Nature photography tips from a complete nonexpert

Feeling a case of the I-stare-at-a-screen-all-day-long doldrums coming on, I decided this week to sneak out with my camera, BY MYSELF. (I know! I'm an awful mom/wife. The world will surely cease to revolve on its axis if every irrelevant triviality is not closely observed by me. Just ask my son.) This wasn't so great for my writing, which is why you're getting two posts tonight, but maybe, in a way, it was. I walked. And walked, and walked. I sweat. I lugged my camera around. I got branches in my hair. I sat in the mud, watching egrets. I saw a few rarities, even if I didn't photograph them. I got covered in ants. OK. That part wasn't so great. But I feel recentered, much more focused. It was good for the soul, if not for the hair or laundry.

Another thing I realized is that when my camera is my most prominent companion (as opposed to a more loquacious, hyperactive 9-year-old companion), people make certain assumptions. If the camera's aimed at a certain subject -- birds, say -- they assume you're an expert on that subject. Thankfully, I'm able to hold my own when a group of excited birders accosts me to ask OMG was that a green-winged teal just now, and how many wigeons are in this pond?
But mostly, they assume I know all about photography. They ask questions: "How do you freeze the water?" "How do you capture the bird in flight without blurring it?" "Why do my pictures all look so much more boring than yours? Here. Look at my first 300 instead of taking your own shots and tell me what I'm doing wrong." And so on.

I was even asked recently if I'd like to teach a photography workshop. I joked on Facebook that I'd call it "Nature Photography: How to do something a million bazillion times and gradually suck less and less."

I'm no expert. I'm average, when it comes to the mechanics of camera operation. I've never taken a class or even a workshop. I'm self-taught, and I'm not always the best teacher, on account of getting mad at my student and wanting to kick her ass. What I am good at, sometimes, is capturing animals doing stuff, and I think that's what a lot of you mean. I'm not goint to talk technical. That's been done before, and much better and by much more knowledgeable people. I'll only speak to what I know, which is getting close to animals, and capturing them using less-than-top-of-the-line equipment. So here are my few humble tips/opinions about how to fool everyone into thinking you're a kick-ass nature photographer.

It's (mostly) up to you, not the camera

First, know this: It's not the equipment. At least, it's mostly not the equipment. Good equipment gives you the options you need to capture some really great stuff, but you have to know how to do it. An inexpensive DSLR (I'd go with Canon or Nikon), especially if you're first starting, is more than enough. (You'll never get award-winning shots on your phone, so if it's really important, at least make a small investment.)

The biggest thing is to make your equipment work for you. Learn how to use it. Learn how to frame shots. (Don't center subjects, use leading lines, use the Rule of Thirds ... you can find this all online. I still mess up compositions by not leaving enough room.) Take advantage of the trial-and-error digital photography allows. The shot below, for example, was taken with a DSC-H2 (an old optical zoom camera from Sony, sort of a super point-and-shoot). The H2 is a training-wheels camera. It had many limitations that my current camera doesn't have. But clearly, it could take a good shot.


When I got my first DSLR, I brought this camera along anyway because I hadn't yet learned my way around the new one, and without experience, any camera takes boring shots. (Like I said, look somewhere like here, for starters, to find plenty of photography tips.)

Be opportunistic

If I find a spider, I scoop it up. (I'm housing two right now, and also a cockroach and a few lady beetles.) If it's twilight, the crickets are coming out and the crane flies are mating, so that means fun insect photos. If I'm doing something else and I see a mantis or a lizard, the something else gets forgotten. Think visually. I glanced out the window while cleaning the living room and saw the image at right. I took it, then went back to vacuuming. It doesn't have to be exotic. Work with what you have, in terms of subjects as well as equipment. You probably have more than you realize.




Shoot the light

The most technical I'm going to get, and it's not really technical at all, is to say be aware of the light, and shoot at the beginning and end of the day. Do you want the rich, golden light that makes everything look prettier? Aim to shoot at sunrise, to an hour or so afterward; or start an hour or two before sunset and shoot until sunset. That side lighting is almost universally more flattering.

For some things, this doesn't really matter. Most macro photography and certain bird-in-flight shots look fine during ugly midday light, for example. If you're shooting all day, take a break or do these shots then. Otherwise, you will be disappointed.

