November 27, 2019 — San Mateo County, California
Same day as yesterday, rendered today, for tomorrow.
(Nikon D500, Tamron 100–400mm f/4.5–6.3 Di VC USD. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2; Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
WordPress has its way with the colors.
November 27, 2019 — San Mateo County, California
Or maybe Rothko Turnover easy?
(Nikon D500, Tamron 100–400mm f/4.5–6.3 Di VC USD. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2; Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
May 14, 2020 — The Back Yard, Silicon Valley, California
Every April/May I engage in the Hummingbird Ritual. It’s a simple ritual, mostly involving standing around with a heavy camera/lens combo waiting for hummingbirds to feed on echium blooms. This requires four ingredients: Me, Heavy camera/lens, Purple echium blooms, and a Hummingbird.
Thing is, despite shelter-in-place, my schedule has been less than accommodating, which has effectively removed the “me” ingredient for several weeks. When I finally was available, the purple blooms were almost gone. But not quite. And so, on a soft overcast morning I grabbed the heavy camera/lens combo and went out to stand around waiting. And waiting.
Eventually a pretty Anna’s Hummingbird had mercy on my poor soul and — kindly waiving the customary modeling fee — provided the opportunity.
Just in time.
(Nikon D500, Tamron 100–400mm f/4.5–6.3 Di VC USD. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2; Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
May 12, 2020 — San Mateo County Coast, California
Driving has always been allowed in California. There is simply nowhere worthwhile to park. All state beach (meaning “beach”) parking has been blocked. But there had been rain (finally) and the sky promised to be interesting, I drove to the coast to try my luck. I was expecting reasonably good surf for wave photos. Six to nine feet was the forecast. I was pumped. The very last existing copy of Sirens, Rachael Talibart’s brilliant book of towering waves had just arrived in the mail and, suitably inspired, I wanted to shoot some waves of my own.
But when I got there and pulled off to the side of the road north of Pescadero, the Pacific was being… Pacific.
So, shooting not what was expected but what was presented, I shot this.
(Nikon D850, Nikon 24-120mm f/4G VR. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2; Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
More seascape horizons: www.amagaphoto.com
April 20, 2020 — The Neighborhood
In Poppyland
There’s a flower in hand
That presents
A flute for you…
(More on Chewy soon…)
(Canon G5X II. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2; Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
September 19, 2006 — The Kitchen
OK. I conned him into posing: camera in right hand, treat in the left. He did get the treat.
(To be continued after a break for different subjects…)
(Canon 20D; Canon EF 24-105 f/4L IS USM. Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
Various Dates — Various Beaches in San Mateo and Sonoma Counties, California
Labs and poodles are both water dogs, so you would imagine that a labradoodle like Chewy would love the water.
Kind of.
He loved the beach. That’s for sure. We didn’t let him swim in the ocean because much of our coast has a murderous undertow. You go out. You don’t come back in. But he loved to run on the beach and chase sticks of driftwood and splash through the shallow wave-wash. And roll in the sand. And eat the small crabs that would wash up. All he could eat.
We did let him swim at Lake Tahoe, but guess what? The great water dog didn’t like going into the water. Swim? Not so much. The Muse would coax him in with a stick to chase. After a lot of coaxing he’s wade in, get the stick, and bound out of the water and bring it far up the beach. “That’s enough,” he’d say. “My stick,” he’d say. “I’m done,” he’d say.
But run? Oh he would run. Fast. Like the wind.
Once in a while he’d pose.
(To be continued…)
(Various cameras and lenses. Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
December 1, 2014 — Los Gatos Greek Trail, Los Gatos, California
“Walkies” is more of a British expression than an Americanism, so we caught on late. It’s a perfect word. We learned it from Wallace and Gromit and adopted it immediately. So did Chewy. He adopted it so well that we had to resort to using other expressions when simply planning a day — perambulate, circumnavigate the block, mosey, constitutional, hike — to prevent him from injuring himself by bouncing off the walks when he overheard the word when it wasn’t meant for him.
But when it was time, “walkies” is what we said and what he said was “Let’s GO!”
