Sights Not Photographed

We had beautiful weather here for the supermoon last Sunday, perfect for the occasion—cold, cloudless, and extremely clear. Moonrise above the ridges and the supermoon in the night sky was vivid and dramatic.

My friend Eric was driving to church in Hammondsport (at the south end of the lake) last Sunday morning and saw a remarkable thing. As he drove along the winding lakeside road, he was joined by a huge bald eagle flying above and ahead of him. The eagle was carrying an animal in its talons, probably a small rabbit. He slowed a little to match its speed (speed limit on that road is 55 MPH), and he said the eagle flew for quite a ways as if he were following the lane lines, in synchrony with his car. He said the bird was huge, estimating its wingspan at five or six feet, and that it was an amazing sight, the best eagle encounter of his life so far.

On Saturday evening I was playing fetch with Butters in the backyard (we do this three times a day, four times when the days are longer) and I saw a less dramatic but still wonderful sight. It was past sunset—both Bluff sunset and real sunset—and it was fast growing dark, when I saw a jet plane high in the troposphere laying down a contrail. It must have been catching the very last rays of the sun setting out to the West of us, because the contrail was a brilliant sunset pink. It was beautiful, so I stood and watched it as Butters ran for the ball.

It was in the middle of a very clear Southern sky, far from any obstruction. I averted my eye from it for just a couple of seconds—just long enough to scoop up the ball and send it flying again—about four seconds—but when I looked up to the sky again, at the place the plane should have been by then, it had disappeared! The effect was startling, like a magic trick, like the heavens had swallowed the plane.

My conjecture is that I just happened to look away at the moment the sun disappeared from the point of view of the plane. No longer illuminated by the rays of the sun, plunged into in shadow, the jet and its contrail blended into the darkening sky and became impossible to pick out from the ground.

These things remind me that before photography comes the joy and the wonder of simply seeing. It's one of the reasons for photography in the first place.

Mike
(Thanks to Eric)

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(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:

Hans Muus (partial comment): "Beautiful! I couldn't agree more. Practising photography and enjoying the other visual arts from an early age onwards, have helped me to see—and thank god also to see more intensely without a camera present. Every one here on TOP will recognize the initial feeling of 'O, sh*t, I should have had my camera with me,' but in situations like these it is also a relief to be freed from the urge to try to possess the view."

Dogman: "It was in the late 1980s. My wife, then girlfriend, and I were camping in Arches National Park in Utah. I arose early one morning, before sunrise, and started the camp stove to make coffee. When it brewed, I took a cup and walked into the rocks behind the campground, preparing to watch the sunrise over this incredibly beautiful landscape. I found nice boulder that made a comfortable seat and began to sip my coffee, alone with my thoughts. There were a few people up and about besides myself, down in the little valley below. Among them was a man and two young blonde-haired children. They didn't notice me up in the rocks. As the sun came up over the horizon, it backlit the threesome to such a degree the blonde hair of the two children seemed to glow against the background of dark red rocks and sand. At that moment, a deer quietly wandered up between the three and myself. They did not notice the deer. The deer stepped up on a rocky area just above them and froze, looking down on them.

"The elements were all there, the most incredibly beautiful scene in my memory—the unearthly landscape of Southern Utah at sunrise with three human figures, blonde hair glowing in the rising sun, with that stealthy deer just above them peering down, rimmed by the same glowing sun. For a few seconds, I saw a perfect moment in time.

"I'm sure 30 years has allowed embellishment of this memory. But it remains with me today, vivid in my mind. I did not have a camera with me at that moment. If I had, I doubt I would have taken the picture. It was too perfect. No photograph could have done that moment justice."

Jim Allen: "Dogman's comment above was for me, every bit as vivid as the photo might have been. The way he described that moment, I felt like I was seeing it myself. Thanks for sharing that."

Dillan: "This is just the sort of thing that I wanted to read first thing this morning. Thanks for the (to me) encouraging thoughts. Reading this was so much better than the news."

Comments

[longviewer]

I had a photo-free viewing day today as well. Sunlight and fog made for several great filter-light opportunities, a few raging creeks showed off, a peaceful domesticated meadow was trying to decide between fog and dappled sunlight, and a full-sunshine view of the lower Columbia River as water and tide met. The camera would have been nice! I took the camera out later but nothing came close to the photogenic morning that I was blessed to witness.

