Photography in 2022 again saw limited travel and a focus on birds, shot with the Sony A7 IV, almost exclusively with a 100-400mm f5.6 attached. The A7 IV inherits the auto-focus of the vaunted Sony A1. And that auto-focus, particularly with bird-eye control, is precise, nailing shot after shot with a correct set-up (see Mark Galer). But A7 IV continuous shooting has blackout between shots, which often means losing a flying bird after a few frames. Most of the images here were shot by kayak, a source of great joy once again this year.

Echo. I kayak for exercise on the Sammamish Slough. In winter, the 100-ft width channel is full of birds of varying habits. Geese, Mallards and Coots tolerate me blasting by. Cormorants, Teal, Goldeneye, Hooded Mergansers, Ring-necked Ducks and Kingfishers never do. They fly off as I come near. Wood Ducks and Common Mergansers, though, sometimes allow me to pass by if I give them enough space. Mostly, though, they too fly off. On this day, the light was good, and I slid to the passage south side to allow these male Common Mergansers space on the north should they choose to fly in my direction, which they did. I love the position of the lead bird, and the bonus of an echo OOF bird behind.

Eagle Eye. Remarkable that any camera would nail it. I was floating by on the Sammamish Slough, not in a stationary spot or in a position to shoot many frames. Yet bird-eye focus of the Sony A7 IV threaded the needle. Probably no camera prior to the Sony A1 would do that. Today, the latest mirrorless cameras from Sony, Canon, Nikon and Olympus now feature improved bird-eye focus and the accompanying capability. I like the pattern of maple twigs and moss around the eagle. Because portraits of eagles are common, the twigs and moss offer something different for this “mature subject” (Galen Rowell). We don’t need to see another Bald Eagle. The moss and twigs hint at something hidden and mysterious, and hence something potentially compelling: an impressive bird in a Northwest habitat.

Me Frigatebird. Kayaking the Sammamish Slough on weekends means all manner of other paddlers on the water—rec kayakers, canoeists, stand-up paddle boarders, scullers—but also predictable opportunity. In this instance, a kayaker emerged from around a river bend, paddling toward me. A lone Double-Crested Cormorant floated in-between. I immediately stopped paddling, knowing the paddler would shoo the cormorant toward me, giving me a chance at a flight shot. Well, the cormy did indeed taxi toward me, but then braked. As the oncoming paddler closed in, the bird moved to my side of the slough, and—evidently in a panic—coughed up a fish, like an offering to a Frigatebird or Jaeger, before darting away. On image review, I admit to hysterical laughter.

Starfighter. Again padding on the Sammamish Slough, a male Common Merganser pounded toward me and went airborne, from a long ways off. He stayed low, reaching 40 mph, and then like an afterthought (uh oh, this guys aiming that thing at me?), he veered off, a new trail of water sheading his breast. I love the implied speed of the banked turn, the partly-folded wings, the spread tail.

Gliding Cormorant. Paddling shoreline on Lake Washington in March, I came upon this Double-Crested Cormorant, on a high piling perch. The bird took flight as I approached. Though I prefer a dark background to a white one, this bird—in breeding plumage, floating aloft, wings spread, perfect head-angle—looked so elegant it became a favorite. In Lightroom, I enhanced the face and eye and lightened some of the feathers.

Broken Wings. In April, I walked a gravel roadway at Marymoor Park when a Killdeer leaped out in front of me. A nest was likely nearby. Quickly, I dropped to my belly, forearms anchoring the camera. The Killdeer responded with not just one broken-wing but with two, with the tail-feathers flared, all in a effort to draw me away. The low-angle proved crucial to a successful shot.

Decoy Ploy? Same day as above, at Redmond Retention Ponds, I was standing on a path chatting with Bob about Killdeer nests when a Killdeer scurried up and sat down in front of us. I said to Bob, “I see this bird is faking us out by pretending to sit on a nest”. We both stepped forward to about 15 feet, and the Killdeer raised up, to my astonishment revealing four eggs. Not a decoy ploy. At all. I lunged down on one knee, raised my glass and got the shot.

Lonesome George. For many years, Marymoor Park has had a resident male Ring-necked Pheasant, often seen in the vicinity of the pea patch. I’d never photograph him, but last April I heard him crowing. I was near the viewing mound, and he was out-of-sight somewhere along the road toward the R/C airfield. My immediate thought was, oh, that location could yield natural backgrounds. A brisk walk, and there he was, strutting all alone in the grass. I moved ahead of him to a ditch where I could get a low angle by kneeling. Soon enough, he spread his wings and belted out his lonesome call. OMG, what a striking bird!