Which looks better? This:


Or this:


It's a different subject, but it's mostly the lighting. It makes all the difference. (Caveat: Clearly, mom pride allows me to keep the crappy picture too.)

Wait. And then wait. And wait some more.

Seriously. When anyone at all asks me for quick tips, I tell them three things. The first is shoot the light. This is the second. Why?

For every time a bird does this:



...it has most likely spent an hour doing this first:


Get to know the animals. Canada geese honk before they pass overhead. Egrets and herons extend their necks and cock their heads before striking the water for a fish. Dragonflies and hummingbirds like to return again and again to the same perches. You probably won't catch it the first time, so learn. And then wait for it to happen again.

Professional nature photographers set up blinds and spend hours, weeks, MONTHS sitting in them waiting for the perfect moment. We're not magical or lucky. We're just patient and abnormally fixated on our subject (and sometimes lucky). If you don't have months (or even an hour), spend a consecutive ten minutes watching your subject. Any animal doing something is likely to be more interesting than that same animal just standing there. There are exceptions -- there are phenomenal straightforward animal portraits out there, and it's rather difficult to catch "character" in a lot of insects -- but even in these cases, it's all about capturing the right moment. Wait until the portrait subject turns its head for a great eye catch light. Wait until the insect lifts one leg, or turns to the perfect angle. Be ready, and when it's time to jump on it:

Take lots and lots and lots of shots

My last main tip. Complicated, right? My photography friends (Hi there!) definitely all know this, but I've been surprised to discover that the majority of digital camera owners don't take advantage of one of the coolest things about digital photography. A lady the other day asked me how many shots I display from the ones I take, and while shooting my 200-somethingth shot, I estimated maybe five percent or fewer. She was shocked.

If you have a few memory cards, you can pretty much take an infinite number of shots. Is the heron about to plunge? Wait until the split second before and press the shutter release for a quick burst of several shots. One will catch the splash. Is it now about to gulp down the fish? Same thing.

But the rule is about more than my love for continuous-shooting mode. Be purposeful, but liberal. Shoot often and readily, but don't be afraid to envision and take intentional shots. (They won't always work out.) Don't be afraid to shoot everything, and to look stupid doing it. I lie on the ground, sit in mud, take pictures in my driveway (my neighbors are quite sure I'm nuts), scoop up roaches and spiders, and stand on a ladder in my backyard for an hour straight, causing said neighbors to walk by repeatedly to get a look at the weirdo with her head poking up over the wall.

I'm completely serious. I take thousands of shots. Sometimes thousands a month. Which I guess should lead to my last tip:

Quit showing your crappy stuff

This isn't so much a how-to-take-pictures tip as a what-to-do-with-them tip, and obviously it's subjective. If you just want to store all your photos, or if you want to document a party, then sure, dump them all in. But if you want everyone to think your insect shot is really cool, go back to the shots you took (What did I say about taking a bunch of them?), and delete at least a third of them. Then go back through and delete half again. Then examine the remaining ones, find your favorite one to half-dozen, and go with those.

About three quarters of the time, I only keep shots that are as close to perfect as I think I can get with that particular subject. The rest of the time, the shot is really darn good, or I just really like it, but even then, I've been known to get one all ready for sharing and decide it's just not up to snuff. THAT'S really why you all think I only take good shots. I only show good shots. Usually.

And even when you think you've done everything right, even when you have, you still don't get the shot at least half the time.

For real. If it makes you feel better, this is what my usual hummingbird shots look like:


And most of my dragonfly-perching-on-a-twig shots:



And here are a few bird-in-flight masterpieces:








You keep learning. What's "good" constantly improves. This is really pretty embarrassing, but here's what I thought constituted a "good heron shot" a few years ago:


But at the time, it made me happy and proud. And that's the biggest rule. Be brutal on yourself. Know when your shots suck, and when they're good, and start to notice what makes them each way. Have enough humility to learn from others and have a sense of humor even when (especially when) you miss the shot for the fiftieth time in a row. But if it's a rare animal, your first time capturing an animal, has a great story, or just makes you happy, keep the photo. That's what it should be about.

Agh, no. It's too painful. I can't end with that horrible shot. Have a prettier heron.


