-based difference? Well, maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe maybe. Group f/64 exhibitions included at least four women - Imogen Cunningham, Sonya Noskowiak, Alma Lavenson, and Consuelo Kanaga - all of whom shared a similar esthetic to the men in the group. Since then I’ve seen so much variety in photographic styles that I don’t think it’s possible to generalize about male or female photographers. (A photo editor once described my photos as “very feminine.” I took it as a compliment, but again I don’t think the description is really valid. Better to say my work is compassionate, empathetic, or personal, emotions that both men and women are capable of expressing in their art and in their lives.)

 

 

The subject matter of that book also inspired me. The Everglades are a habitat unlike any that we have in the west, and the fact that this tropical wilderness existed in the United States was a revelation to me. (I had actually visited Florida in the summer of 1970 but didn’t get a chance to see the “real” Everglades.) It made me want to travel, to see as many diverse habitats as I could.

Patricia Caulfield’s work made me think much more seriously about my photography and helped me develop my own visual style. I will always be grateful for her influence.

 

 

 

One Big Capy Family

It’s a rodent that can weigh as much as 150 to 200 pounds. Some people might be creeped out by that thought, but for me it was one more reason to go to Brazil. Along with the jaguars, ocelots, anteaters, monkeys, and macaws, I wanted to see a capybara.

As it turned out, capybaras seemed to be everywhere in the Pantanal. We found them at nearly every location we visited, sometimes walking on the dirt roads in front of our vehicle, and generally unperturbed by our presence. On our daily excursions we saw and photographed family groups of up to twenty or more in a variety of habitats - grazing in a meadow like a herd of deer, frolicking in a pond like a strange hybrid of hippos and otters, or just hanging out on a riverbank.

Capybaras may not be the most dramatic or awe-inspiring of tropical animals, but there’s just something special about them.

Want more? Click here to explore the Capybara Gallery.

High-speed Hand-off

 

One of the joys of moving to a new city, or even a new neighborhood, is getting to know the local wildlife. Every ecosystem, no matter how small, has its own mix of species. When my family moved from Berkeley to Benicia we saw a lot of familiar backyard critters – Fox Squirrels, Scrub Jays, Lesser Goldfinches – and because our new home was close to the water and in a more suburban area, a lot of different ones as well. For one thing, Benicia has more Northern Mockingbirds than any other place I’ve been. We often see Canada Geese, Western Gulls, and even Ospreys and an occasional Bald Eagle flying over the house. With the abundance of open space and grassy hillsides, we see far more raptors than we did in our urban neighborhood in Berkeley. Red-tailed Hawks, Red-shouldered Hawks, and Cooper's Hawks are the most common, along with an abundance of Turkey Vultures.

My favorite new neighbors were the pair of White-tailed Kites who built a nest just four blocks from our house. When I first saw them in late March they were still building and I was able to photograph them carrying sticks to the tree. Over the next couple weeks, although I couldn’t see the nest itself, I photographed the male bringing food to the female, who was presumably incubating their eggs. (In kites it’s normally the female who cares for the eggs and hatchlings while the male hunts. The sexes look alike so of course I can’t be absolutely sure this couple was following tradition.)

One morning in April it had all changed. A half dozen crows were in the top of the nest tree with no kites in sight. I waited for the kites to come back and chase them off but they never returned. After checking again over the next few days it was clear to me that the crows had eaten their eggs and the kites weren’t going to try again, at least at that location. 

Then in June I noticed an adult kite spending a lot of time in a tree on our street and followed it to a nesting site just two blocks away. The new nest was in a taller and denser tree that was even more difficult to photograph than the first. Again I could watch as the adults flew in and out but there was no way to see into the nest. 

My big break came in July when the chicks fledged. After leaving their nest the two fledglings made their temporary home in a Coast Redwood in the alley behind our house. I could literally photograph them from my back yard. The short time they spent in that tree was a real privilege to witness. 

A chick would stand in the top of the tree and flap its wings, jumping in the air, repeatedly practicing its takeoff and landing technique. Other times the two of them would play tag, sometimes joined by one of their parents, chasing one another across the sky, spiraling together, nearly colliding, getting faster and more skilled with each passing day. 

At first the adults would bring food directly to their babies but as the days went on they made them work harder and harder for every meal. An adult would fly past the tree with a vole in its talons, calling for a chick to come and get it. When one of the young birds followed, the adult would let it get almost close enough to grab the rodent, and then surge ahead in a surprising burst of speed, making the hungry chick fly even faster. The successful hand-off you see in the next three photos happened on the third attempt. 

After about a week of these fantastic displays the family moved on, probably for a few hunting lessons in the local hills before the young birds were fully on their own. I was very sad when they didn’t nest in our neighborhood the following year, and I’m hoping they will return in 2023. 

