The wolves will come…

…whether we like it or not.

These are the words of Frans Vera, a highly respected Dutch ecologist, and of course he is right. For anyone with any knowledge of wolf ecology, it should come as no surprise that these entrepreneurial predators have recently found their way into both Belgium and The Netherlands – two highly urbanised countries which on the face of it, seem completely unsuitable for wolves.

So what do these wolf wanderings mean for under-the-table discussions on their return to Britain? Well perhaps not much in the short term – wolves will never reach these shores unaided. But politically, each time a wolf is sighted in a new European country, the legislative pressure is cranked up a notch. Why should France, Italy and Spain – and now Holland and Belgium – put up with wolves and not us? Is it fair that we subscribe to EU legislation on the restoration of native species but we’re conspicuous by not conforming to it? No sensible EU politician with an eye on re-election would ever suggest wolves are eliminated from mainland Europe, so what makes the UK different?

There are myriad answers to that question but our island status is perhaps the most significant. Wolves from eastern Europe have been expanding their range for a couple of decades now, so it’s inevitable that they will find new niches. From Poland to Germany, from Germany to Belgium – administrative boundaries are of no concern to a pioneering wolf looking for somewhere to raise a new generation. But don’t panic, the UK is ‘protected’ thanks to 22 miles of open sea. For wolves to come here – and lets assume the political will for a moment – they’d need to be caught, crated, transported and released. Aside from the cost and the socio-political furore, there is another factor which will ultimately determine whether wild wolves are ever seen back in Britain: the media. Wolves that slip across an unseen border can avoid drawing attention to themselves, but that’s simply not possible here.

For wolf advocates the media could be their greatest ally; it’s a powerful platform for education, but considering their historic treatment of large predator stories, don’t count your chickens – or should that be sheep? If I was a hungry young journalist I can think of only one story that would spit on foxes sneaking into suburban houses, sea eagles having the potential to snatch babies, or even polar bears killing undeserving expedition students: Wolves coming back to Britain. It’s a journalistic wet dream and could pitch neighbour against neighbour for months.

My guess is that 20 years from now, wolves will be an accepted part of the landscape across most of Western Europe, but unless there’s a fundamental shift in the definition of responsible media, the English Channel will be one step too far for Canis lupus.



No such thing as bad weather.

I was recently giving thought to the onset of autumn – and then winter – and the roller-coaster of weather we’ll inevitably be dished up. I’ve always been a fan of ostensibly ‘bad’ weather although over the years, I’ve struggled to find people who share such a view. I was buoyed therefore on reading a recent blog post by colleague Bruce Percy, who’s difficulty in filling his winter landscape workshops on Harris & Skye, reveals an apparent widespread reluctance to photographing during the ‘dark months’. As Bruce says – and I agree with him – photographing on the edge of dynamic weather systems is often the most rewarding.

Inaweek or so I’ll be headed off to Harris myself with a group of guests who have ‘seen the light’. I’m sure we’re all hoping for a nice bit of sunny weather to reveal the turquoise Hebridean sea as we sit eating our lunch, but at the same time, I’m hoping for changeable weather providing exciting light. Yes it might rain. I guess it could even snow, but in between, there’s change and that’s when it all happens.

Perhaps we all need to re-arrange our photographic thought processes and spend the ‘good months’ processing the images from the time we spend on the edge during autumn and winter. It can be an unforgiving edge but ‘bad weather’ is only bad for those who aren’t prepared to embrace it.


One-legged Asian lesbian caught bedding illegitimate son of religious leader!

Aha, got you! Apologies if you’ve landed here expecting a tale of unsurpassed debauchery. Actually no, I’m not going to apologise – you shouldn’t be following such sensationalist headlines on the net! But of course many people do, and a recent e-manual that arrived on my desktop positively encourages me – as just a humble photographic blogger – to ‘sex up’ my posts in the sure knowledge of extra blog traffic. Perhaps this is my chance to get on Big Brother? It could be a metaphorical getting your **** out for the lads! Perhaps not.

So how does nature compete to attract attention in a world where societal values have changed in just a generation? It’s damned difficult, of that there is no doubt.

