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Tip o' the Day

"Never shoot from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m."

"Seek wildlife subjects that are conditioned to human presence."

"Make sure there's a glint in the eyeball of your subject."

"Photograph people with wildlfie when possible."

All the above advice came from a few of the best wildlife photographers in America. It was during a panel on "Wildlife Photography" at a convention of Outdoor Writers Association of America, back in the 1980s (before digital cameras). I shrugged, smiled in chagrin, and sighed.

There was a time when I would've scribbled furiously at each pearl of wisdom falling from those photographers' lips (I once dreamed of becoming a successful wildlife photographer). That dream -- like a few others -- was discarded when facing reality: that my dogged pursuit of another way of life clashed with making a success of wildlife photography.

At the time of that OWAA annual convention I'd worked as an outfitter and guide in the Bob Marshall Wilderness for nearly two decades, and had been writing newspaper columns about those adventures for six years. Too, I'd photographed and written a coffee table book about that wilderness. But my occupation did not permit exercising the kind of patience necessary for becoming a photographer of wild creatures. To capture wildlife on film, a photographer's first commitment is to his photograph. In my primary occupation, my first commitment had to be the guests I was leading to adventure.

I sighed again. All those top photographers said they seldom use a normal camera lens (55mm). Instead, they use telephoto lenses to 400mm. But the higher-powered lenses are used only with a tripod or stock-mounted support device. Each sometimes shot from blinds -- usually ones they build themselves, going to considerable effort to construct a blend-with-the-surroundings way to stay hidden near a waterhole, meadow, or major game crossing.

Obviously the 10-to-3 edict is to avoid the flat light of midday.

Seeking wildlife subjects conditioned to human presence means shooting for the most part in National Parks or Wildlife Refuges.

The glint-in-the-eye injects life in the animal, but it doesn't mean not shooting a pack of wolves battling a grizzly bear just because you can't get them to stop long enough to capture the glint.

Three years later Jane and I sold our guide service and most of our horses and tack. I remembered the old dream, purchased two top-of-the-line Nikon camera bodies and a powerful variable lens to 200mm, then set out to add support photos to magazine pieces cranked out regularly to America's top outdoor magazines. It wasn't long, however, that I noticed something: the magazines were buying my stories, but they always used someone else's photographs.

My conclusion? Photographers should photograph, writers should write. And never the twain should meet.

 

TALKING TO ELK -- THERE'S THE PRESSURE!

His reply floated up on rising thermals from the basin below. My father-in-law heard it at the same time, pinning me expectantly with white-rimmed dark eyes. I wanted to shake my head, but gave no overt display. If only he wasn't so trusting; with so much faith in his daughter's husband, expecting too much.

Sure his son-in-law had enjoyed considerable success as an elk hunter. But success had only come via hard work, missed meals, vanished weekends and holidays and vacation days spent afield, until his daughter -- my wife -- boiled with disappointment and subdued anger.

It was no use, though, the Oregon butcher had caught me in a moment of weakness, begging to join me on a Montana elk hunt. Then the old man told all his friends, neighbors, and visitors to the meat counter where he worked that he was going to Montana to shoot his first elk. God knows I tried to let him down easy; told him not to expect too much. "pshaw," he said, "you get one every year. Wouldn't be nothing for you to take me out and let me punch my ticket."

I looked at Jane and shrugged. She'd been around long enough to know how hard elk hunting really was; had, in fact, helped me pack a six-point off a mountain, through deep snow, the year before. But the lady also knew I took that one near the end of a long season. And she knew I'd hunted day after day with little success. And to her credit, she, too, tried to help her father to a softer landing if the Gods failed to smile upon him.

Undaunted, Sam showed up on our doorstep the day before we were to pack into the backcountry. In those days I didn't have a big string of horses, so I had to make two trips from the trailhead to camp in order to take in all food, gear, and horsefeed.

We hunted hard, out at daylight, back at dark. But as I feared, elk weren't playing in our game. Surprisingly, Sam bore up well. The old gaffer had put in his young man's apprentice scouting for whitetails in Arkansas, his middle years searching out mule deer bucks in Oregon, and now relied on faith to see him to a Montana elk during his waning years. All in all, Jane's father had both courage and discipline. I thought he had his head screwed on straight -- but was it straight enough?

Sam had lost his right hand in an accident during his youth. So he did most of the cooking while I took care of our horses and cut the wood for our squalid little camp. "How are you holding up, Dad?" I asked late in the hunt.

"Holding up? What do you mean by asking how I'm holding up. Don't you worry about me. We'll still get him." I sighed. Just two days left.

That night, a huge bull traisped bellowing past our camp, scattering our grazing horses.Then we hiked to a different ridge and I bugled down into the basin below. . . .

We tacked down into that basin where the bull had rashly answered our challenge. A smaller bull squealed from the forest to our left as we descended. I lifted a chin and pointed toward the smaller elk, then shrugged when Sam shook his head and pointed on downhill. We set up against a screen of small firs where we had a commanding field of fire to the front. I bugled again. The elk's full-throated roar came from our immediate right, and a little behind, startling us both. Then the maddened bull came with a rush, breaking cover only forty feet away.

Of course, the elk's charge came from Sam's handicapped right side, requiring him to twist in a half-circle in order to bring his rifle to bear. The man's legs tangled as he turned, and he sprawled to the ground. The red-eyed elk paused. He was bewildered for but a moment while his eyes cleared. Then he spun to escape. With no alternative, I raised my rifle, flicked off the safety. . . .

Sam's Enfield roared and the bull dropped as a stone.

Stunned, I glanced down. My father-in-law smiled up at me. "I knew I'd get him, son," the man said while still struggling to untangle his feet.

 

Roland Cheek wrote a syndicated outdoors column (WildTrails and Tall Tales) for 21 years. The column was carried in 17 daily and weekly newspapers in two states. In addition, he scripted and broadcast a daily radio show (Trails to Outdoor Adventure) that aired on 75 stations from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific Ocean. He's also written upwards of 200 magazine articles and 12 fiction and nonfiction books. For more on Roland, visit:

 

www.rolandcheek.com

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