Territorial Imperative. The lasts two years I’ve studied the nesting-season habits of Pied-billed Grebes in the Seattle Arboretum area south of Foster Island. Each year there three or four grebe pairs set up territory. Once established, all parties rely on frequent wild, brash calls, and the males patrol the boundaries, settling confrontations with non-violent ritual. Here the male on the left has greater urgency, with two small young hidden on the back of his nearby female. The other male’s mate is sitting on eggs. The boys paralleled each other, back and forth, for a few minutes. I got as close as I dared, not wishing to disrupt their impressive performance.

The Offer. I’ve seen this numerous times before with grebes, an adult offering a fish so large the kid couldn’t possibly choke it down. Young grebes can handle surprisingly large fish, but this one . . . no. The adult here is the same male with kids from the previous image, two days later. He twice offered the fish to both of his offspring; each turned away. Is the male just demonstrating his fishing prowess? Eventually, he swallowed the prize himself.

Flicker Nest. Flickers are notoriously defensive about revealing their nests. Few will approach an active nest hole if a human intruder is near. I decided to test this, at a site with no foot traffic, only approachable by boat (i.e. kayak) in Yarrow Bay. The nest hole had limited clear sight lines, but those tripod positions were very exposed. Shortly after the chicks had hatched, I exited my kayak at a spot with some cover from tall grasses and alder branches. Soon enough, a male Northern Flicker flew in. He landed on a nearby branch, hesitated, flew to the hole but didn’t enter, returning to the branch. Seconds later he again flew to the hole, froze there for a bit, and again didn’t enter the hole. I captured this image on his second fly in, but his behavior was also my cue to abandon the shoot. A few days later I tried again using a blind; the Flickers didn’t approve. Most nests are best left alone.

Owlet. Andy informed me of a Barred Owl pair with two owlets in a neighborhood park. I visited that evening, and we found the owlets, with mom, after a short search. All the birds were on low perches, and I captured numerous images of the owlets both singly and together. This one was my favorite. Since I didn’t have a tripod, I braced my camera against a tree trunk for stability in the low light.

Eat Crow. Paddling on Union Bay on June 21, I discovered a Bald Eagle on a log eating a dark-feathered bird. The light angle was wrong, though, so I snuck by him to a front-lit position, where I was also able to anchor the kayak against some shore debris. This strategy keeps the boat from drift, minimizes disturbing the subject and allows full attention to photographing the scene. A second bird, its mate, flew in, displacing what I now knew was the male. He relinquished the prey item, a crow. I shot many frames of the female feeding. Soon enough, she lifted off, with prey, heading for their nest in a cottonwood above, where a youngster sat in wait. This particular image was the most dynamic of the two birds.

Food for Junior. When the female (above) departed, I was too close (or too slow to react) to avoid clipping her upper wing. The image is sharp, and dynamic, but in Lightroom I further drove the dynamism by rotating the image, placing the line of the wings on a steeper diagonal. As we know, a diagonal line implies energy in motion. It doesn’t hurt that an implied line of the crow to eagle head is a nice diagonal as well.

Obstruction Point. On 7/22 I drove to Olympic NP to photograph wildflowers, specifically along Obstruction Point Road. The flowers were peaking, I suppose, but a dry June and July meant little vigor; fields of avalanche lilies produced only sparse flower displays. At road-end Obstruction Point, I found a male black-tailed deer with decent developing antlers. I followed him about that evening, and again in the morning. This shot was early morning, when the buck looked up from foraging. Immediately after the shot, I realized the image didn’t include Mt. Olympus, so I panned left, got that shot, and at home in photoshop combined the two into a favorite panorama.

Snipe Gets the Worm. Water level was down considerably on Lake Washington this end of August day, exposing a line of black mud along the shore of Yarrow Bay. A Wilson’s Snipe probed the muck there searching for worms. I shot stills and then video capturing the bird. This particular one is a 4k screen shot, to which I added background canvas in photoshop above the Snipe’s head to give it a decent amount of space.