I was working down at the Scottish Seabird Centre recently for 2020VISION. The story was the relationship between the health of our seas, the health of our seabirds and the health of us humans. It’s a tricky story to tell but I was massively impressed how many people were trying to tell it – even on a dreich summer afternoon. A young couple had set up a quite elaborate display stand and were working hard at making gannets (and puffins, seals etc) fun and exciting to passing children. The audience was small with varying attention spans, but bit by bit they were drawn in and ‘engaged’.

At the end of the day these young educators were completely spent, they’d given their all. It’s hard work loving nature and wishing everyone else would too. But it’s a job worth doing and my hat goes off to all who try.

With a little imagination, the headline to this post could be: 40,000 bonking birds cram into high-rise, high-tension tenement block. Do you reckon that would get my search engine rankings up?


The Titanic Course!

In our final report from Arctic Norway, correspondent John Cumberland has to get used to the idea of doing as he’s told – a radical concept indeed!

At the beginning of our Arctic voyage Swedish Captain Dan invited us to join him on the bridge at any time.  First Officer Emil was similarly welcoming.

As you would expect, the bridge is an excellent viewing platform and warmer than other parts of the ship and so one took advantage of the kind offer, especially after a chilly morning pounding the decks ‘shooting’ polar bears.  After a few days one was allowed to ‘do things’.

“Would you like to steer the ship?” suggested Emil on a misty afternoon sailing between some of Svalbard’s dark brown islands.

“Of course”! was my instant reply.

After gently rotating the surprisingly small dial, the ship obediently set off on course 031.

Cairns and Hamblin and fellow passengers were sipping tea downstairs in the ‘saloon’ and blithely unaware that the ship and ‘The Plan’ had been hijacked by a presumptuous course attendee. As the newly appointed (unofficial) ‘second officer’ and having duly set the course, I thought it wise to check the blue radar screen, especially as the sea mist continued to provide a soft background to the seascape, but not superb visibility.

There, slap bang in the middle of our course, appeared a large rectangular obstacle on the radar.

“What is that?” I enquired of our First Officer.

“Probably a large iceberg” he explained.

“So, we are on the Titanic course then?” I exclaimed.

“Ho, Ho!  I have never heard it called that before!” tittered Emil.

At which point the large macho iceberg emerged from the mist.

“Ho, Ho, that is very funny” chuckled First Officer Emil.

A swift course correction seemed a more appropriate response and I modestly suggested course 034 to steer us to the starboard of the threatening iceberg.

“No, 029 to Port” contended our First Officer.

Now I don’t know about you, but as I had spotted the iceberg menace first and dubbed it the ‘Titanic course’ and had suggested the course correction, I felt my ‘vote’ should carry more weight in this matter than that of the First Officer. Who the hell did he think he was?

In exasperation, as the iceberg loomed even larger, I turned to the Captain and suggested a solution to this battle of wills: “Shouldn’t you arrest or shoot one of us (meaning the First Officer) to save the ship”? (the Captain held the key to a formidable arsenal of hunting weapons which belonged to the ship, so the shooting was more than a theoretical possibility!)

The surprisingly calm Captain ignored my advice and we continued at 10 knots on the potentially shipwrecking course 031. He took a sip of tea and pondered. The iceberg crept closer.

Those of you familiar with Maritime History will be aware that 12 April 2012 is the centenary of Titanic’s fatal voyage.  You will also know that if the Captain had changed course earlier, disaster could have been avoided. Instead, Titanic scraped down the side of an iceberg, which was impregnated with boulders from a melting glacier and sheered off the heads of scores of rivets.  The side of the ship simply popped open.  We had photographed smaller icebergs like this a few days earlier.

Finally, almost at the last minute, our undemocratic First Officer seized the controls to the ‘bow thruster’ and neatly ‘side stepped’ our huge iceberg, which glided past in the mist.

No shots were fired and we were saved! I still think starboard 034 was the better option however. Damned stubborn these Swedes.

Note: Northshots sincerely hopes that the accounts of these seemingly frivolous events have not deterred any potential guests from joining us on future tours. If that turns out to be the case, we shall be speaking with Mr. Cumberland’s legal representatives.


Does a suicidal gannet constitute a ‘Wildlife Workshop’?

In the second of our special reports from Arctic Norway, correspondent John Cumberland philosophises about philosophy in a philosophical manner.