We made many game attempts to train him to heel — but he saw no personal advantage in that so he usually took lead. A professional dog trainer, professionally training professional dogs would cringe. Good thing Chewy wasn’t a professional.
There were several things that were consistent with him: If he had to relieve himself, he always made his deposit far off the trail where nobody would walk. We never trained him to do that. He just did. He loved to greet people and was always a gentleman. Didn’t jump up. Waited for a pat or a scratch. And he sniffed everything. That was his way of catching up in the daily news. “All the news that fit to sniff.” Because he was, after all, a dog.
And he would always look back to make sure we were with him and say, as in the photo above, “Isn’t this great?!”*
(Aside: Canine psychologists and others with lofty titles pronounce loftily that we mustn’t anthropomorphize dogs and assume that dogs are smiling. “Dogs,” they dogmatize, “do not smile.” Right. They grin.)
The one thing Chewy didn’t count on when he became part of this family was the Muse. On occasion, the Muse could out-walk him to the point of his being dragged-out shot knackerd for the rest of the day. Didn’t happen often but when it did, he could be counted on to sleep the day away, waking up only to jump onto the bed when we retired and then conk right out again.
But there was one time we almost didn’t let him join us.
Midnight Misadventure
It had been a long day. A busy day. A stressful day. So when I took him out to do his pre-bedtime business at midnight, I wanted him to hurry and told him so. (This was before we had coyotes; I didn’t have him on a leash.) He wandered dutifully into the designate relief area. Quiet. Rustle. Rustle. Quiet. Rustle. Scramble. Yip! Yelp! Whimper… Chewy came tearing out of the darkness, blasted into the, house, jumped onto the family-room couch, buried his head deep into the cushions and frantically rubbed, screaming his head off. The Muse grabbed him and took him back outside. The aroma was — pungent is too mild a word.
Skunk. Direct hit from about six feet, right in the face.
I immediately thought, tomato juice. We had none.** What to do? Of course, Google skunk remedy dog.
Try it. See what you come up with.
Right: hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and a dash of dishwashing detergent in specific proportions. Work into the hair, wait five minutes, and rinse. I did it.
You want a bonding experience with your dog? De-skunk him in five minutes. He was in awe. I was his god.
An hour later, scent-free, he was in bed with us.
(To be continued…)
(Canon 7D; Sigma 18-200mm f/3.5-6.3 II DC OS HSM. RAW processing in DxO Photo Pro, Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
*Spoiler: He was on a leash. I Photoshopped it out.
**The website I found at the time was written by the guy who discovered this formula. A cosmetics chemist if I recall correctly. He said, correctly, that if you use tomato juice you’ll just end up with a dog that smells of skunk and tomato juice. Not a desirable outcome.
He also said that he’d been asked many times how come he didn’t manufacture and sell the stuff. He’d make a bundle. Because if you put it into a closed container it will explode. Not with a fizzle, but with a bang. It’s a product liability thing.
May 21, 2005 — The Driveway
Chewy was an accidental labradoodle. Love child of a lab and a poodle who were left to do their own thing. That made him, in breederspeak, an F-1.
That means that in a litter, there is an even chance of the offspring having fur from the lab, wiry hair from the poodle, or fleecy hair from the poodle’s line. Chewy had fleecy hair. The best.
Fur sheds and with it comes dander and many people are allergic to dander.
Hair doesn’t shed — it just keeps growing and growing and growing. No shedding means less dander in the air,* but it also requires regular haircuts. This is the boy overdue for a haircut.
It was a mild late May and threatening to get warm. The thick black hair reaches out and grabs the heat and holds it. We’d been putting off the first summer haircut due to the excessive cuteness factor** and the fact that it hadn’t gotten too warm. Yet. But the weather forecast showed a warming trend. This photo was taken just before a buzzcut.
(To be continued…)
(Canon 20D; Canon EF-S 17–85mm f/4–5.6 IS USM. Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
*This is why labradoodles were originally bred in Australia — to be trained as guide dogs and assistance dogs for people with allergies.