A First Ever Rarity. On the morning of 9/25 out on Union Bay, I paddled to a mud pile that forms every fall as the water level in Lake Washington drops. I visit for migrating shorebirds: Least and Western Sandpipers, Dunlin, possible Pectoral Sandpipers and Long-billed Dowitchers. On this day, Canada Geese were roosting, and Killdeer were squabbling. But five largeish shorebirds were present as well. I assumed Pectoral Sandpipers, but when I fixed my binoculars on them I thought at least one was odd. I jammed the kayak into the muck and hoped the shorebirds would come near, which they did as they moved up the shore, picking through the mud. An hour or so later at home, inspecting the images, I found I had a Sharp-tailed Sandpiper, perhaps more than one. I send jpgs to Dennis Paulson for confirmation. He replied that I had a juvenile Sharp-tailed, but the others were juvy Pectorals. A Tweeters post reported seeing the bird later that morning as well, a short distance away in Yarrow Swamp.

As documented by many, the juvy Sharp-tailed stayed in Union Bay until about October 10, mostly foraging or roosting on mud east of Foster Island, where it was viewed from the 520 bridge. I looked for the bird by kayak on 9/29 and found it at a pond south of 520. Of that shoot, the above image is my favorite, another screen-shot extracted from 4k video. I love the spread wings, the bird coming at me, the foot stepping forward. My first rarity, too.

My Spark Bird. Hard to imagine getting a better angle on a bird take-off, but I did have help. On a lovely, windless, if smoky (improving the lighting, actually) October paddle to Chuckanut Bay, I found and photographed male and female Harlequin Ducks, capturing some nice portraits. Amongst the ducks, this particular male moved out in front of me as a pair of kayakers approached from beyond. I stayed put, and soon enough the bird turned in my direction. The paddlers kept coming, engaged in conversation, oblivious, I think, to this striking bird. Lucky for me, he blasted off towards me at a perfect angle.

Sink Hole. The Sharp-tailed Sandpiper had moved on, but mid-October I returned to the same south-of-520 pond to find a Long-billed Dowitcher probing with sewing-machine efficiency the expansive mud. And what mud it was. Lake water-level left the pond a mucky rotting mass. Navigation by kayak was difficult; I kept getting stuck. Eventually I maneuvered to a front lit position and waited until the dowitcher came close. Unexpectedly, the bird’s foot plunged into a hole, and he flapped his wings to recover. Shot made.

Studio Light. With backyard studio lighting from a fresh December snow, I worked two days on still shots of my resident boss Anna’s Hummingbird. He was shy, though, not all that approachable, and my results failed. On day three I set up a tall tripod a bit too close for comfort near his favored perch, lining up distant trees for a plain, dark background. I set the Sony A7 IV for 4k video and 60 frames/sec, with a relatively fast shutter speed of 1/500s and ISO 800. I would have gone faster, but I wanted clean-looking images that a higher ISO might ruin. (Note: 1/125s would be normal given the frame rate to avoid jerky-looking video, but I was looking for stills). Camera attached, I focused on the hummer’s eye, switched off auto-focus, pushed start video and walked away. Mr. Iridescence didn’t disappoint. He left the perch frequently to drive off interlopers or to re-fuel at the feeder. Especially, he gave me landing shots on his return to perch. In post, I extracted a few stills from the clips; I was dumb-struck. This was too easy. A bird lit perfectly from above and below. Clean images. Numerous keepers despite a shutter speed that didn’t freeze the eye on many. Total shoot time about 20 minutes. I got the exposure just right for jpgs, too. I think the above image captured it best, a rainbow of color on the gorget, nice wing position and a glimpse at his tiny claws. As an aside, videographers are going to steal a lot of the still photographer’s market; indeed, that disruption has already begun.

Bookends. Mid-December, I’m back at the Sammamish Slough and kayak workouts, much like the start of the year. This day was cold, upper-thirties, and I paddled from the Kenmore launch to Bothell and back, an hour of hard paddling. As I return, the dull light brightened. I pulled out the Sony and dropped the ISO to a more sunlit setting. For several years now I’ve used M rather than A on the mode dial, even with changing light. The thing is, for most of my shooting, the backgrounds change more than the light does, and quickly. Especially for flight shooting, Aperture-priority often gets it wrong.

A female Bufflehead was ahead; I steered the kayak to give her room. Buffleheads commune in small groups; often with male heads bobbing like bobbleheads. They’re skittish, too; small birds that fly so easily, so joyfully. I love these birds. Abruptly, the female danced off the water toward me; I withheld shooting until she closed. But an intruding cloud had just blocked the sun, under-exposure was certain. Thankfully, the dynamic range of the Sony A7 IV handled a two-stop Lightroom correction. I like pretty much everything about this image; an eye-level bird angling very much toward me, the foot position, the explosive splash. Maybe not the wing position, but that’s a quibble.

Comments appreciated,
Happy shooting,
Gary