People who admire my local landscape photography would be surprised at the number of amusing tales that have unfolded behind the scenes of those misty morning panoramas and vibrant sunsets.
Although the hours I spend wandering the back roads at dusk or dawn are indeed refreshing, serene and even spiritual times for me, these rambling quests for the perfect photograph have also yielded various tales of absurdity and humor.
I will begin with the story of the perfect waterfowl photo that was never to be.
One ideal autumn morning a few years ago I was driving some dirt roads along Pymatuning Lake when I spotted a flock of ducks floating on the sun-kissed water.
It was a breathtaking scene. The golden light, the glassy waves, the peaceful fowl. Hastily I pulled to the berm, grabbed the camera and stealthily approached. The idea was to get as close as possible to snag a crisp, close-up image with my zoom lens. If the ducks happened to take flight as I tiptoed toward them then the camera’s aperture and shutter speed were set accordingly.
And I knew they’d take flight eventually. In fact, I was banking on a breathtaking action shot (like the ones below).
However, as I crept closer to the floating fowl it struck me as odd that they weren’t moving or showing signs of alarm. I was now in plain sight, so how was it that they couldn’t see me?
As I drew even nearer the answer became apparent: the ducks were DECOYS, and their owner—a camo-clad hunter—was lying on his stomach near the water’s edge, waiting for the real thing to come along so he could take aim and fire.
I stopped in my tracks. Mortified, I didn’t say a word, but rather made an abrupt about-face and hurried back in the direction of my car. I felt sure the hunter was probably cursing me under his breath for trudging smack dab into the middle of his waterfowl trap and scaring away his potential duck dinner.
My saga of absurdity continues with the episode of the rain-drenched leaf.
I had ventured out early one September morning after a night of intense thundershowers. The trees sparkled as the first rays of rosy sunlight glowed on the horizon. I stopped near a green pasture with the intention of photographing some grazing cows when I noticed a poplar leaf lying on the ground near my car.
Cradled upon the leaf’s lovely saw-tooth surface were big, beautiful, glistening droplets of rain. Struck suddenly with artistic inspiration, I carefully picked up the leaf so as not to lose the raindrops and laid it on the hood of my car. My car is black, so the hood would provide a dark backdrop for a close-up image of the leaf.
Absorbed in creative bliss I adjusted the camera settings, leaned forward and began snapping photos. Pleased with the results, I snapped some more. About that time I remember getting the odd feeling someone was watching me. I straightened, spun abruptly, and came face to face with a woman standing in the road staring at me as if I were insane. Dressed in athletic apparel, she was obviously out for an early morning walk. She squinted at me, her jaw agape. Her facial expression said: Who the blazes are you, and why are you out here on this deserted road taking pictures of the hood of a car??
Instantly I stammered a greeting.
“I am the photographer who lives in town and takes landscape photos,” I said stupidly. “I am taking pictures of this leaf.”
Her gaping mouth closed, and she relaxed a bit.
“Oh, ok,” she said. “Now I know who you are. My friend (~name left blank for privacy~) has mentioned you to me.” (I guess you know you live in a small town when you encounter a random stranger on a back road and yet you share a mutual acquaintance.)
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, the awkward moment gradually dissipated, and she walked on. (And hey, I got a cool pic of the leaf!)
Well, actually, I shouldn’t say the awkwardness had entirely diminished because I should also mention that when I venture out in the morning in search of landscape photos I am sometimes wearing clothing that looks like a hobo’s pajamas. My eyes are sleepy, my hair is unruly, and I may not have even brushed my teeth.
You see, if I peep out the window at 6 a.m. and notice a sky that looks promising, I will literally throw on the first sweatshirt lying on the floor and hurry to the car before the magical light fades. Thus, this is not a time when I care to be seen or to engage in chatter, so bumping into a stranger and having to exchange pleasantries is rather embarrassing.
Most of the time, though, it’s only the cows who see me, or maybe an occasional deer or bird.
There was that one time, though, when a highway patrolman pulled up alongside my car and gave me a suspicious glare. It was a foggy dawn, and I had been driving very slowly on a back road, searching for something amazing in the blue-gray light.
I pulled over along the berm to snap a picture of a weathered barn, and suddenly, out of nowhere, Mr. Policeman was parked right next to me. I admit it scared me a little.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a stern and accusing tone of voice.
“I am taking pictures,” I said sheepishly, holding up my camera for him to see.
“Of what?” he demanded.
“The early morning fog,” I said, blinking innocently. “I am a landscape photographer.”
He eyed me, and I noted with relief that his harsh demeanor seemed to fade.
“Did you know I was behind you?” he asked.
“No,” I replied.
He paused and I wondered if it were possible to receive a traffic ticket for parking on the berm to take pictures of fog.
Or maybe he thought I was some kind of weird early-morning stalker creeping around taking secret pictures of people getting dressed for work. For a moment I imagined myself in an orange jumpsuit posing for a mug shot. (Of course, I do have a pretty active imagination, lol.)
“Well, be careful,” he said at last, and then he drove on.
That was the only time I ever encountered a member of law enforcement during one of my quests for the perfect photograph.
I am sure, though, that if the bovine residents of Northern Trumbull County had their own police force I would be pursued vigilantly for invading their clover-munching privacy. They don’t call me the cow paparazzi for nothing, after all!