**This was one reason why he was the poster boy for labradoodles in our area. That and his gentle friendliness. In 2005, very few people had even heard of labradoodles, let alone seen one. I don’t know how many times we heard “Gotta get one” after a conversation on a walking trail.
November 4, 2004 — Fremont Older Open Space Preserve, Cupertino, California
We first saw a labradoodle in Castine, Maine on the Fourth of July, 2003. Sort of goofy looking and elegant at the same time. Jet black. Affectionate and intelligent. Patient. Gentle. Full of energy and mellow at the same time.
What kind of dog is this?
Labradoodle. Mix of standard poodle and lab. I was scratching the back of her head — base of the skull. She loved it. Her hair was like fleece. Neither my wife — the Muse — nor I could tear ourselves away. Even the allure of char-broiled mooseburgers with bleu cheese at the core of the patty couldn’t pull us away. The Muse said, “If we’re going to get a dog, this is the exact one I want.” She was channeling my thought.
Fifty-one weeks later…
I was in Stockton at a college reunion.
The Muse was visiting her sister in Shingle Springs in the Sierra foothills. They decided they needed entertainment, so they went down to the feed store — which was sort of a community center, which says a lot about Shingle Springs.
On the bulletin board was a 3 x 5 card. “Labradoodle. Free to the right home. Male. Neutered. Two years old. Has all shots.” And a phone number. She stared. She caught her breath. She called the number. (I was in Stockton without clue number one.) The call was long. It was like a job interview. The Muse was the applicant. It was a tough interview. But it seemed to go well. She was invited for a second call.
We met at home the next evening. She told me, with a bit of trepidation. I was ecstatic.
We made the second call. It was a sad story. She had six dogs and had to lighten her canine load. She had three with behavior issues and she know no one would want them. She had to find homes for her three angels. Chewy was her favorite. She had rescued him from a neighbor who has a poodle and a lab. Chewy was an unofficial labradoodle. An F-1, as they say in the breeding world. The guy took no care at all of the pups and she rescued them. They were all in bad health and ridden with ticks. She got them all back to health and found homes for them. She kept her favorite. Chewy. Now she had to find a home for him. She’d been interviewing people for six months. None had been acceptable to her. After a long conversation, she asked if we wanted to drive up for a meeting on the coming weekend. We did. Saturday came and we made the three-hour drive.
We met in a park in Shingle Springs. Chewy was introduced. Same size as the one we’d met a year earlier. Jet black. Fleecy hair. We talked. Chewy knew something was up. He was nervous and clung to her. To us, he was diffident. He preferred not to be touched. He would just quietly move away.
After forty-five minutes or so she told us that we seemed like the right people and asked if we were interested. We were. On the way back to the parking lot, she was having a hard time keeping it together. Chewy was visibly confused. In the parking lot there was the awkward moment of Chewy trying to get into her car and being directed to ours. He was shaking. She was holding back tears. We were sort of numb.
It was 364 days after we’d first seen a labradoodle.
On the way home, the Muse tried to comfort him. He was stoic. A brave soldier. We stopped half-way to give him a chance to do his business. Not interested. Offered him a treat. No thank you.
The Muse and I discussed the name she wanted for him: Charley. She didn’t really like the name, Chewy. I argued that he’d lost his home, his human pack, his canine pack, his territory, his familiar smells. At least let’s let him keep his name. He remained Chewy.
We got home at around 6:30 p.m. Time to do your business, Chewy. No thanks. Food? No thanks. Water? A little bit, please. Thank you. We offered him a dog bed. He chose the floor. We got the feeling that in addition to his obvious unease, he was trying to be polite.
Bed time. Do your business? No thanks. My God, it’s been hours. Are you sure? I’m sure.
We slept the night.
The morning came. Outside to the designated relief area. Nothing. I got the distinct impression that he didn’t want to offend me by desecrating my ground. But Chewy, this is the place. A beat passed. Inspiration. I unbuttoned my jeans and relieved myself. He watched for a few seconds and then let go. An eternity later, he was done. He looked at me gratefully. Our first bonding moment. He did eat the breakfast we offered him.