Would you like to purchase a print? Click on the photos to see a variety of print sizes and framing options, or click here to explore my photo catalog.

 

Jaguar Crossing

Before every trip I spend some time thinking about what I want to photograph. It might be something general - “I want to find some eagles” - but it can often be very specific. For example, if I’m going to the southwest I might imagine a cactus wren perched on a cholla, with a little backlighting to emphasize the spines of the cactus. The more I think about specific compositions, and what it might take to make them happen, the more likely I am to get the shot that I want - or at least something like it. As we all know, nature often has other plans. Patience and flexibility are always key to successful wildlife photography.

When I started thinking about the Brazilian Pantanal, and more specifically about the jaguars I hoped to see, I imagined a variety of photo scenarios. There were the dream shots, of course. A mother with her newborn kittens. Two males fighting for dominance. A jaguar stalking and killing a caiman. Or maybe a jaguar eating an anaconda eating a capybara – the turducken shot. My imagination can run wild, especially when thinking about a place I’ve never been before.

But the photo I imagined most often was a simple one: a wide view of a river, surrounded by jungle, with a jaguar swimming across in the foreground. I didn’t know how likely I was to find that scene, but I knew I was going to try.

Jaguars are the biggest cats in the Americas and the third largest in the world (only lions and tigers are bigger), and their population has declined by about 20-25% over just the past thirty years. Once common everywhere from Argentina to the southwestern United States (they were known from Monterey County, California, as recently as the early 20th Century), about half the total population now lives in Brazil, with smaller populations in Mexico and other Central and South American countries.

 

The Pantanal, in west-central Brazil, is the largest tropical wetland in the world, and it’s home to the largest concentration of jaguars. It also attracts an ever-growing number of wildlife photographers. Every morning and afternoon dozens of small boats head out from the village of Porto Jofre to cruise the Cuiabá and Piquirí Rivers in search of big cats hunting along the banks. Our group spent three full days here, with about seven hours per day on the water. We photographed hundreds of birds, caimans, and capybaras while keeping an eye out for jaguars.

There are plenty of jaguars here but that doesn't mean they're always easy to see or photograph. The marshy riverbanks are lined with thick vegetation, and jaguars are masters of stealth and camouflage. I estimate that only about half of our jaguar sightings resulted in usable photographs. Not that I'm complaining, of course. I'm very happy with the photos that you see on this page, and it’s a privilege just to see these magnificent animals in their habitat. But let me tell you about the one that got away ...

One afternoon we watched as a jaguar killed a big caiman no more than thirty feet from our boat, while the only thing we could see was the violent thrashing of the marsh grass and an occasional glimpse of a leg or tail, as two of the world's most powerful animals fought to the death. The caiman never really had a chance, but it made the jaguar work hard for its dinner. As a photographer it was extremely frustrating; as a naturalist it was one of the most exciting moments I’ve ever experienced.

On our second day on the river, I saw my chance for the crossing shot when a young male cautiously approached the water. After a couple of false starts it walked into the current and swam across, with nothing to obscure the view from our boat, and I was ready for it. Among the thousands of frames I shot in Brazil, this one was exactly what I had hoped for. With all the no-shows, near-misses, and other disappointments that come with wildlife photography, it’s a real joy to celebrate a success like this one.

 

Would you like to purchase a print? Click on the photos to see a variety of print sizes and framing options.

 

 

Splish, splash ...

Glossy flowerpiercer

Beside a trail at Yanacocha Reserve, on the slopes of the Pichincha volcano northwest of Quito, was a little pool of water, no more than a foot wide and a couple inches deep. It didn't look like much, but it was pretty popular with the local birds. I sat for a while, and within a few minutes a glossy flowerpiercer approached the pool, waded in, and had a bath.

Half an hour later, a masked flowerpiercer did the same.

Masked flowerpiercer

Over the next hour or so, two species of hummingbirds and an antpitta dropped by as well. The hummingbirds jumped right in, but the antpitta was apparently a little more shy about bathing in public.

Rainbow-bearded thornbill

Tyrian metal-tail

Rufous antpitta

Shining sunbeams

If you've spent any time watching a hummingbird feeder, you know how aggressive those little birds can be. In my own backyard, I've watched as one or more Anna's hummingbirds tries to monopolize the feeder, forcing other birds to settle for a quick sip before they're chased away.

But nothing prepared me for Ecuador's shining sunbeam, Aglaeactis cupripennis, the most aggressive hummer I've ever seen. Larger than most, it chased away every other species that tried to approach. This got to be a little annoying, from a photographer's perspective – at the end of a full day of shooting, 70% of my photos were of sunbeams, with the rest divided between 4 other species. (Eventually I learned a couple of tricks to increase my chances with the smaller species.)

