The Photographer's Sky

It turned out as the most expensive single photograph I've ever taken. Seems in my haste to get to my shooting location I managed to zip through a speed trap and yes I did receive a ticket, over $200 worth of speeding ticket. I wasn't happy to say the least, but in spite of this setback I managed to arrive at my intended location and was greeted with one of the best Photographer's Skies I've ever captured.

Landscape photography encompasses such a wide range of techniques and venues it is all but impossible to write about them all. But, there is one element that seems to apply to almost every aspect of this form of photography...that would be a great sky.

What is a Photographer's Sky? Well, simply stated, it is where the sky becomes an integral part of the composition, so much so, it becomes the most important element of the entire image. A great sky is key to most landscape photography. Without it, most images will look lifeless and flat, almost always bland, and lacking character. I'm not always speaking about sunset or sunrise. While those two times can generate some amazing looks, some of the best skies occur in the middle of the day. The old axiom of always shooting during the early or late hour of the day does not always have to become locked down. You can shoot all day long, it is just a matter of how you use the light and available conditions. In fact great skies can occur at any time of the day. The only bad skies in my opinion are those 'hazy white sky' conditions where there is no texture at all, but even those kinds of skies have their value in certain situations.

Okay, so, what makes a great Photographers Sky? That can be defined by one word; Texture. Texture is provided by clouds, all kinds of clouds, dark ominous ones, fluffy white ones, whispy ones, bright ones, simple and complex ones...I could go on, but the point is for the most part, clouds make the sky. Sometimes a completely blank sky can become a powerful visual element. It all depends on how you use it and the compositional techniques applied around it. A dark smooth texture can be just as appealing as one with a great deal of movement associated with it.

Kentucky has some amazing skies, but finding a Big Sky situation here can be a challenge, but not impossible. It requires an unobstructed view of the horizon, which in Kentucky is not always possible. Places out west are more condusive to the big sky element. That is why I love to photograph Oklahoma's Tallgrass Prairie where you can still find horizon to horizon of unobstructed vista's of prairie grasslands.

Capturing a photographer's sky is not always easy to do. In most cases you will need to employ a good polarizer filter. This will help to darken a blue sky and help to bring out texture in the clouds by eliminating or reducing hot spot glare. You also must have some kind of connection to the foreground to provide a point of reference, something that places the moment into context.

To me the best skies are the ones where its elements provide a full range of textures from dark shadows to whispy whites and where some clear portions are visable as well. I especially savor those moments when dark ominois skies are begining to break apart and you can see a wide range of dark and light interspaced between the various levels of the cloud formations.

A great Photographer's Sky is one that translates well into black and white. Sometimes a sky will look promising in color, but when transformed to B&W it takes on a whole new expression. That is where a good polarizer is essential because it allows for the sky to be transformed into an almost black sky which can create a dramatic Ansel Adams look.

The photographers sky...its one of the most important elements I seek out when searching for that great landscape photograph.

Old Days and Places: Quail Hunting - A Measure of Class

...I felt the solid recoil nudge against my shoulder and heard the muffled pop of the shotgun echo across the draw. The bird rocketed across the opening then at the report of the shotgun crumpled and fell near a tangled mess of vines. My old Friend Ralph blurted out, "Good Shot..." as I sauntered over to my small trophy and examined it...

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Based on the Oklahoma Backcountry article from August 2002.

I have lived in many places scattered across several states but my ancestral home is Oklahoma. For many years I traveled across its landscape in search of hunting and fishing opportunities. Over those years hunting for quail became one of the grandest and exciting forms of hunting I was able to participate in and historically Oklahoma possessed some of the best quail populations in the country. This article was written originally for the old Oklahoma Backcountry website about 15 years ago before we moved to Kentucky. I hope you enjoy this special look into what is truly a sport with a measure of class.

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Any day spent afield hunting develops its own aura and magic. No two are ever alike. A rising sun casting a glow into wispy clouds or that feeling of change in the air when the first cold front blows in and the weather shifts. There is the wide open fun of an opening day dove hunt, the quiet reflexion and humbling atmosphere that hovers around the campfire at deer camp, and the exhilarating rush of the frigid days of duck hunting. They all contribute to the collective memories a hunter builds over time. But, one kind of hunting stands apart from all the rest; one that retains a measure of class and represents everything good about the outdoor world.

Who can forget the aggressive nature of a noble pointer working heavy cover, then spin and lock on point just before a covey of quail explodes at your feet. When you  finally react and lock onto that blur as it rockets away and feel the recoil  of a favorite shotgun, then to finally hold in hand one of natures survival experts, well, most people are forever changed by the experience of quail hunting.