So what did I leave out? Photog friends, what are your tips? And non-photographers, what else do you want to know? If I don't know it, I usually know who to pester. Happy shooting! (With cameras, of course.)

Species a Day, Week 3

Check out Week 1 and Week 2!

Day 15: Great-horned owl


A great-horned owl, Bubo virginianus, and her owlet. I was pretty excited about these. They might be the most widely distributed "true owls" (non-barn owls) in the Americas, but I have seen only a few in the wild ever, and certainly never a parent/owlet pair. If you're in the area, these two are (for the moment) residing at the Apache Junction Public Library. Go to the entryway, and look up and to your right, on the stucco ledge. If you see droppings, you're in the right area. Be respectful. If they're not there by the time you get out, word is they've been nesting there for a few years now, so try next year. (I'm now officially The Person Everyone Tells About These Things. Fun times!)



Day 16: Pied-billed grebe


Pied-billed grebe, Podilymbus podiceps. A family! This is what I love about 1) photography and 2) taking my son on nature walks. Until I did those two things, these (and a million other water birds) were just "those water birds that aren't ducks, geese, or coots." I think knowing about coots still put us ahead of most people we encounter, but it's amazing how much variety is out there and how naturally you get to know the different kinds, if you just pay attention. Trust me. If there are any two people in the world worse at paying attention than my son and me, I've yet to meet them. But when we slowed down and looked around, there were the pied-billeds and hundreds of other species just waiting for us to get to know them, the better to facilitate both animal appreciation and pompous pedantry at those fools who can't even identify a coot.



Day 17: Convergent lady beetle

It's kind of a family joke. When I was younger and obligated to play in baseball and softball games, and other kids were obliged (to their perpetual chagrin) to include me on their teams, I was exiled to the outfield to minimize my damage. (There was a brief but unfortunate stint as a pitcher, and an even worse turn as a catcher; both of which ended with me getting injured and berated by my dad/coach. I prefer not to think about those times.) While in the outfield, I could survey the whole game. Our team yelled to each other, flashed signals and looks. The other team screamed and cheered for whoever was at bat. Dirt flew. Bats cracked against balls. People did whatever it is people do when they're able to competently play team sports. My dad yelled himself hoarse. Everyone went nuts.


And I ... collected ladybugs.

It really wasn't the best thing for me. The outfield was swarming with ladybugs. I was so excited the first time I discovered them. The next time, I studied and counted them, reckoning how best to get a few to take safely home. The third time, I smuggled a container to the field, in which I'd drilled tiny air holes.

I missed dozens and dozens of balls. It never occurred to me to be on my toes, despite my dad yelling for me to GET YOUR DANG HEAD IN THE GAME. I mean, what? Pay attention the whole time? I think the other team usually had one girl who was too prissy to really play, so it balanced out.

These guys are known variously as ladybug, ladybird, ladyclock, lady cow, lady fly, and probably some I'm missing, but the preferred name used by scientists seems to be lady beetle. There are various species of ladybugs in Arizona (and throughout the world -- there are over 450 species in North America alone), but the most common around here is the convergent lady beetle, Hippodamia convergens. They are so named because they, well, converge, in huge groups, to hibernate.

Lady beetles lay their eggs early around here, and we've already got the red-and-black larvae inching about our weeds garden, as well as mature and immature adults. If you can picture tiny larvae looking a little bit like alligators, that's them. They grow up to delight kids everywhere, to occupy otherwise-depressed centerfielders at elementary schools, and to eat aphids. Hooray for lady beetles.


Day 18: Tree lizard


Tree lizards, or Urosaurus ornatus, are also called ornate tree lizards, and they look much more ornate from beneath, where you can see the vivid blues and orange-reds on their bellies and throats. They love our yard.




See? Look how happy he is.


Day 19: Blue dasher



The first dragonfly I got to really know was definitely the blue dasher, Pachydiplax longipennis. (OK. Go ahead. My husband and son laugh every time.) Super-plentiful at the Gilbert Riparian Preserve and near water holes everywhere around my home in central Arizona, and a little less wary than some other dragonflies. (Roseatte skimmers, for example. Those guys are like Bugs Bunny to my Elmer Fudd.) They're one of the first dragonflies to return around here, and we're already spotting them.


