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And into freezing water! In hindsight, perhaps not the best of ideas during a frozen day in January, but captured so well by Rachel
To all those that are aflicted by a certain and almost unspoken condition, this just may be the answer to your prayers..
It's a pile driver.
Big sin't it.
Perhaps the irony of this graffiti was lost to the artist... such a contrast between nature and the painted word!
Perhaps I should make a series of these 'Relaxing with' images. Sometimes I think it's not so much the focal length that makes you favour a lens, but its rendering. 35mm isn't my preferred focal length, but I just love the images that come from the Distagon.
Leica M9 | Zeiss Distagon 35mm f1.4 ZM | Lightroom 4.4
Perhaps the highlight of my Norfolk trip was the sight of the Common Snipe, where four specimens were present at close quarters from Bishop's Hide at Cley Marshes.
A most attractive creature that features a bill which is so long compared with its body length.
Cley, Norfolk
17th October 2018
20181017 IMG_1313
Perhaps the new theme park needs a better transport which can maneuver in the city, right? Based on my previous truck design, I did this for moving the raptors. The tracker section has a turret that can be used for any emergency cases like dinosaur escape.
I think this looks like a set to be released. Ready to visit the park now?
It is for us, perhaps on the occasion of a few more thinning hairs that have turned a silvery gray, to take a sleeve and scour away the scale and cobwebs and peer back through the panes of memory that time has dusted well, flipping through the yellowed sheaves of the past as if a great animation is played in reverse until we arrive at a certain moment established near or about Page 1; a moment that time seems not to have tarnished or decayed.
It is a moment that is as gilded in its individual importance as is The Book of Genesis to the flock of the faithful.
It was as if a switch key was inserted and turned, a heavy brass lock removed from its securement and left dangling on a length of chain, allowing a great unseen force to reach deep within us and ever so slightly bend the malleable portion of our DNA to align our path through the flangeways and across a No. 6 frog, there to be baptized with coal cinders and atomized diesel exhaust, the bellowing of trumpets and the shrieking of steel-on-steel welcoming us like a newly-christened Knight of Hohenschwangau.
Not to diminish our soul mates and the romantic attractions that hormones and mutual affection would tender to our hearts at a later age, but in that moment, trains and all things ‘railroad’ became our first love, and most likely will be our last.
They were experiences of extreme intimacy that, as with romantic love itself, have seemingly been bereft of proper definition, and it seems that the further we progress from the occasion itself, the more our minds choose to revisit it.
For some, perhaps, it was the sincere gentleness in Grandpa’s hand, the immensity of it swallowing ours within its calloused grasp, our tiny legs taking two steps for every one of his as our mind wrapped itself around fantastic tales of the 3460-class highballing The Chief, or of the great articulated 3800s mauling a mile of high cars up to Tucumcari.
The train order board was in the ‘stop’ position for the 10 am ‘every day but Sunday’ local as we sat amongst weathered and aged friends in the shadows of the equally weathered and aged depot, the slatted wooden bench having witnessed the comings and goings of countless trains over the decades and borne the weight of those who waited for them; of those who only watched and reminisced; of those who waited for Johnny to come marching home, and those who signed for his casket on the station platform, the slamming of the baggage car door as a gunshot salute echoing about the mourners gathered in the rain.
Perhaps it was the bare feet of a barely-four-year-old, the floorboard of the old 50-something Ford station wagon hot on the tiptoes as we balanced on the driveshaft hump and struggled to see over the front seat, the open windows allowing the oppression of a Texas summer to fill the car as bells clanged and lights flashed and gates lowered across the roadway. A rumbling monster charged by, screaming, horn blaring, its passing creating the only breeze that day. We watched as the cars rambled past, each filling us with awe and leaving us wondering just where it all was going.
Real or perceived, there was a quaintness about them, in the local colors of Black Widow or McGinnis bow ties; of high-hood Geeps mu-ed with chicken wire Fs and an old RS unit smoking up the rear. Hitched on the drawbar was a string of 40-foot refugees from across the continent, each emblazoned with colorful heralds and slogans urging us to ship our goods with them. They dutifully tagged along behind, waybilled to who-knows-where, carrying who-knew-what, rocking along jointed rail, clattering, creaking, swaying to and fro, seemingly ready to tip over at any moment. Yet the friction-bearing Bettendorfs ran true, never leaving the rails as they raised a cloud of dust amid the aromas of hot creosote and the blue haze of 32 cylinders worth of 567 exhaust, and in the wake of their passing young minds conjured up visions of a thousand places that we’d never been.
We would go there in the pages of Beebe, riding the wave of prose as it painted glorious stories from across the breadth and width of a nation, from Down East to the Deep South and across the frontier to the golden days of the Wild West. The great hard cover bindings held such treasures as Andrew Russell’s glass plate views of the Golden Spike at Promontory, Fred Jukes’ visions of the Overland Limited at Elko, and Steinheimer’s prowess brought us to the frigid heights of Donner. We became filled with wonder yet equally saddened that we had missed all the grand commotion.
Our mailboxes were eagerly checked as minds young and old stood ready to absorb the monthly musings of David P. Morgan and Fred Frailey and Ed King, and offerings from the lenses of Hastings and Lamb and Middleton, our whetted appetite satiated but temporarily, our excitement nearing a crescendo with the impending arrival of the next issue.