And when two sunbeams compete for the same feeder or flower, watch out. They don't just try to bluff or intimidate, they actually make contact – chest bumping, hitting with their wings, and grabbing tail feathers in their claws. The sound of their wings as they collided was surprisingly loud, and made me wonder how often a bird is injured in these competitions.

Sometimes both birds would tumble toward the ground, recovering at the last second to fly in opposite directions, only to return for a rematch. It's a wonder any of them was able to feed, but somehow they managed.

To purchase prints or license images for use in your publications or products, just click on the photos above, or choose from thousands of other photos here.

Aerial acrobats

Black-tailed trainbearer, Lesbia victoriae

With more than 300 species worldwide, hummingbirds come in a wide variety of sizes, shapes, and colors. One thing they all have in common is their ability to amaze us with their acrobatic skills. A few of them, such as the trainbearers and racket-tails, have extra-long tails that act as counterweights, allowing them to make some remarkably fast mid-air twists and turns.

Booted racket-tail, Ocreatus underwoodii

Sparkling violet-ear, Colibri coruscans

Tyrian metal-tail, Metallura tyrianthina

Purple-bibbed white-tip, Urosticte benjamini

Shining sunbeams, Aglaeactis cupripennis

To purchase prints or license images for use in your publications or products, just click on the photos above, or choose from thousands of other photos here.
   

The cat that waited for me

After a miserable night at Red Rock Canyon – a howling wind that blew dust and whipped the tent all night, plus a too-bright moon and a migraine – Tuesday was a predictably lousy day. By mid-afternoon I was exhausted and just wanted to be home, or at least someplace familiar. So I headed for Wildrose Canyon, on the western edge of Death Valley.

I don't know why, but Wildrose has always felt like home. Maybe it's just because it was the first place I camped in Death Valley, more than thirty years ago. It's a wide canyon (or narrow valley, if you prefer) full of sagebrush and creosote, rocks and springs – in other words, it's much like any other canyon in the Panamint Range. But, as familiar as it is, Wildrose can still surprise me. In a wet year its hillsides are carpeted with wildflowers. In 2005 it was overrun with cottontails. I saw my first panamint daisy there, practically growing out of the pavement at the side of the road. Its springs are a haven for warblers, finches, orioles, and dozens of other birds, while the rocks are home to chuckwallas and collared lizards. And, while I tend to avoid the noise and crowds of official campgrounds, preferring the solitude of more remote areas, the campground at Wildrose seems to be ignored by most park visitors.

I arrived at the Wildrose campground at about 5:00 and was happy to see that my favorite spot was available. (In fact, twenty-one of the twenty-two campsites were available.) I immediately felt better, so I set up my tent and decided to look around.

At the far end of the campground is a trail that passes between a steep hillside on the left and a small spring, thick with mesquite, on the right. A few steps down the trail, I saw a bobcat on the hillside, just above my eye level and no more than ten steps in front of me. I stopped. It stopped. I took a step back; it took a step back. Neither of us knew what to do next. It was so close, and so unexpected, that it took me a few seconds to really understand what it was. I ran through a checklist in my mind: tufted ears ... short tail ... long legs ... spots ... twice as tall as a house cat ... this was definitely a bobcat.

Have I mentioned that my camera was still in the car, a hundred yards behind me?

For the next few seconds, while the cat and I stared at each other, I had two conflicting impulses. The first, of course, was to run back for my camera. The other was to stay where I was and enjoy the moment – I had never been this close to a bobcat before, and might never be again. And besides, did I really expect a bobcat to just sit and wait for me?

I decided to go for the camera. All the way to the car, and all the way back, I cursed myself. How could I be so stupid as to walk away from my camera in a place like Wildrose? I knew I'd never see the cat again, at least not that close.

I guessed the cat would go up the hill, so on the way back I went up the hill myself, coming over a low ridge a few yards above where it had been. I stood for a while, scanning the hillside as well as the trail and spring below. Nothing. Then I thought I saw movement behind a small shrub about twenty feet below me. Something was different about that bush; the ground behind it was the wrong shade of brown.

I aimed my lens at the bush, trying to focus beyond the branches on whatever might be behind them. When the cat's face popped into focus I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Yes, the bobcat had sat – literally – right where I had left it, and waited for me to return with my camera. Thank you, Mother Nature!

I moved left for a better view. The cat looked at me for a moment, then walked downhill toward the spring – and lay down in the shade of another bush. A minute later, it stood up and disappeared into the mesquite.

I stayed for two days and never saw the cat again. I had three photos, and one more surprise from Wildrose.

This story was published in Death Valley Photographer's Guide: Where and How to Get the Best Shots, Nolina Press 2011