The red-faced Bateleur eagle owes its name to the French word for tight-rope walking, a testament to the rocking movement of its wing tips as it glides overhead. It is a stunning bird-of-prey and one of my favorites to spot in the African bush. The vivid red skin in front of the eyes takes about eight years to fully form and once it does, there is absolutely no mistaking the Bataleur!

A Bold Approach with a Bateleur!

On a trip to South Africa in 2013, my ranger Andrew and I came across a pair of Bateleur eagles high up in a treetop, well off the road. It was a quiet day and there had not been much game to photograph. I was itching to create some images, so I suggested we try to get a little closer and Andrew positioned the truck forward, into some bush. I wasn’t satisified and asked if we could approach on foot. He was certain we would not get far once we left the truck. We got out and started to slowly zig-zag a path towards the tree. Within a few feet the male decided he didn’t like the look of me and took off for parts unknown. But his female companion stayed put. Maybe I would get lucky?

Slow and Steady!

I made my way forward in a slow meander, moving right and then left. Andrew stayed back keeping an eye on the area. I am sure my zigzag gait made me look like I had tossed back one too many Amurulas.  Every turn I got a little closer to her. She was clearly alert, looking back at me over her shoulder, but remained on her perch.

I took several shots as I was nearing the base of the tree, but the goal was to shoot this short-tailed eagle from directly below. Andrew thought I was loopy, but agreed to let me try my foolery.  I stayed put for a few moments before once again inching forward, keeping my head down, heart racing but appearing to look disinterested in her. Every couple of feet, thinking they may be my last forward, I would get off a couple of “safety” shots. I never imagined she would co-operate and let me get close enough–but I was wrong!

Beneath the Bateleur!

At last, I was at the base of the tree and right beneath a female Bateleur eagle! I hoisted up the Canon 5D Mlll with a Canon 400 F4 DO lens and balanced the rig on my forehead, trying to steady myself while I looked straight up. The weight of the camera resting on my face, and my head tilting back as far as I could, made me achingly aware of every vertebra! As my neck and shoulders strained to keep the camera still on my forehead, I made a mental note to email my physiotherapist. I was in awe that this gorgeous Bateleur eagle didn’t fly off! But she did continue to look out in the distance, denying me the image I was hoping for.

Finally, the moment I was after! Those dark, marble-like eyes catching the light, looked directly down at me as I looked straight up at her. I am sure she was wondering what kind of foolish, unicorn-like creature was directly below her? We made eye contact for a handful of ticks, and I got off two or three shots, my neck and back giving in to the wobbles. My grinning might also have contributed to the lack of stability.

Then, after the briefest of moments, she lifted her head, gave me a backwards glance, and flew off, leaving me standing there with a gleeful and goofy, yet achingly strained look on my face! At least she didn’t roll her eyes. I looked back at Andrew, and he was chuckling and shaking his head in disbelief.

When All the Elements Align

All of these images were taken on day nine of an eleven-day trip. It was only the second or third time in nine days that the gray and gloom had cleared slightly, leaving a small patch of passing blue sky between the clouds. If there was ever a moment for that to happen, this was it!

Over the years since this sighting, I have had other wonderful encounters with the magnificent Bateleur eagle, and I am always eager to try to capture them. But I have never again had such an amazing encounter as this one, looking up the skirt of my favourite eagle!

Just one last thing before you go…

Thank you very much for visiting my website. I support myself as an artist solely with my photography and writing. If you enjoy the content I create and share,  please consider supporting me on KO-FI.COM  Joining the Armchair Wanderers or The Wild Bunch will give you access to exclusive member-only content-including behind-the-scene safari shenanigans live from my travels. Thank you for your ongoing encouragement and for promoting passion.

Cheers!

NJ

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These large owls migrate down from the Artic during the winter months and can be found in areas with open fields–their preferred hunting grounds. They like to perch on the ground or on low fenceposts where they will patiently wait for their prey, usually a small rodent. Have you ever tried looking for something white, in a field of white? It can be a challenge!

Snowy on a Snow Bank

Luckily, I was able to spot a couple of snowy owls for some closer encounters. However, the fellow I spent time with insisted on hunkering down between two very dirty snowbanks, making for a very unattractive photo shoot. Still, it was a thrill to see one of these birds up close.

On my return visit the sides were overcast and I found him in the same area, once again sitting up on a dirty pile of snow. I decided to try something a little different…

Ghostly Snowy Owl

I wanted to create an image that evoked more of an ethereal feel of this exceptional creature, having him appear almost ghost-like. I dug a trench in the snow and got down on my belly, burying my lens and pushing snow away from part of the lens opening. I really wish I had thought to tuck my shirt in before I did this–I can assure you that snow on the belly can motivate you to work quickly! The owl was very co-operative sitting in one place, surveying his kingdom although I am pretty sure I saw him roll his eyes at my antics.

Hopefully I be lucky this winter and have another chance to photograph one of these magnificent owls that live here in our backyard in Québec.

One more thing…

Thank you very much for visiting my blog. I support myself as an artist with my photography and writing. If you enjoy my content and would like more, please consider supporting me on KO-FI.COM  Becoming a member of the Armchair Wanderers or one of The Wild Bunch will give you access to exclusive member only content-including behind-the-scene safari updates from my travels. Thank you for your ongoing encouragement and promoting my passion.

The post Snow Ghost: Photographing the Snowy Owl appeared first on NJ Wight.

My Dad’s name was John and he was a first generation Scottish Canadian. He had beautiful blue eyes, a great sense of humour and could cut a mean jitterbug! He passed away in September of 2018 after a struggle with Alzheimer’s. A couple of days after he died, I woke up with vivid thoughts of my Dad. I got up, made my coffee and looked out on the back deck. There was a gorgeous blue jay sitting looking back at me.

