Winter Photography: My First Images

Looks like I caught the perfect weather yesterday for my first foray into winter photography. Today the sky is a milky gray monochrome filled with a constant supply of snow, now light, now heavy, subject to the whimsies of the lake effect. But yesterday was magical, a day of contrasts–of fantastic cloudscapes, resonant, deep blue skies, dancing snowflakes, and vanilla-colored curtains of distant snow showers gleaming in the slanting sun.

I’m not going to say much more about it. Instead, I’m going to let a few pictures tell the story. These were all shot southwest of Hastings, Michigan, near the Barry State Game Area.

Cloudscape — I’m captivated by the expressiveness of the clouds. And I love how they seem to follow the contours of the treeline like a penumbra.

Linescape — Winter strips the landscape down to its fundamental geometry, to tapestries of lines and angles. I’m so pleased with how this shot turned out. Not bad for a greenhorn, I think.

Transfiguration — The stump to the right of the backlit tree makes me think of Moses before the burning bush.

Old Drive — The Barry State Game Area is punctuated with the relics of old homesteads and farms that couldn”t quite make it in the sandy soil. I’m sure a house once stood here. All that’s left is the drive leading past the trees into an empty field.

Snowy Landscape

My friend Kurt Hulst brought to my attention the fact that I don’t include many photos in my blogs. This is true. Part of the reason has had to do with my learning curve as a photographer. But I fancy that I’ve improved quite a bit since I first bought my Rebel XTi in the spring; the rest of the matter is simply that I’ve limited myself regarding this blog to storm chasing and sax playing.

Now, storms come when they come, and unless global warming accelerates remarkably, I expect it’ll be a while before we see anything resembling springtime weather. As for the sax, when I”m at a club, it’s usually to play, not to photograph.

So those are my excuses. But I think maybe I need to broaden my options a bit for the sake of adding a little color to this blog. Otherwise, I face three months–four, really–with little to say, weatherwise, other than, “Dang, I wish the spring would get here.” And all that time, the winter has a beauty and interest of its own, and photo opportunities I hadn”t imagined.

Until today, that is, when I set out to photograph my first snowy landscape of the year. I drove out to some of my favorite backroads in Barry County, out near my church west of Hastings. There, in the glacial hills near the Barry State Game Area, the landscape is particularly photogenic, and I was not disappointed in what I found.

Here is one photo. There are others, but this will do for now.

Kurt, this one’s for you!

Lake Effect Snow

Down comes the snow. Here in Michigan, we get snow even when nearby states are snow-free. How so? It’s called “lake effect snow,” and it arises when the relatively warmer waters of Lake Michigan evaporate, condense, and freeze into snowflakes in the colder air above. This can add real interest when you’re out and about. You can be driving under crystal blue skies one minute and whiteout conditions the next. The closer you are to the lakeshore, the thicker the snow; inland, it gradually thins out, though the snow bands can stretch a long ways.

As I write, lake effect snow is falling here in Caledonia, forty miles east of Lake Michigan. I might as well get used to the stuff since I’ll be seeing a lot of it these next few months. I’d like to think that it”s at least helping to raise the water levels in the Great Lakes, but that”s not how lake effect snow works. Synoptic winter systems get the job done, but lake effect snow is just sleight of hand, robbing Peter to pay Paul. It takes from Lake Michigan, winds up back in Lake Michigan, and leaves us neither the richer nor the poorer.

I have to say, though, snow-Grinch that I am, that right now, this snowfall sure looks pretty.

Of Foxes and Saxophones

In my last post, I established that cows make a great jazz audience. Given their rapt enthusiasm for my saxophone playing, I might even opt for a roomful of them over people, provided they pay at the door, order a few drinks, and tip the waitress. Then again, cows are notorious for hygienic indiscretion, so I guess I”ll go with people after all, at least until the day when Depends for cows hits the market.

So much for cows. On to foxes.

Early one morning on my way to work, driving through the countryside near the airport, I pulled my car onto the shoulder by a broad meadow. With half an hour to kill, I assembled my horn, figuring I”d get in a little sax practice to start the day off right.

As I stood there serenading the sunrise, I noticed a riffling motion in the weeds a hundred feet off to my right. Out of the tall grass emerged a red fox. It edged closer…closer…to within maybe sixty feet from me. Then it sat, its head cocked, watching intently as I played. After a minute, apparently deciding I was safe, the fox moved closer still, then sat again and listened. From the studious look on its face, I figured it was analyzing my licks, absorbing them for possible use in its own playing.

Hard to say how long the little guy sat there–maybe five minutes, maybe even longer. Eventually he got up and, casting a couple backward glances, trotted off.

What a gift! As much as I love the countryside and as much time as I”ve spent in it, I nevertheless have seen foxes only a handful of times. They”re retiring creatures which prefer not to be seen. But like many other animals, they seem to have a fascination for music. That one would allow its curiosity to overcome its natural fear of man in such a way, for what strikes me as a pretty lengthy amount of time, is something I consider remarkable–or at least, very, very cool.

On a fishing trip in Ontario several years ago, I packed in my soprano sax. In the evening, after a full day of fishing, I would sit on the rocky shore of the wilderness island where my buddies and I were camped, playing my horn and listening to the loons call back from across the waters. The antiphony was haunting and beautiful. Those were magical twilights, filled with loon song, the scent of white pine, and the voices and laughter of friends.

What a rich creation God has given us! And what an incredible treasure is music, connecting humans with the wild things of the earth and giving us glimpses of how things were meant to be–and how they once were long, long ago, back in the Garden.