Day 20: Mourning dove

Ah, my love-hate relationship with mourning doves.

No; that's not fair. I don't hate them. It's their various leavings, invariably on my car, that I'm not so crazy about. Plus, they always used to seem so boring.


I know, I know. For an animal lover -- one who extols the virtues of decidedly uncuddly creatures -- that's harsh. Doves are cute, innocent, pretty-sounding. They have these perfect little tapered bodies. They have compact, precious faces with little obsidian-droplet eyes. They're universal symbols of peace, for crying out loud. Innocence. Purity. Grace. Nature's fragility. You'd think I'd eat that stuff up.

Meh. They aren't cool or particularly clever-seeming, like raptors, owls or corvids. They aren't iconic, like Arizona's roadrunner or even Gambel's quail. They don't let you come that close. They're drab brown and gray, not striking like cardinals or flycatchers or blackbirds. They're not rare. They crap all over my car. I always guessed that was their most prominent characteristic.

Slowly, they've wormed their way into our "cool animals" group. (Which, honestly, includes pretty much any metazoan ever in existence.) We watch them glide between the houses nearly every evening. We rescued a mourning dove. I had to hold it briefly, and I felt the tiny, rapid heartbeat beneath its warm, almost liquid-soft breast feathers. It was amazing. It fit in my cupped hand, and it spread to fill my palm like a nest as I carried it. The dove just sat there, but it looked at me, all pupil, like looking was an Olympic sport. The thing was infinitely fragile, yet strong somehow too. Wild.

But they're still stupid shit dispersers.


Day 21: Pipevine swallowtail


I've loved these guys since my son first discovered the red-black spiny caterpillar, and the adults are gorgeous. They're just so darn hard to pin down and photograph. Pipevine swallowtail, Battus philenor -- found in much of the United States, but especially in southern half, and throughout Mexico, pretty much anywhere there are plants they like and a warm-enough climate -- flutter constantly from plant to plant for nectar, and flutter even once they've landed. Still, they're gorgeous enough that I keep trying.

Species a Day, Week 2

The second week in my Species a Day project. Check out Week 1 here.

Also, if anyone ever thinks I'm getting an ID wrong on these critters, by all means, let me know. I think I'm pretty good, but I slip up, and this is one of the few instances in which I'll gladly solicit criticism. I know half of these offhand, and the rest I can usually identify, but wild animals have an annoying habit of refusing to pose beside a field guide or my Google search results.

Day 8: Double-crested cormorant


Double-crested cormorants, Phalacrocorax auritus, in non-breeding plumage. Voracious gulpers of fish and chasers of one another. Distinctive face. How has no one made a cartoon character out of one of these guys?

Seen at water holes all around, but we especially like the ones at the Gilbert Riparian Preserve (they also have neotropic cormorants, but word has it that double-cresteds are more common, and that, along with the bill and tail lengths, cinched it for me, I think). These guys have personality -- cormorality? Whatever. They're hilarious. Instead of chirping or squawking, they have a kind of burping noise that they make at one another. And they make it all the time. If you go toward the back of the preserve on most evenings, you can hear them preparing to roost in some of the large trees; dozens and dozens of them, into the hundreds, maybe. Each time a new cormorant comes to the tree, it steals an already-occupied branch, sending the occupant careening to grab another branch, often another occupied one, and so on. There are usually free branches, but they rarely go for those. They steal and bicker, in an enormous chorus of irritated belches.


They act kind of the same when they're fishing, or even just standing around. I really kind of dig the perpetually glaring turquoise gaze and that grimace of a bill. (My son and husband theorize it's because I see myself in the derisive glare and constant scolding. To which I say ... Hey! Get off my seat!)

Day 9: Great egret


Ardea alba, also known as the Great White Egret, or bird way to gorgeous to make droppings the size of my entire body.

Love these guys. I miss about 95 percent of the shots I attempt, especially when they're flying, mostly because they're more fun to watch. Their expansive white wings and back carve a graceful arch through the air. Their long necks form tucked in S shapes as the sharp bills cut the air. Even their feet -- a little gnarled and scaly close up -- trail pin-straight behind them in a graceful black tail. When they brake to land, the feet pull up and the wings spread, and light bleeds through each overlapping feather, stark-white alternating with gray elliptical accents, like a series of ethereal Venn diagrams.