The dominant colors across the Eastern Oklahoma landscape in late November is burnt tan and gray. Accented with a chilling wind, steel blue sky laced with high, thin clouds, and the encroaching dark green of Oklahoma's red cedar, a typical November day hunting in Oklahoma can run anywhere from unseasonably   warm to wintry cold. I remember it being somewhere in the low 40’s, maybe a little overcast and breezy those twenty odd years ago when Ralph and I worked our way down the eastern edge of the Verdigris River then up a tangled draw in pursuit of bobwhite quail. The draw tapered from about 50 yards wide to close to 75 yards wide and snaked between two plowed fields bracketed by thick woods. Across the outer edges bordering the plowed field, stood banks of thick, neck-high grass. Inside the draw it was more open with saplings, tangles of vines, brushy river cane and a soft semi-muddy bottom. Old Dooley, Ralph's liver and white Brit, diligently worked the cover as we strolled through the center of the draw for the first couple hundred yards. By then the high grass along the edges looked so temping we split up with one of us working the upper, more difficult path, and the other staying inside the draw.

I carried my old Stevens 16 gauge side by side, loaded with number 8 field loads and Ralph lugged his old 12 gauge Winchester Model 1894 thumb buster as he called it. I really miss that old 16 gauge. It was one fine quail gun with its relatively short barrels and modified/full chokes. It would swing as lightly as a broomstick and looked like a classic with its refinished walnut stock. It was great in heavy cover like we were encountering on that day.

As cool as it was, it didn't take long to work up a sweat stomping around in the thick grass, but the effort paid off. I don't remember how large the covey was, maybe eight or ten birds, but they busted out of the grass right at my feet and before I could react, scattered across the draw. A few of them flew down the edge; most flew into the draw and crossed in front of Ralph. With Ralph's not so good hearing, I yelled at him and he spotted them as they randomly sat down inside the tangles and along the opposite edge. Old Dooley, Ralph's liver and white Brittany Spaniel was birdy for the rest of the morning with all the quail scent floating around in there. As we worked up the draw we’d flush a single here, a double there. After the first couple of flushes, the old 16 gauge once again snapped to my shoulder and swung with the flutter that erupted a few yards in front of me. The bird rocketed up then across the opening then at the report of the shotgun crumpled and fell near a tangled mess of vines. My old Friend Ralph blurted out, "Good Shot..." as I sauntered over to my small trophy and examined it. To my surprise, it was not a quail but a migratory woodcock, the first I'd ever shot or seen in the field.

Woodcock are not all that common that far west, but some stragglers do migrate through the eastern edges of Oklahoma even as far west as Tulsa. The cane and tangle infested draw was the perfect holding area for them with its muddy bottom and tall thickets. Being the migrants they are, they stop over in these soft bottom areas to feed by poking their odd looking snout into the mud in search of worms. I can't remember how many birds we collected that day, but we had good action, good dog work, and our aim was good enough to place a few birds in our game bags. That year was a good year for quail, as were the next few years following.

We'd return to that draw on a regular basis, made an occasional foray ‘out at Morris’ and other assorted places, and made trips to Hitchita, where we almost froze on a bitterly cold, snow spitting winter day, and the Okmulgee game refuge. Two of the largest covey rises I have ever witnessed occurred in those two places. Can't say for sure how many birds got up, it seemed like a hundred or more, but was probably closer to forty or fifty. Both rises erupted in slow motion like a dark, thundering cloud when they busted, one at the end of a narrow draw and one on the edge of some heavy cover. I've never witnessed such large covey rises as those two times. It was truly an amazing example of how quail can and will survive and repopulate an area given good habitat.

For a good number of years I all but stopped quail hunting. The dogs got to old, or other events syphoned off what available time there was to get out.  Maybe it was more of an observation than anything, but not long ago I couldn't recall the last time I had jumped any quail, except for an isolated single or an occasional brace of birds seen running along the edge of the road. Way to much time has gone by since I've seen a covey of any consequence while out in the field. I've not forgotten the good times, the long hikes, the crisp wind in my face, and the sound of a covey rise. My good friend Rocky and I spent many a day in the field chasing after old Mr. Bob White. I do miss those days.