That morning we got him a proper collar and leash and took him for a walk at the Fremont Older Open Space Preserve. There he engaged in part two of relief — but we noticed something interesting: he went far off the trail to do it. He very obviously didn’t want to dirty the trail. Being very considerate, he never failed to do this. (The photo above was taken on the same trail a few months later.)
When we got home, we again offered him the bed we’d gotten. No thanks. The floor is fine, thank you. We left the room to do other things. When we returned a while later, he was on the bed.
He was home.
(To be continued…)
(Canon PowerShot Pro 1, Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
April 22, 2020 — My Back Yard, Silicon Valley, California
There is a female bobcat who comes around every six to eight weeks. We call her Roberta. We keep our distance, but we like her.
This coyote, not so much.
(Nikon D500, Tamron 100–400mm f/4.5–6.3 Di VC USD. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2; Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
June 28, 2018 — Puketeraki Lookout, Otago, South Island, New Zealand
When the clouds part over New Zealand, there is a glow.
I know the trek is not yet over, but it is being traveled with aplomb.
Be well. Do good. Create.
(Nikon D500, Nikon 200-500mm f/5.6E ED VR zoom. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2. Final editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
June 28, 2018 — Puketeraki Lookout, Otago, South Island, New Zealand
Rescued from the archives.
Here’s one that I kept coming back to, but in post-processing I could never get it to do what I saw. Tonight I could. And did. Persistence pays off in the end.
This is for all the Kiwis who are showing the rest of the world how it’s done. In adversity, the light shines even brighter. Persistence pays off in the end.
Be well. Do good. Create.
(Nikon D500, Nikon 200-500mm f/5.6E ED VR zoom. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2. Final editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
January 23, 2017 — Sonoma County Coast, California
Rescued from the archives.
I think the thing that appeals to me about glints of light on horizons is that I would prefer to think that there is a glint of light on the horizon — no matter how distant the horizon may be.
And there is, provided it is we as individuals who supply the light — no matter how distant the horizon may be.
I’ll quote James Taylor from what now seems a long-gone era:
Shower the people you love with love, show them the way you feel.
Things are gonna be much better if you only will.
And the people upon whom you shower — ask them to pass it on.
(Nikon D750; Nikon 28-300mm f/3.5-5.6G ED VR Zoom. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2. Final editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
August 27, 2019; St. Paul’s Cathedral, London, England. Long-time followers know that many of my influences as a photographer are painters and chief among them is the English Romantic artist J.M.W. Turner. Yesterday was his birthday, which was most beautifully and thoroughly celebrated in yesterday’s blog post by Marina Kanavaki.
Take a look. It’s worth the visit.
More than a year ago I posted a story about basking in Turners at the Tate Britain Museum in London in the summer of 2011. My Muse is also a Turner fan so when we were in London again last summer it was a no-brainer for us to go to the Tate and again surrounded ourselves with Turners. That afternoon was as nourishing to us spiritually as the dinner that evening was nourishing physically.
A few days later we toured St. Paul’s Cathedral. One of the most fascinating parts of the tour was a visit to the crypt, which is, fittingly, below ground level. More than two hundred notables are buried there, including the Duke of Wellington, Lord Nelson, Florence Nightingale, Arthur Sullivan, William Blake, Laurence of Arabia, and of course, Christopher Wren, who designed the cathedral.
As we were listening to the docent describe Wren’s tomb, it occurred to me that Turner must be buried somewhere in the crypt and I considered detaching myself from the group to look for his grave. Just at that moment someone nearly stepped on my foot, and as I reflexively looked down, I discovered that I’d been standing on Turner’s grave for several minutes.
I hasten to add that I consider it disrespectful to stand on a grave, but it is impossible not to in the crypt because they are all so close together. Still, I stepped off of it and stared silently at the stone as every Turner painting I had ever seen flashed through my mind.
When the crowd cleared, I documented the moment.
A belated happy birthday to you, William, wherever you are. And I’m sorry about standing on your grave.
(Canon G7X II. RAW processing in DxO PhotoLab 3.2; Editing in Adobe Photoshop.)
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