Behind the Lens: What I See Now

When I look back at where I started, it would be easy to focus on the equipment.

The cameras.

The lenses.

The pawn shops where I would look for almost anything with a Nikon F mount and wonder what I could do with it.

At the beginning, I was learning as I went.

I didn't have some carefully planned collection of gear.

I didn't know exactly what kind of photographer I wanted to become.

I was simply trying things.

Different lenses.

Different subjects.

Different settings.

Different ways of seeing what was in front of me.

Eventually, the equipment changed.

I made the jump to mirrorless.

I started using better glass.

Then came a lens that, at one point, I probably never imagined I would own.

And yes...

The quality of my photographs changed.

The autofocus got better.

The detail got better.

The ability to capture wildlife in difficult situations got better.

Having equipment capable of keeping up with what I wanted to photograph made a difference.

But looking back now, I don't think the equipment was the biggest change.

I was.

Somewhere along the way, photography changed the way I move through the world.

Before photography, I could walk through a park and see trees.

Water.

Birds.

Maybe a deer if I was lucky enough for one to cross directly in front of me.

Now I notice things differently.

I hear a bird before I see it.

I notice movement in the branches.

I watch where an animal is looking.

I wonder what it's waiting for.

I notice how the wind moves through the grass.

How the light changes the color of feathers.

How a hawk can sit perfectly still while hundreds of people pass underneath without ever knowing it's there.

I notice tracks in the dirt.

Ripples in the water.

Movement at the edge of the trees.

A shape in the distance that doesn't quite belong.

Things that probably would have disappeared into the background of my life before now stand out.

Photography didn't just teach me how to take pictures.

It taught me how to pay attention.

I still enjoy observing people.

People are fascinating.

Expressions.

Body language.

The little moments that happen when someone doesn't realize anyone is watching.

There's something interesting about trying to capture that.

But the more time I spend outside, the more I realize that wildlife holds my attention in a different way.

Wildlife doesn't care that I'm there.

It doesn't pose.

It doesn't wait for me to get my settings right.

It doesn't repeat something because I missed the shot.

An osprey isn't going to circle back because my shutter speed was wrong.

A deer isn't going to move back into better light because I wasn't ready.

A hawk isn't going to turn its head because I asked nicely.

Wildlife makes me slow down.

Watch.

Learn.

Wait.

I have to pay attention to behavior.

I have to anticipate what might happen next.

And sometimes...

Nothing happens at all.

There are days when I can spend hours outside and come home without a photograph I'm excited about.

There was a time when I probably would have considered that a wasted trip.

I don't anymore.

Because I'm starting to understand that the photograph isn't always the most important part.

Sometimes I'll be sitting somewhere watching wildlife and realize I haven't even raised the camera.

Maybe an animal is moving through the trees.

Maybe a bird is calling somewhere above me.

Maybe the light is changing across the water.

And instead of immediately thinking about shutter speed, composition, or whether I can get the shot...

I just watch.

Sometimes I don't take a picture at all.

A year ago, I might have called that a missed opportunity.

Now I think differently.

Nobody online will ever see that moment.

It won't become a print.

It won't go on my website.

It won't end up on Facebook or Instagram.

There won't be a RAW file sitting on a hard drive proving that it happened.

But I saw it.

And sometimes that's enough.

That might be one of the biggest things photography has taught me.

How to slow down.

How to observe.

How to appreciate something without needing to own it afterward.

It's funny because photography started with me wanting to capture things.

Now it has taught me that sometimes I don't need to.

There are still plenty of moments where everything inside me says,

Take the picture.

And I do.

I still love that feeling.

The sudden movement.

The split second when everything comes together.

The sound of the shutter.

Looking at the back of the camera afterward and realizing I might have actually gotten it.

That excitement hasn't gone anywhere.

If anything, I love it more now.

But the difference is that I'm learning not to experience everything through the viewfinder.

Sometimes I take the photograph.

Sometimes I lower the camera.

Either way...

I'm paying attention.

And when I think about how much has changed since I started, it isn't just the way I see wildlife.

It's the way I see myself as a photographer.

In the beginning, I was trying to figure out what I liked.

Now I know.

I love wildlife.

I love nature.

I love the waiting.

I love trying to understand what an animal might do next.

I love going somewhere without knowing what I'll find.

