Dark green conifers in the distance look a bit out of place in this stark view from the old lookout platform. What you see in this photo is quite different from what I see when I look at this scene in person. The distance compression of the lens pulls everything closer together, making the expanse of water and weeds in front of that forest look much smaller than it is.
That compression is appealing to me. I first noticed its dramatic effect when I rented a Nikon 200 mm to 500 mm lens. That lens was built for wildlife photography, but almost every good landscape photo I took with it became a favorite of mine.
It was cold that morning, but the sun was so bright that the air had warmed up quickly. The waterfowl of spring and summer were absent. And except for the quiet drone of traffic on the highway in the distance, the air was silent. There was no breeze that I could feel, but ripples on the pond suggested there was a wind blowing out there. I just could not hear it … or feel it. The clouds over those trees implies a condition not true. The rest of the sky is a bright blue, with a 10 o’clock sun bearing down.
This was one of those days when you bring your camera along more out of habit, than an expectation of using it. With the foliage all died away, there’s not much landscape interest. There’s always the possibility that some stray bird might fly by and land to feed. I’d been standing there on that platform for a while by the time I took this photograph.
No flying creatures approached.
I felt no disappointment. A lack of activity was what I expected. But another thing, a good thing, I expected was also happening. This cool and calm morning, blanketed by a warming sun, and complemented by the sweet near-silence, made me feel fine. Something about getting out, out there in nature, even rough and barren nature like this, lifted my spirits.
There were no cars in the parking lot when I got there. As far as I knew, I was the only person in the park that morning. That felt good. At least for right then, the park was mine.
For quite a while I stood there, peering through my viewfinder at that pile of logs and debris in the middle of the frame at the back of the pond, near the tall weeds. I don’t know for certain, but I think that’s the home of a beaver family, perhaps the very family that built the dam in the photograph. My lens was not long enough to zoom out for a clear view of any activity around the den, but that did not stop me from watching until my arms grew tired of holding my camera up to my face.
No luck though. There was no movement.
I walked over to the bench at the back of the platform. I put the camera down, took off my wide-brimmed hiking hat, pushed my hair back with the fingers of both hands, and sat for a while. The highway traffic showed some mercy and died down to the point I could no longer hear it. The calm of the moment embraced me, like a warm blanket on a cold night.
If that bench had been a little more comfortable, I would’ve probably taken a nap right there. I sat in the quietness, in the peace ... thinking, not thinking, daydreaming, meditating, feeling the warm sun on my face … and, for a while, a precious little while, I sat on that hard wooden bench … and felt happy to be alive.