In 14 years blue jays have NEVER come near my deck. In fact, in all my years photographing birds, as soon as I would spot a jay on any of my hikes, they would disappear before I could raise my lens. But this guy was sitting right out on the deck, just feet from the back door. I grabbed some nuts from the pantry and opened the door, expecting him to fly off, but he stayed right where he was. I took a few steps towards him and left the nuts on the rail beside him. Before I could step back inside, he hopped over next to me and picked up a couple of snacks. It was utterly bizarre and beautiful!

My Dad had stopped eating towards the end of his life. The blue jay must have eaten and cached over 30 nuts that morning and all I could think of was that my Dad was ok. He was letting me know he was eating again.

My Companion in Sorrow

In the weeks that followed, Dad-jay continued to visit me every day or other day, while I mourned my Dad. I was in the middle of a kitchen renovation and the workmen could not believe it. Dad-jay look in the window for me, the workmen would call me and I would go out with some nuts. They would all stop and watch and take pictures! He was also fine with Pluto visiting, and she was quite curious about this special visitor getting snacks!

One day I was out on the front porch and he came to the wires above, called incessantly to get my attention. Once I looked up, he flew back and sat in the dining room window at the other end of the house. He sat there watching me as I came down the hall to get his nuts. He started bringing his lady-jay friend and although she was a little more timid, she enjoyed the nuts as well

Dad-jay’s Final Good-bye

A few weeks later, on the day we would lay my Dad to rest, he came to see me in the morning. I was making Rice Krispy squares–my Dad ate RK’s every morning of his adult life. We had a nice visit and I sat next to him and shared some peanuts. The following day at the reception, I dropped everyone at the door and went to park the car. When I got out of the car, a blue jay called from the trees. At the time, I thought it was his final goodbye, but I would be wrong.

Several months later, I had to undergo surgery. When I woke that morning, he was back! I loaded the rail with peanuts and he took them one by one, caching them around the hood. When a second death struck the family a couple of months later, Dad-jay arrived and stayed a couple of days, offering some mysterious reassurance that all was well in the afterlife.

A year passed and on the anniversary of my Dad’s death, this remarkable bird was in the kitchen window waiting for me, helping me get through that particularly tough day. His girlfriend, now a little less nervous, and a smaller juvenile joined him.

Another Anniversary and Dad-jay Returns

For two years Dad-jay has stopped by at just the right moments in time. I am often asked how I know it is the same blue jay? I just do. He comes to the same window, perches in the same spot and spends time next to me. For me, there is no doubt.

Last week, as the anniversary of my Dad’s death approached, he showed once again–in full moult! This time there was another pair with him and I feel strongly they are his family. They are timid, swooping in to pick up a nut and then quickly flying off. But not him. He still sits in the window or will hop over and stand right next to me as he chooses his peanut. He actually picks them up and shakes them, choosing to fly off with what I believe is the heaviest one!

I am delighted and reassured he continues to visit. Knocking on the window or calling until I show up, he stays patient by the backdoor. I continue to thank him for his company. I no longer question the wonder of it all.

Miss you Dad.

Thanks for supporting my work!

If you enjoy my content, please visit my ko-fi pages and consider becoming a member of the Armchair Wanderers or the Wild Bunch! Ko-fi members have access to exclusive images, videos and stories not posted anywhere else–including behind-the-scenes safari antics while I am on location shooting in Kenya! Membership has its privileges!

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There is something very special about the hummingbird. These small, flying jewels are unlike any other birds. Like dancing light, they are delightful to watch yet maddeningly difficult to photograph! Pablo Neruda, the 1971 Nobel Prize winner for Literature, beautifully captures these tiny birds in his poem, Ode to Hummingbird.
 

Ode to Hummingbird by Pablo Neruda

The hummingbird
in flight
is a water-spark,
an incandescent drip
of American
fire,
the jungle’s
flaming resume,
a heavenly,
precise
rainbow:
the hummingbird is
an arc,
a golden
thread,
a green
bonfire!

Oh
tiny
living
lightning,
when
you hover
in the air,
you are
a body of pollen,
a feather
or hot coal,
I ask you:
What is your substance?
Perhaps during the blind age
of the Deluge,
within fertility’s
mud,
when the rose
crystallized
in an anthracite fist,
and metals matriculated
each one in
a secret gallery
perhaps then
from a wounded reptile
some fragment rolled,
a golden atom,
the last cosmic scale,
a drop of terrestrial fire
took flight,
suspending your splendor,
your iridescent,
swift sapphire.

You doze
on a nut,
fit into a diminutive blossom;
you are an arrow,
a pattern,
a coat-of-arms,
honey’s vibrato, pollen’s ray;
you are so stouthearted–
the falcon
with his black plumage
does not daunt you:
you pirouette,
a light within the light,
air within the air.
Wrapped in your wings,
you penetrate the sheath
of a quivering flower,
not fearing
that her nuptial honey
may take off your head!

From scarlet to dusty gold,
to yellow flames,
to the rare
ashen emerald,
to the orange and black velvet
of our girdle gilded by sunflowers,
to the sketch
like
amber thorns,
your Epiphany,
little supreme being,
you are a miracle,
shimmering
from torrid California
to Patagonia’s whistling,
bitter wind.
You are a sun-seed,
plumed
fire,
a miniature
flag
in flight,
a petal of silenced nations,
a syllable
of buried blood,
a feather
of an ancient heart,
submerged

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