So, where have all the quail gone? The experts say the habitat is all messed up. Some hunters claim there are too many hawks that prey on the young birds, and skunks and raccoons that get into the nests, and even domestic cats take their toll. A lot of blame is placed on finicky weather and disease or some combination of the two. Some even say there's been too much hunting pressure. I tend to think, at least in part, it is because of all the above. About 80 percent of the quail are lost each year whether they are hunted or not, so hunting pressure has little effect on the overall population, unless of course the population is severely or adversely stressed from other factors. Historically, quail can bounce back rather quickly even after their numbers are reduced, but when you have habitat problems combined with too many predators and weather too hot, or too wet, or too dry, or too cold, then factor in some bird disease. It's a wonder the quail populations still exist at all. Unfortunately, some hunters think they must shoot every bird they see and forget or simply do not understand that you must leave enough birds in an area so they can survive and rebuild the covey. The old saying ‘Leave some for seed’ is a valid statement and a vital practice for today’s quail hunting environment. Oklahoma still ranks as one of the best quail states in the country, and there are still pockets of good quail populations, mostly on private land, but the old haunts I used to always find quail in just don’t produce anymore.

Sometimes in the spring or late summer would drive the twenty miles or so northwest of my home in Edmond and scan the open prairie and wheat fields of central Oklahoma. Along those back roads I'll stop and listen to the sounds of the prairie and feel the hot wind blowing across the open ranges. If I stay long enough, I'll usually hear the unmistakable high pitched 'Bahb....Whhite' whistle somewhere out in the tall grasses. It is comforting to know they are still there, still surviving in spite of the pressure placed on them from urban sprawl and the whims of nature. My home is in Kentucky now which offers it own adventure rewards, but quail hunting here is sporatic at best. Even so, I will often hike around the edge of the cornfields behind my house and will on occasion jump a small covey. When I do, I am transported back to those days in Oklahoma hiking the edge cover of a tangled draw where the quail loved to hide.

My old friend Ralph is gone now, but I will never forget those red-letter days of quail hunting we experienced all those years ago. I only hope the future holds the same for the generation coming up behind us. For now, I'll bet on the new generation of hunters and on the quail. I think they'll be around for a long time and will bounce back with a little help from nature, and a greater understanding from landowners and hunters. I plan on being there, to continue with and to pass on that legacy, with possibly a new hunting dog, a renewed spirit, and respect for a classic upland bird, and maybe another old 16 gauge, double barrel shotgun.

Old Days and Places: Musical Waters and a Country Rose

Based on an article originally written for Oklahoma Backcountry - January 1998

...The number of fish I caught that day has faded with time, but the experience of that first visit has remained forever etched into my outdoor history...

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On the crest of the bluff a grove of pine trees swayed in the rising air currents. With a gentle whisper their song filled the little valley and kept time with the musical waters of Flint Creek as it rolled and tumbled across the Northeastern Oklahoma landscape. Dogwoods and Redbuds accented the hills with their flash of color along with cottonwoods and other hardwood trees just now beginning to awaken from their winter long sleep. Song birds of just about every variety added their charm which was bolstered by the occasional bellowing of a dozen or so cattle as they grazed across rolling fields surrounding the creek.

Spring was certainly in the air presenting its calming antidote to the stresses and strains of working and living in the city. Just above the creek not far from the scenic country road stood the old farm house. It was a scene where country living displayed its best flavor and before long the blur of the previous few hectic months drifted away to silence. A most wonderful place was this peaceful little valley tucked into the secluded foothills of the Oklahoma Ozarks. This special day, back in 1978, was my first day to discover the values associated with the charms of Flint Creek.

Flint Creek begins as a trickle just across the Arkansas state line, then it flows generally to the west and south as it winds its way over river gravel, through pastures and valleys, around pine accented bluffs and hills, to eventually tumble into Oklahoma's Illinois River. Along its path can be discovered some of the most beautiful scenery and best creek fishing in the Sooner state.

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The first time it came into view I knew something unique existed here. My old friend Ralph for many years when a young lad would spend time with his parents camping along the banks of Flint Creek. In turn for many years he would bring his family to enjoy the wonders of this wonderful place. An hours drive or so east of Tulsa I turn onto a gravel road north of old highway 33, now 412, to travel maybe 4 or 5 miles negotiating several cutbacks and sharp turns to eventually turn into the long driveway just before crossing a low water bridge.

I stopped at the farmhouse and was greeted by a pack of 6 or 7 country dogs all wagging their tails as they barked their greeting. Scattered along an old rickety fence and growing beside the farm house were a series of country rose bushes just now beginning to emerge into their first spring bloom. I stood outside petting the dogs and felt as though I belonged here as the warm spring sunshine filled the valley. Within a moment or two the screen door screached open and slapped closed again behind as the owners of this piece of paradise stepped outside and began to walk over to where I was standing. Several of the dogs broke ranks from around me and surrounded them, wagging their tails with their enthusiastic greeting as they followed them down the walk way.