Location: Still in Svalbard, still August ’11

Floating about in the Zodiac, before Pete’s ‘cold shower’ moment, I was deeply moved by the pinky – brownie – diffused – ethereal light, which softly bathed the nearby icebergs.  The serenity, the calm green water, the rich brown hills overlooking the enormous fjord, the crisp stripes of mist which wreathed around and in between them, the shafts of pale golden light sneaking between the peaks, our home, the M/S Origo, conveniently moored at the ‘golden mean’ for a perfectly composed shot.  It was a landscape photographer’s heaven.

“This is an excellent landscape workshop” I commented to Pete. In a miffed tone he snapped: “This is a wildlife trip, we start landscapes in the autumn,” (it had been a while since we saw our last polar bear; he was tetchy).  Now, we all love Glen Affric in its autumn finery, there is no doubt that it is a beautiful place, but this landscape, rather, icescape, is something else.

Pete twitched. “Fast starboard” he assertively instructed Captain Dan, our Zodiac driver. “Now slow, very slow”. We all strained to see what he was focused on. All I could see were kittiwakes. Now I like kittiwakes as much as the next man but they were hardly cause for the intense concentration that Pete was now displaying. He reached over the side (no, not yet, that was later) and promptly plucked a dead gannet from the water, holding it up triumphantly. It has to be said that it was a healthy-looking dead gannet, but definitely dead. You could tell. Yes, nice but dead.

“It’s a visual metaphor for life and death in the Arctic” said a philosophical Pete.  “You should photograph it with its head pointing towards the hills.”  (The word ‘metaphor’ was heard several times during this trip.  I think it is part of the ‘Philosophy Module’, which comes free with Northshots photo-tours.  Excellent value!)

I think by this time we’d spent too long at sea. As various members of our team leaned precariously over the side composing the dead gannet shot, Swedish Captain Dan (not a man renowned for his humour) piped up. “It reminds me of the Monty Python dead parrot sketch”. We all looked at Dan, then at each other.

‘Why is it here?’ asked one of our team.

‘It came here to commit suicide’ said an authoritative Captain Dan, even more surprisingly. Again, we looked at each other and pondered.

We saw what he was getting at.  After all, it was a ‘Scandinavian Gannet’ and they do that kind of thing in Scandinavia, don’t they?  It’s the long, dark winters. S.A.D. syndrome they call it…and too much Schnapps.  They commit suicide. And so do their gannets.

We returned to the Origo with dead gannet pictures in the can. Pete was happy we’d seen the potential in a sopping wet dead bird, Dan was satisfied that his suspicions of our madness had been confirmed and we all enjoyed coffee and chocolate brownies. The gannet had not died in vain.

This was John Cumberland, Northshots News, The Arctic. Again.


Cairns finally goes over the edge!

A report from our Arctic correspondent, John Cumberland.

Location: Svalbard: August ’11.

We’re happily bobbing around in our Zodiac in the middle of an Arctic fjord against a backdrop of three colossal glaciers that  ‘calve’ noisily and create mini tsunamis with blue icebergs the size of articulated lorries, bouncing around and sometimes rolling over. The water beneath us is a gorgeous shade of aquamarine and a chilly 10C.

Pete, one of our  so-called ‘expert’ guides, is in ‘Viking mode’ sitting on the prow of our flimsy vessel enthusiastically searching out a seal here, a bird there, was that a bear in the distance? Then suddenly, a splash. A very loud splash.  He’s in the water!  He’s actually in the bloody water! His camera and 500mm lens remain on the zodiac, somewhat lonely, on the prow. But Cairns himself is completely submerged!  His lifejacket automatically inflates, just as it should but whilst returning him to the icy surface, nearly throttles him in the process. Chaos reins.  ‘Belfast Annie’, sitting on the starboard side, is in no mood to see our Viking hero float off into oblivion.  Adrenaline pumping, she leans over the side and grabs Pete in the neck region clamping him firmly to the side of the Zodiac.  As her spectacles steam up, Pete is heard to say, over and over again , “Annie, I am trying to get my leg over!”  This sounds to Annie like one of the best offers she’s had in years and so her grip tightens on her Viking hero.  While those of us on the port side balance the Zodiac (and if truth be told take as many pictures as we can), calm Swedish Captain Dan intervenes and soon Pete is safely back on board.