I do like taking pictures of cows. Once or twice when aiming the lens at Elsie and her companions I have frightened a few of the more timid beasts, but mostly I have managed to get some good cow photos without incident.
There was one time, though, when a snorting bull did not approve of me being near his herd, and I had to beat a fast retreat. And there was another time when the tables were turned and I found myself being observed by a herd of cows.
This occurred during a senior photo session and not during one of my solitary morning (or evening) adventures. I was standing in a field along with the high school senior and his mom, directing the young man on how to pose, when some cows that had been grazing in a pasture across the road lined up at the fence to watch the proceedings.
It was hilarious to see them lined up, observing us intently as if we were the most fascinating creatures they’d ever laid eyes on. Cows really ARE curious.
My own curiosity peaks in a similar fashion when it comes to local Amish folks. Yes, I know Amish don’t approve of having their pictures taken. In fact, they believe being photographed is detrimental to the soul. (Something in regard to a biblical quote about “graven images.”)
Anyway, maybe it’s wicked of me to admit it, but this hasn’t stopped me from sneakily snapping occasional photos of the Amish. (Insert diabolical laughter here–OK, not really, just joking.)
More times than I can count I have crept along the back roads of Trumbull and Geauga counties in search of a picturesque images of the Amish engaging in daily life and farm work etc.
Since many of these Amish adventures have occurred in conjunction with local festivals and not in the solitary first hours of morning or the waning hours of sunset, my two teen-aged kids are often along for the ride. I can assure you they groan in misery and embarrassment when Mom crouches in the weeds somewhere trying to get a picture of an Amish buggy as it clatters past.
Sorry kids, but yes, I will continue to embarrass you (and steal souls) in the name of good photography.
My kids have also learned that I take my camera with me pretty much everywhere I go. This became a trend after something I now call the Rainbow Incident.
The Rainbow Incident happened a few years ago. The kids and I had gone grocery shopping and were motoring home in the early evening after a severe thunderstorm when a glorious double rainbow manifested in the moody gray sky.
As I stared in awe at its amazing arc I wanted to pound my head on the dashboard of the car for missing such a breathtaking photographic opportunity. Why had I left my camera at home?? Even now I can still see its splendor in my mind’s eye, and even now I am annoyed that I wasn’t able to capture a picture of it.
(At least I DID capture THIS double rainbow, though. That’s Kinsman’s Presbyterian Church, by the way.)
But moving on (before the memory of the Rainbow Incident annoys me further), let me tell you about the unfortunate time I drove down a narrow dirt road that kept getting narrower and narrower.
This was somewhere between Trumbull and Mercer counties. At first the road looked like one of those country roads John Denver used to croon about, and I figured surely it would yield some kind of fantastic photograph. But nope, it was nothing but a misleading snare.
I had advanced maybe three-quarters of a mile when it I hit a dead end and it became clear I was going to have to turn around and go back. Trouble was there was nowhere to turn around. The road was too dang narrow. So I had to put the car in reverse, stick my head out the window and accelerate backwards about three-quarters of a mile to the main road. Probably got a few bugs in my teeth in the process, lol.
This incident, however, was not nearly as regretful as the March morning when I got my car stuck in knee-deep snow on a back road that had not yet been plowed. Yeah, I know, what kind of moron thinks they should cruise down a lonely country road that hasn’t yet been plowed—a road with a steep hill, no less? Maybe if I owned a vehicle with four-wheel drive it wouldn’t have been such an issue, but my trusty Pontiac was no match for that mighty hill. Needless to say I ended up calling AAA and had to sit and wait for about 45 minutes for the tow truck to come and pull me out.
I did get some pretty images that morning, though. Below are a couple of them along with a pic of my poor car. (Btw, if you Kinsman residents are wondering, the road in question was Moreford East.)
Being stuck in the snow is still better than being stuck in a patch of poison ivy. I have lost count of the times I have exited my car and waded excitedly into a field to capture a landscape image only to halt with a shriek as I’ve found myself ankle deep in the toxic foliage.
(The field in the image below may LOOK lovely, but it was peppered with poison ivy!)
Let me just pause and tell you that I am one of those people who contracts poison ivy with such severity that I have ended up going to the doctor to get a steroid shot in order to be rid of it. I loathe it and feel as if I can catch it by merely looking at it. As a result there have been several times when I have hurried home after a landscape photo excursion, tossed my shoes and pants in the washing machine, and then furiously scrubbed my calves and ankles. So far I have managed to escape unscathed (knock on wood).
There was that one occasion, however, when I barely escaped a deep snowy ditch I had fallen into. Well, it is a bit dramatic to infer I had fallen to such depths that I couldn’t free myself, but let me just say that when you get two feet of snow combined with gusty winds, those deep ditches along the country roads of Northeast Ohio are well hidden. One would be wise to proceed cautiously to avoid tumbling in up to their waist.
Well, at least the camera wasn’t damaged.
In fact, whenever I find myself in one of these perilous sorts of situations I always say wryly I am more worried about my camera than I am about myself. (And besides, those early mornings after a snow storm DO yield fantastic imagery.)
Anyway, so now you know what really goes on behind the scenes when I’m on the quest for gorgeous landscapes. Sometimes my excursions are indeed filled with peaceful, zen-like moments, but other times it’s nothing but ridiculousness.