I introduced myself to the elderly couple, the Talberts, as a friend of Ralphs which generated a warm smile of acceptance from them. They were most enjoyable folks who had lived on this property for many, many years. After a few pleasantries were exchanged, old man Talbert granted me permission to cross his fields and camp along the creek down by the bluff.

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"Real purdy spot down there by the bluff, good fish'n too. Be careful with the campfire, been kind of dry," he said as he pointed in that direction. "Don't mind the cattle, they'll mosey by after a while to see who you are."

I shook his hand and drove to the gate where his wife lifted the securing chain from the bent nail holding it in place, then pushed it open where it creaked and groaned from lack of use. I followed a cow-track trail that wound just above the creek, bouncing and bumping on the uneven texture of the pasture, then I saw it, the perfect spot for a camp. I walked to the edge of the creek where a small riffle sang a cheerful song as it tumbled toward the bluff. I thought to myself, '...this is something I have needed for a long time...'

Before long my camp was set and I was eager to try some fishing. The creek was low and easy to wade but it was still quite cold. It almost didn't look deep enough to hold fish in places but a couple of quick casts with a yellow Roostertail spinner along a weathered blowdown produced my first Flint Creek smallmouth bass. He wasn't all that big, 11 maybe 12 inches or so, but was typical of their type with a scrappy nature. The number of fish I caught that day has faded with time, but the experience of that first visit has remained forever etched into my outdoor history.

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I spent the better part of the day meandering along the creek making a cast here and there exploring every deep hole and the eddy's below each riffle. It was all new to me and around each tight turn in the creek a new 'fishy spot' presented itself. The whole creek looked fishy.

The day passed much to quickly and as the light began to fade I returned to my campsite and stirred a fire into life. As night fell across the valley a chill fell with it, yet the skies opened their first Flint Creek performance for me with a splendid display of stars. Long into the evening I fed the fire mesmerized by its glow, warmed by it flames. Below where I camped the little creek provided an orchestrated symphony that played all through the evening and I slept to the soft music of the flowing waters.

By the next morning I was awakened by the bellowing song of cattle. I stumbled out of my tent and shivered in the chill of the morning air to witness a shallow haze drifting across the pasture highlighted by the first rays of a rising sun. I rekindled the fire and as I waited for that first cup of coffee, I could hear the fish jumping seemingly calling me into action. A short time later I braved the cold waters and waded over to the base of a blue hole that formed a pivot point at the base of a long bluff. I could not help but wonder who the first person was to stand where I then stood. Surely it was some ancient Native American who made this little valley home. I discovered later that arrowheads could be found in the plowed fields.

I found myself at times sitting calmly just listening to the creek telling its story. I managed to doze off in the warmth of a sunbeam as the verses from Flint Creek; The Story continued to play. Most all the day was spent resting and fishing along with some exploring. Later that evening I sat next to the campfire late into the evening gazing up at the sky which was again filled with stars with an encore performance. Another morning greeted me much the same way as the first one. I felt sad in a way knowing that my time here on this first and possibly most important visit, was soon to end. After a morning of fishing, I reluctantly secured the tent and the gear and chaotically tossed it into the back of my old vehicle. Before leaving I stood one final time next to the blue hole at the base of the bluff to listen to the music of the flowing waters and absorb the sweet smell of pine drifting from the bluff above.

Over the years I continued to off and on return to this little farm on the creek for some much required R&R. The old timer and his wife were always gracious and inviting. Some years later, when Kris and I first started to spend time together, I took her to Flint Creek for a day visit. It was then I suppose, when I first realized she was the one for me.

Circumstances eventually prevented me from returning for a few years but a time came when a longing inside of me boiled to the surface where I needed to seek the solitude of this little valley.

I stopped as I had always done at the old farmhouse. The dogs were gone. A new, much younger face greeted me as I walked toward the porch which now sagged almost to the ground. When I asked the young man about the Talberts he lowered his head and somberly said, "Seems they passed away about a year ago. Someone else owns the farm now, a doctor out of Siloam Springs. I'm only the caretaker and I've been told to no longer allow people to camp on the property. You can still fish it if you want to, but you'll have to park down by the bridge."

I thanked him and started to retrace the path down the long gravel and dirt driveway toward the crossing. Somehow it just wasn't the same. I cut my visit short that day, saddened by the passing of the original owners. Oddly enough I never took very many photographs of the area, just a few fleeting ones.

A void was created by the passing of the kindly old man and his gentle wife, yet they became a special part of a special setting fitting enough to inspire poets. I may never run across such people and places again, yet from the few outings I managed on Flint Creek, all I have to do is close my eyes to hear the musical waters of this little creek and for visions of its paradise to appear, visions as sweet and fragrant as a country rose, like those I saw on that last day still blooming along the old fence and next to the old house.

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