If I followed a direct line from the beach at Partition Cove on Alaska’s Kodiak Island out across the ocean, I would find myself passing by Hawaii and landing on the banks of Sulzberger Bay in Antarctica, 9,000 miles away.
I’m sipping a mug of tea and contemplating this watery horizon when, from the corner of my eye, I notice movement. Turning, I see a fox making its way across the sand. His fur is wet and spiky from a recent plunge into the cold Pacific, perhaps lunging at a fish or a stranded fowl. My presence tickles his curiosity; his upbeat footstep brings him closer to my campsite.
For a moment, I feel like we are having a conversation. I never hide from animals. In fact, I want them to see me. Photography is an exchange between a subject and an observer. In these portraits made while kayaking around Kodiak Island there is a dialogue between the animal and myself. This is my philosophy in all photography and especially with wildlife—I don’t want to take the shot, I want to receive it.
Often, receiving such a shot—when our eyes meet and we share that unspoken communication—is a matter of waiting. I have lain on the sand for interminable hours, my eyes glued to the camera. Bones aching, skin itching, fingers numb. Waiting for 30 minutes without pause and then—the second I break my concentration—a perfect, fleeting combination of eye contact, light and composition. And so I wait some more.
Nothing would ever be accomplished if we just waited for things to happen. But you must be able to wait for the unique to manifest.When it does, all those minutes, all those hours, all those years waiting, suddenly are worth the wait.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2015 issue of Adventure Kayak magazine.
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