I love coming home with dirt on my clothes, memory cards full of photographs, and some ridiculous story about what happened while I was trying to get one of them.

I've also learned that good equipment has value.

Not because expensive gear automatically creates a good photograph.

It doesn't.

A lens can't teach patience.

A camera can't teach observation.

Neither one can tell you when the moment in front of you actually matters.

But better equipment can remove some of the barriers between what I see and what I'm capable of capturing.

The expensive lens didn't suddenly make me a photographer.

It gave me a tool capable of keeping up with the photographer I was becoming.

And I'm still becoming one.

That's another thing I've learned.

There isn't some point where I'm going to wake up and suddenly know everything.

There will always be something else to understand.

Something else to improve.

Another mistake to make.

Another animal whose behavior I don't understand yet.

Another lighting situation that makes me rethink everything I thought I knew.

Another photograph that reminds me I still have a long way to go.

And I like that.

Because I can look back now and see how far I've already come.

From searching pawn shops for whatever lens I could afford...

To mirrorless cameras.

To lenses I once only looked at online.

To spending countless hours in the field learning wildlife behavior.

To creating photographs I'm genuinely proud of.

To entering my work in the fair.

To having one of those photographs chosen as People's Choice by the people who attended.

None of that means I've arrived.

It means I'm moving.

I'm learning.

I'm becoming stronger.

And for the first time, I can also see a future for this that goes beyond simply taking pictures on my days off.

I want a wildlife booth that I can take from event to event.

I want people to walk up and see these animals the way I saw them.

I want the photographs hanging there, but I also want the stories behind them.

Where I was.

What happened.

What I waited for.

What I learned.

Someday, years from now, I would love to have some kind of camper van set up around photography.

My cameras.

My gear.

My computer.

Storage.

Everything I need to go somewhere for several days, photograph whatever I find, edit from the road, upload the work, sleep, wake up, and do it all over again.

I know that's not tomorrow.

It might not even be soon.

But I like having something to work toward.

I think about places I've never been.

Wildlife I've never seen.

Experiences that right now only exist in photographs taken by somebody else.

I'd love to go to Alaska.

Stand beside a river and watch bears waiting for salmon.

Not at a zoo.

Not through somebody else's photograph.

Actually be there.

Hear the water.

Feel the cold.

Watch the bear step into the river.

Feel that nervous excitement when I realize the animal I've seen in documentaries my entire life is suddenly standing in front of me.

And yes...

I'd probably take a ridiculous number of pictures.

But I also hope I remember to lower the camera.

Because that's the photographer I'm becoming.

Someone who wants the photograph...

but doesn't want to lose the experience trying to get it.

I'd love to work on larger projects someday.

I'd love to have an opportunity to photograph wildlife or locations for a publication.

Something like National Geographic would obviously be a dream.

And I'm realistic about that.

There are photographers out there with decades of experience I don't have.

People who have spent their lives working in places I've never visited and photographing animals I've never seen.

I'm not going to pretend I'm at that level.

I'm not.

But I've also stopped looking at people who are farther ahead of me as proof that I shouldn't try.

They had a beginning too.

They had photographs they weren't proud of.

They had equipment they outgrew.

They had things they didn't understand.

They had places they dreamed about seeing someday.

I don't know how far photography will take me.

Maybe someday one of my photographs ends up in a magazine.

Maybe I travel across the country selling wildlife prints.

Maybe I eventually have that van and spend days at a time following whatever trail looks interesting.

Maybe none of it happens exactly the way I picture it now.

That's okay.

Because when I think about what photography has already given me, the most important thing isn't sitting in my camera bag.

It's the way I see.

I notice more.

I listen more.

I slow down.

I watch.

I wait.

I've learned that something doesn't have to be dramatic to be worth noticing.

Sometimes the most interesting thing happening is the thing almost everyone else walked right past.

And sometimes...

I don't even need the photograph.

I just need to notice that it happened.

When I look back at the photographer I was when I started, I see someone trying to figure out how a camera worked.

When I look at myself now, I see someone who is learning how the world works around him.

I'm still learning.

I'm still growing.

I'm still figuring out what kind of photographer I want to become.

But I know one thing that I didn't know when I started.

The camera didn't just teach me how to take photographs.

It taught me how to see.

And sometimes I take the picture.

Sometimes I don't.

Either way...

I saw it.