(It can't all be nature rhapsodizing. I'm still a dork.)

Day 10: Wolf spider (I think)

I'm the spider gal, but I'm not an expert at identifying them all. After all, my favorite spiders are some of the most readily identifiable, and I still run into quandaries.


This one was tough for me, but the eye orientation, legs, and general body structure and size on this one have me thinking it's a wolf spider in the Rabidosa genus. That means "rabid" wolf spider, by the way, and I think it's an apt name for really any wolf spider. I'm not scared of them, mind you. (I know. I'm nuts.) But that doesn't mean, if I have the lens nearly touching the thing and it decides to run for me at Mach 10, that I'm not going to jump back a few feet.

These live in our garage sometimes. Don't tell my husband.

Day 11: House finch


A male house finch, Carpodacus mexicanus, in a paloverde. I really should photograph these guys more often.


Common. But also gorgeous. House finches started as residents of Mexico and the Southwestern United States, but have been introduced and sold (illegally) throughout the rest of the country over the years. In most cases, they've settled readily, foraging for seeds and grains wherever they happen to be. Whether you lament the species they might have displaced or are happy to see the little guys, you've got to admit, as one online friend put it when I posted the picture: "Everywhere we go, from forest to desert, New England to Arizona, house finches are there. Nesting in eaves, nesting in chollas, nearly always singing ... this bird's got game!"

Day 12: Small milkweed bug

A small milkweed bug, Lygaeus kalmii, on my fingertip. I remember these as some of the first splashes of color I saw in the insects that shared our backyard growing up. I'd seen ladybugs before, and we had a ton of insects (and arachnids) that were variations of brown, gray, and black; but these were so pretty, with their vivid red Xs over the black and gray. I thought they were terribly exotic. For a while, there were black-and-red as well as black-and-orange milkweed bugs that would appear every year for a few weeks on a plant between my house and the bus stop. I would rush to check on them each day. It was one of the first wildlife obsessions I had, and it was just this common little bug. It's funny what inspires us.


I still think they're gorgeous. Specialized too -- the sap of the milkweed plant on which they feed is poisonous and gummy, and can wreak havoc with most things that try to eat it. Milkweed bugs have specialized piercing and sucking mouth parts (if my husband is reading this, you can stop snickering now) that avoid the bad stuff and get the good stuff. They also feed on other nectars, and have been known to forage when food sources are scarce. They lay eggs on milkweed plants in the spring.

Day 13: Anna's hummingbird


Anna's hummingbirds, Calypte anna, are abundant this time of year. I believe we have at least two nests of them in the trees around our backyard, and our hummingbird feeder is perpetually, well, humming. Their bodies are gilded in green with bronze highlights, and the males have flashy red heads.

Anna's are huge nectar feeders, and so are also important pollinators. They supplement their diet with tiny insects, which they somehow snatch out of mid-air with wide-open bills. They're feisty and aggressive -- I'm dive-bombed nearly every time I visit my own backyard -- and they sing, a lot, which is pretty unusual for hummingbirds. Their song is usually a series of raspy squeaks, but they do make a louder noise, which has been said to be produced by the tail feathers. It's during the courtship/territory display the male puts on. When a female enters his territory (which seems to equate to "anything I can see or might possibly feel like claiming"), the male Anna's climbs to almost 100 feet, until he becomes a speck in the sky and almost disappears. Then, he falls. Plummets. At the last second, right beside the female, he veers off wildly and lets out an explosive shriek. It's really something to see. Just try not to unwittingly walk right beneath the display, or 1) you'll have a very angry hummingbird; and 2) you'll look extremely foolish, fearfully shielding yourself from something that is four inches long.


Day 14: Black-necked stilts


Black-necked stilts, Himantopus mexicanus, are another common sight at the Gilbert Riparian Preserve. Whenever I see these guys, I can't believe how fragile they look. The spindly pink legs, the thin bill. Even their painted look and the prissy way they walk. They just look to delicate to be allowed. They certainly manage. Though they're hunted by some animals, especially feral cat colonies, their numbers are staying strong for the most part. They're common migrants in Arizona, but they also breed here.