Pete becomes the subject of great concern (that doesn’t stop us taking yet more pictures) but our bedraggled leader remains cheerful and Annie helpfully points out the similarity between Pete’s inflated lifejacket and a ‘Double D’ bra that’s somehow got caught around his neck. Spitting out several mouthfuls of Arctic brine, Pete admits to feeling somewhat foolish, or words to that effect. A hollow, unsympathetic, chuckle is heard from our sister zodiac which Pete immediately recognises as the voice of his (supposedly) best mate, Mark Hamblin. We all vow that he should be next for a dunking!

On returning to the mother ship, Pete is soon restored to warmth and his usual level of exuberance.  Never mind, you can’t have everything!

This was John Cumberland, Northshots News, The Arctic.

Note: The views and opinions expressed in this feature are not necessarily shared by Northshots and are clearly those of an individual who derives satisfaction from the misfortune of others.



Svalbard 2011.

Picture the scene. We’re bobbing gently on a mirror-calm fjord surrounded by the most exquisite of ice sculptures, some reflecting myriad turquoise tones, others graphic in their design and transparency. Beyond, a series of jagged-toothed mountain tops are periodically caressed by delicate wisps of snow-white cloud as their bases are gnawed by glacial teeth, unrelenting for millennia. Periodically the constant pushing and heaving of ice delivers a thunderous crack and a slab of history the size of a tenement block, crashes into the aquamarine waters, stirring a wave that takes several minutes to reach us, by which time all is silent once more. “All we need now is a glass of red wine,” quips John C, one of our merry ‘class of Svalbard 2011’. And he’s right. The silence, solitude and sheer majesty of this primeval, evolving landscape is hard to improve upon, but yes John, a glass of vino would certainly round it off.

As ever our good ship Origo provided a warm and cosy bolt hole from the worst of the arctic weather and thanks to an excellent crew (great grub throughout), we never felt deprived of creature comforts even in this, one of the remotest places on earth. Despite one couple (sorry Bob & Anne) forgetting that an open cabin porthole in choppy seas, has inevitable consequences for the moisture content of bed linen and carpets, our group remained dry and warm throughout (well, not quite but more of that later).

Given the abundance of classic polar bear images from this part of the world, it’s easy to imagine that the largest land predator on earth is easy to find. Not so. We’re talking about a solitary animal that roams huge distances in search of food, spends much of its time holed up behind icebergs and can swim almost as inconspicuously as any otter. They are also white. And so is ice. You need to put yourself in the right habitat, spend some serious time on deck with a good pair of binoculars, but above all, you need some luck and the arctic can be a fickle friend.

We notched up 10 polar bear sightings and photographed 4. Disappointingly the ice pack was unusually far north and was hellbent on travelling even further north, depriving us of some time in prime polar bear habitat and we prematurely headed south following Plan B.

One of the other real characters of the arctic is the previously-persecuted walrus. Now bouncing back, these leviathans present the photographer with several challenges: they are uniformly brown, rarely awake and are found in places where the sun don’t shine. Apart from that they’re easy and we had two great sessions with a worthy support act of squabbling arctic terns in superb light.

The north can be cruel – light is hard to come by, weather is fickle and there are no migrating herds of wildebeest – the Masai Mara this ain’t. But when it’s good, it’s fantastic and if you accept the 90/10 rule (90% of the time there are no pictures to be taken), the 10% gets under your skin and lures you back time and time again.

Other highlights included particularly obliging bearded and ringed seals from the zodiacs and mirrored ice sculptures in perfect light. But for me, it’s not polar bears or seals or landscapes or mirror-calm reflections, it’s all of it rolled into one big spectacular life experience. It’s 12 months before I’ll be there again but I’m already counting the days. If you want to join us, you’d be welcome as there’s only one thing that tops Svalbard itself and that’s being there in good company. We were, so thanks to this year’s group – you were the glass of red wine that topped it off.

I mentioned staying dry. Of course this assumes that you avoid inadvertently taking a dip in the frigid arctic waters. I failed in that particular objective but more of that in a future post…


Conservation Communication.

Next month I’ll be returning to the Scottish Nature Photography Fair in Perth (do come along!) to talk about Conservation and Communication. Whilst preparing a bit of the show yesterday, I found myself wondering whether the modern-day (self-appointed) ‘Conservation Photographer’ is little more than a pretentious prat with an unfounded sense of self-importance.  As I consider myself a conservation photographer, the thought process was particularly relevant.