[Ciaran]

Your description of the contrail reminded me of one I saw in a crisp autumnal Parisian sky (I was in Paris for Beaujolais Nouveau Day): https://www.lechatartistique.com/shop/crescent-moon-and-contrails

It to was gone quite quickly indeed, as the sun dropped over the horizon for the day.

[MikeR]

Nice!

(Adding more words won't make it nicer)

[KeithB]

I think of this almost every time I look at the Sandia Crest from Albuquerque. It has a different light and mood almost every time I look. If I had a better view from my house, I would probably try to get a picture a day to attempt to capture the many different moods.

[Ken Tanaka]

in·del·i·ble
- making marks that cannot be removed.
- not able to be forgotten or removed.

There are many moments when a camera would only detract from the experience.

[Fred Haynes]

I second Dillan! Right on!!

[Collin J Örthner]

"These things remind me that before photography comes the joy and the wonder of simply seeing. It's one of the reasons for photography in the first place."

So important and true!!

[Mike Plews]

In my personal work I have been trying to change my thinking a bit. I try not to "take" photographs but rather "receive" them.
Your piece speaks to this, at least it does to me. Sometimes it's perfectly OK to just be still, accept the gift and move on.

[Dan Gorman]

Hi Mike,

One of the few things I still enjoy about long highway trips is the opportunity to see hawks and eagles in their natural habitat. I used to think they liked hanging out near highways in order to catch thermals off of the asphalt, but lately I suspect it's more about finding easy prey. I gotta think that little furry animals are much easier to spot scurrying across a nice wide, paved right of way than in forest underbrush. And then too, I'm sure they don't mind picking up the stationary aftermath when moving vehicles do the hard part for them.

Years ago when our kids were little, there was an explosion in the local rabbit population. Several times when out running in the early morning I saw coyotes, with their unmistakable stiff-legged canter, running between houses and nearby fields. Around that time we also had several visits on our street, and once on the big tree in our back yard, from a hawk of some sort - not a common sight in a bedroom suburb, let me tell you. Incredible to see one of these creatures holding still for a few minutes, and up close enough to see his eyes, beak, and talons in detail.

It was probably the same bird who dropped in on our son's little league game, taking up a perch on the backstop behind home plate. He went mostly unnoticed for a minute or two before several kids (and even some parents!) started throwing balls and things at him to scare him off. He was unruffled at first, but then calmly took his leave when he'd seen enough. Would have served somebody right if he'd helped himself to the ball cap or toupee of one of his would-be tormentors.

No camera in hand for either of these close encounters, but luckily the memories are vivid enough.

Cheers!
Dan

[Kenneth Voigt]

best eagle encounter: Around 1999 I was in Homer, Ak., at "The Eagle Lady's" compound taking eagle pictures. She had a shed next to the area used for photography. There was an eagle on top of the shed.
He decided to fly away but misjudged his trajectory
and crashed into me. He was very embarrassed.

[Jim Roelofs]

Oh, Mike, you've just about nailed it. For me photography is a release of the shutter in celebration of what I am privileged enough to see.

[Nicholas Condon]

One of my most notable "unphotographed sights" involved a bald eagle as well. I was at Lost Lake Lodge in Minnesota, and I had taken a little kayak (a cheap one belonging to the lake resort; a better kayak would be beyond wasted on both me and on the glass-smooth water) out onto the small namesake lake. I had left my camera on shore, since my boating skills are such that I stood a fair chance of immersing everything I was carrying. (Yes, even on glass-smooth water; I am clumsy at the best of times, and I grew up in nigh-waterless Colorado.) While out on the kayak, I got to paddle alongside some loons and their chicks, and see a deer on the shore. While on the far side of the lake, I looked up and saw a huge adult bald eagle on a tree limb overhanging the water. I slowly moved closer to get a better look. It started giving me the avian equivalent of a stinkeye, so I just shipped my paddle and watched it. It watched me for a minute, then took off and flew over my head so close that I could feel the wind from its wings. Message received, big bird. I gave that tree (which I thought might be near a nest, after that) a wide berth for the rest of the vacation.

[Phil Krzeminski]

Strange...
Years ago, deep into an artist residency in northern Michigan, I watched a Red Tail hawk drop and catch a branch, as in play, over and over again. Describing what I'd seen to the staff of the park was received as a tale brought forth from some archaic tome only opened around a prehistoric fire. I agree with Ken Tanaka, a camera, and it's inference, can often distract from the joy being.

[Andrea Costa]

"Before photography comes the joy and the wonder of simply seeing."

It is what I tell to myself everytime I'm too slow to take a photo.
:P