I think they do catch small fish from time to time, but mostly, they forage. They stalk daintily through the shallows, scouting the water and mud for tiny invertebrates that I never see until they pluck them up.

Also, they're noisy. Courtship, territorial disputes, annoyance at bird watchers and photographers ... if you can't see any stilts, just listen. They're probably making noise right now.

Species a Day, Week 1

I've been floundering a bit lately. I have a few projects I want to do, I have an idea of where I'd like my career to go, and I have passions languishing on back burners. I never seem to have time to do it all how I'd like.

Because I'm weird and my brain generally works the opposite of what logic would dictate, making a new project for myself seems to have set everything into alignment. I don't know why. What I do know is 1) I've learned more about Arizona nature and especially Arizona's animals in the last few years than in all my animal-obsessed childhood years combined; 2) I am pretty good at nature photography; and 3) people tend to ask me about Arizona animals, and I enjoy being a know-it-all about them. So this week marks the first roundup week of my self-imposed "Species a Day" project: A different Arizona animal species each day, with previously unshared photographs and a brief writeup.

This past week's animals follow. What animals would you like to see? I'm game for anything, as long as it's an Arizona animal (though it doesn't have to be exclusively an Arizona animal, as in most cases).

Day 1: Cactus wren


Our state bird. Bold. Feisty. Fond of scolding anyone who crosses its path with loud, raspy, ceaseless vocalizations. You know, a typical Arizonan.

Nah. Wrens probably talk less often.

Cactus wrens, Campylorhynchus brunneicapillus, are the largest of our wrens, at 22 centimeters. They're the most striking, too, in my opinion: They've got bright white streaks over each eye, sort of like the freaky eyebrows on that juicer guy; and they have beautifully streaked and speckled breasts.

Cactus wrens are year-round residents across much of Arizona and are especially fond of (you guessed it) cactus country. Cholla are their favorites, and they tuck their nests inside the wicked branches of these most wicked of cacti. The ground surrounding every cholla (and thus every cactus wren home) is perpetually covered in cactus-branch land mines, which spent the better part of my childhood attached to various parts of my anatomy. (I had a branch lodged in my foot while taking these images, as a matter of fact. Not fun. Tip: Don't wear sandals while chasing cactus wrens.)

If you can manage to navigate safely through that, there's no way you'll reach the nest. Cactus wren nests are generally only accessible to cactus wrens. You'd think, then, that they'd be calm and secure. Not so.

Cactus wrens are freakishly alert, ever vigilant, and noisy. I approached one. Cha! ChaChaChaChaChaCha! It flew away. I slowly (after yanking a huge cholla branch from my ankle) approached again. ChaChaChaChaChaChaCHACHA! I watched it go. I sat on the ground and waited for it to come to me (after removing the cactus branch on which I'd sat). It returned. With a friend!




I excitedly got off one snap before getting it in stereo. CHACHASCREWYOU! Finally, I settled for not moving my lens, not moving my head, and locking my eyes on his home cactus. Eventually, after several minutes, he landed one last time, lacing his scaly toes through the cholla spines, and I got a few more shots in before failing to lace my own toes safely through the spines that were at my feet. I used the "comb method" to remove this branch (stick a comb in; yank really hard; curse), and as beads of blood welled and I got hollered at again by the wren, I called it a day. Birding is hard work, y'all. (Actually, I had a blast. Plus, this was the guy that inadvertently led me here.)

Day 2: Verdin


In the same area as the cactus wrens, I saw (and actually managed to capture) a verdin, or Auriparus flaviceps, perched on a staghorn cholla.

I'll share my husband's wisdom on the matter:

Husband: "What's a verdin?"
Me: "I think it's a type of tit."
Husband: "... (snickersnicker) ..."
Me: "Really?"
Husband: [Laughing like a 10-year-old]

It only got worse when I mentioned that it's related to the bushtit. We have this type of conversation often. You can imagine his appreciation of the recent animal-name hi-jinks on Jeopardy.

Seriously, I have the hardest time capturing verdins. They're these tiny sprites of birds (about 11 centimeters) that flit around in arid scrub, building little spheres of nests. They're gorgeous. And I never noticed them until I started purposely looking.