There is certainly an element of bandwagonism as photographers frantically seek out the lifeboat on the good ship HMS Your Photographic Career,  which seems to spring more holes on a daily basis. And who can blame anyone for simply wanting to survive?  If consumer demand dictates that nature photographers are conservation-minded, organic, fairtade, homegrown, it’s not surprising that in some cases, a quick-fix ethical veneer is applied –  if it’s OK for Tesco or McDonalds…

Cynicism (or is it reality?) aside, there are photographers who have consistently displayed a commitment to initiating real change. The list is long but in modern times, names that spring to mind include Thomas Peschak, Daniel Beltra, Karl Ammann, Mark Edwards – these are guys who don’t worry too much about labels or branding, they just get on with it. And ‘it’ is putting their imagery to work; getting in front of big audiences and influencing societal change. They are effective visual communicators, and that for me, is where it’s at.

As I prepare to make my bi-monthly submission to one of my picture libraries (see images herein), I realise I’m still trading in a wide range of subject matter that doesn’t support my aspiration to be a conservation photographer when I grow up. Note to self: must try harder.

The blog will go quiet for a couple of weeks as I head off to the Arctic (somebody has to do it). Ironically this is a place where Conservation Communication is as pressing as anywhere.


Orange overdose.

According to those who know, we are instinctively drawn to warm colours. Red apparently, symbolises life and vitality, and those colours closely allied to red – orange for example – nurture equally positive feelings. I’m not in tune with the psychological and spiritual associations of warm colours, but it would seem that unwittingly, I too seek out warm-coloured images – specifically silhouettes.

At a recent talk I was asked why I photographed so many silhouettes and in truth, I wasn’t aware I did. Thinking about the question on the way home, I was initially embarrassed: Had I been overloading audiences with orange and black graphics for years? Do you know what? I think I have.

Looking back, my fondness for silhouettes may be rooted in a desire to break the f8-front lit-big-in-the-frame wildlife portrait. In fact I can remember a friend of mine showing a silhouette of a crested tit on a workshop only to be asked why the flash hadn’t gone off! I think more recently however, it’s nothing more complicated than an affection for clean graphic shapes that whilst recognisable, hold something back from the viewer, inviting them to identify what, where, when, how.

Whilst silhouettes are hardly radical thesedays, it would seem that they are not for the photographic purist and that’s fine. I’m afraid I can’t help myself – get a subject on a ridge against a moody sky and it’s wind up the shutter speed for maximum under-exposure. The pleasure derived more than warrants six of the best from the Photo-Police. It would seem I’m a silhouette junkie.


Polar bear press.

OK OK, I couldn’t let it pass without throwing my tenpenneth into the ring. Actually I’m not going to talk about the recent polar bear attack itself (some interesting dialogue to be found on colleague Andy Rouse’s Facebook page here) but rather the inevitable press coverage.

The death of any young person yet to experience the myriad opportunities that life offers is always sad and an impossible ordeal for family and friends. But it’s the press coverage of how this young man died that I find both bizarre and distasteful. Had the lad been knocked over by a car or stung by a wasp or had a fatal asthma attack, or any one of hundreds of less ‘dramatic’ ends, he would simply have become an anonymous statistic to the outside world; the press wouldn’t care and neither would we – because we simply wouldn’t know about it.

This story has everything that the vulturine press live for. It’s a heady cocktail of human endeavour, heroism and ultimately an untimely death. But the cherry on the cake is fear – not any old fear but the most powerful, deep-seated, primeval fear of all. The ingredients are the stuff of journalistic dreams.

But let’s put aside the predictability of sensationalising a predator attack, the salivating over the most lurid details. The objective is to sell papers/airtime. And the best way to do that is to goad an audience into the irrationality, the ill-informed anecdotal outpourings, which pitch people against each other – providing the fuel for a fire that once lit, will burn of its own accord for days. Job done.

I’ve not yet read a report which gives the reader any ecological background to the polar bear. I’ve not yet read a suggestion as to why this bear might have attacked the campers, or contextualised the danger posed by polar bears at large. Nothing about the shrinking ice cap which ironically, I’m guessing the expedition had as part of its study. Here was an opportunity to use this tragic event to educate an audience and perhaps alert it to the challenges faced by the polar bear, its arctic habitat and ultimately, how this will affect us all. But then we wouldn’t want responsible, objective and informative stories to get in the way of good old-fashioned scaremongering and a verbal punch up.