Day 3: Green lacewing


I photographed this green lacewing (Genus Chrysoperla, I believe -- anyone know the specific species name?) on my window in the morning. I love these guys. They're delicate and gorgeous, their eyes are iridescent, and they eat aphids. They're only a couple of centimeters long. They're attracted to lights at night like moths, except they're more jittery and fluttery than moths when they fly. (More jittery and fluttery. See how scientific I am?) Sometimes in the summer, they'll lay eggs on tiny hair-like filaments, with a miniature bubble of an egg at the tip of each fiber. My son commented that "they're like party balloons, only with insect eggs," which probably tells you quite a bit about how my family sees the world.

Day 4: Blue-eyed darner


Love these guys. This was the first dragonfly I remember ever seeing, and their eyes remind me of Fremen, so of course I'm pretty fond of the critters. For some reason, I have the hardest time capturing clear photos of these darners, which seem a tad more cautious than some other dragonflies in Arizona. Still, I liked this image.

The blue-eyed darner, Aeshna multicolor, is about 7 centimeters long. It seems to like perching on sage bushes and similar foliage. The female is marked similarly to the male, except with green instead of blue.

Day 5: Great-tailed grackle


Maybe kind of a cheat, as they're so easy, but I really don't think there's a "boring" critter out there, and if there was, it certainly wouldn't be great-tailed grackles, or Quiscalus mexicanus. These guys are a blast to watch. They're not, as some people think, cousins of crows, but they still seem pretty darn intelligent. A male grackle will sit up in a tree, seemingly waiting for his harem of females below to scout out potential foraging grounds.


These are some of my son's favorite birds, and I think it's because they're so dang entertaining. Their mating "dance" is hilarious: The male will sort of stiffen and vibrate/jiggle himself about, like a broken wind-up toy, with feathers puffed out, while the female feigns indifference. (So, not so unlike people, I guess.) They squabble. They're fiercely opportunistic. Once I spilled a bag of cat food in the grocery store parking lot. I was set upon by an energetic cacophonous cloud. They're awesome.

Day 6: Curve-billed thrasher

Growing up, we had a water dish in our backyard that was frequented, most often, by cactus wrens and curve-billed thrashers, or Toxostoma curvirostre. As I said above, the wrens were feisty and noisy and just seemingly crude. The thrashers, on the other hand, gave the appearance of a sort of haughty polish. Their sickle-shaped bills looked like some kind of cultured restraint, and they lightly loped about, calling out less often, and then only with a sweet, short, whit-weet. They seemed more polite, somehow.

I totally think I'm better than you.

This was an illusion. The thrashers would wait. They would stand about with their snobbish looks, prissily whit-weeting at the cactus wrens, and then, while the wrens were busy telling everyone how great they were, the thrahsers would move in, drink the water, and eat all the seed.

Curve-billed thrashers can be hard to tell from the closely related Bendire's thrashers. Curve-billed thrashers, at about 28 centimeters, also have lighter and more spotted breasts than the Bendire's, at about 25 centimeters -- and also, suprise, more curved bills.

Day 7: Great blue heron

If you've browsed this blog at all, you've almost definitely seen photos of this bird before. The great blue heron, Ardea herodias, begs to be photographed pretty much any time you spot it. If you live in the area, go to the Gilbert Riparian Preserve, where you're bound to see a few zillion other bird species if the herons don't tickle your fancy. If you get there while there's still a decent amount of daylight left, hike to one of the inner ponds. Find a secluded spot at the water's edge. Just sit. And wait. They'll come.

Great blue herons live throughout North America, and are pretty adaptable to different locations, though they'll always be near a body of water, and usually nest in nearby trees. If, like me, your first encounter is an accident, and you learn the heron's alarm call (an abnormally loud, abnormally un-birdlike, harsh croak-grunt) as it flies out of a concealing bush like a pterodactyl, your first heron encounter might coincide with your first heart attack.

Also, they're awesome fishers. They stalk. Plunge. Gobble. And repeat. And I never tire of watching. (One last tip. Stay out from beneath them. OMG.)

The approach

The attack

The reward

And that's it, for this week. I'll post another species each day, and gather them up each Monday. I think I should be able to go at least a year. What do you think?