The diesel spotters guide became dogeared from our quest to identify the oldest and latest models; to know just how much horsepower each unit could generate and turn into tractive effort. 1st or 2nd Generation? GP or SD? Two radiator fans or three? U-Boat or C-Boat? RS or Century?
The units had character back then, and the local flavors of paint made them even more so: Bloody Noses, Chinese Red, blue & yellow bonnets, Tuxedos, John Deeres, and Deramus Reds. Jenks blue never looked sharp before the Screaming Eagle spread itself out on the hood doors.
All are gone now.
We pine for them still.
And though we are tempted to grow weary of the cookie cutter designs and unimaginative paint on today’s corporate merger fleets, we still seek them out.
It is, after all, in our DNA.
But time never grows weary. It marches forward to an inexorable cadence as yesterdays grow forever dim on the horizon of the past, and our own hands grow wrinkled and calloused from life’s work.
We have come a long way from that first primordial encounter, but in our reverie, we are able to gaze back through the dusty panes of memory, and in doing so, our melancholy calls us to recreate it in some fashion or another.
Here tonight, on the High Plains of Texas, the oppressive heat of a youthful summer afternoon has given way to the chill of a long winter evening. And though the throb of a GEVO fast approaching is a long way from Roots-blown EMDs rumbling down the Sunset Route and hazing the summer sky with their blue-tinged calling card, we nonetheless still feel our pulse quicken, and the surge of excitement courses through our veins as if we were still that four-year-old struggling to see over the front seat of the old Ford.
And in that moment, we’re transported back in time, if just for a bit---
The blare of air horns fast approaching---
The floorboard hot on our bare feet---
Pungent, life-changing aromas of diesel exhaust and hot creosote wafting in through the open windows---
The camera clicks, opening and closing the shutter in a fraction of a second, letting in enough light to create an image on a sensor as vivid as the one we remember from early in our youth. We close our own eyes as if that might somehow take us back there---
To Espee Geeps smoking up a hot and hideously humid southeast Texas afternoon so very long ago.
If only we could.
---RAM
Rick Malo©2024
Perhaps my favorite out of nearly 200 trucks I own in the game. An International 9300 Eagle with a Scania V8 transplant and a 10 Speed. its got 4.3K miles on it, which doesn't seem like much but for someone who is a truck hopper that's a lot LMAO
This is not the first HEMI 'Cuda that I have recreated in Lego. It is, though perhaps the coolest.
Yellow is a real stand out colour on this model year, highlighted (or dark-lighted?) by the black side panels, which on the real car, have tall 'HEMI' lettering.
Why is the HEMI 'Cuda so important then?
M U S C L E S
The Muscle Car Era is one of the automobile industry’s Golden Era. The formula was simple: Small Car, Big Engine.
This was all relative, of course. Even the US Compacts were very large cars from the perspective of Europeans and Japanese. The engine was not a relative measure – the V8 fitted to the Plymouth shown was a mighty 7.0 litres capacity, at the time American engines were measured in cubic inches – 426 to be exact. A feature of the engine formed part of the car’s name HEMI – short for Hemispherical combustions chambers – a method for achieving high compression ratio and large valve diameters.
‘Cuda – well, that was just a shortened form of ‘Barracuda’ – the official name of the car on which this model was based. Most Barracuda were a bit less wild that the HEMI, with various engines of 3.2 to 7.2 litre capacity. For aficionados though, the HEMI model is the real deal – perhaps even the greatest of all muscle cars. Coupes and a much rare Convertible were available – the rarity of such cars elevating the current market value – a 1971 HEMI ‘Cuda convertible, one of 11 cars, sold for a staggering $3.5 Million in 2014.
To add to the drama, the HEMI ‘Cuda was available in a number of wild colours, any of them citrus toned, with matching groovy names. Year-on-year changes included various special paint schemes, including the black panels on the rear fenders of this car, matching the roof. For 1971 the car adopted twin headlamps, a one-year only feature. The HEMI was also fitted with a ‘shaker hood’, an exposed air intake protruding from the hood – the intake ‘shaking’ as the engine reacted from the mighty torque loads.
Alas, all golden eras come to an end, this one brought down by insurance premiums, unleaded fuel and vehicle emissions standards. For this reason, bona fide Muscle car legends remain the poster child for high-octane-fueled dream.
This HEMI 'Cuda is the one (the only one) Muscle car in my first Lego vehicle instruction publication:
www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0760352658/creativepubco-20
If you are going to pick one only, this is the one.
Chain's seriously rusty and the seat is missing, but the tires appear inflated. Perhaps the owner simply took the seat with him as a precaution.
Perhaps to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of the Patterson-Gimplin film, our local Sasquatch returned with his older sister Albino Sasquatch and let us take some photos of them dismantling an old stump in search of food.
Perhaps the low-height roof makes a little more sense now. Seeing as how Liverpool and Birkenhead seems to have a thing against bridges - probably to do with the fact that Liverpool was a massive port city towards North America in its day - there exists, as well as the ever-lauded 'ferry across the Mersey', two tunnels connecting Liverpool to Birkenhead, namely the imaginatively-named Kingsway and Queensway tunnels. And because the Queensway likely wasn't built for modern-day full-height double deckers offering cross-Mersey services, it seems that Arriva had to invest in low-height Wrightbus models to cover these routes, as well as for other unbranded buses that may somehow end up in the tunnel at some point. Would KHCT/Stagecoach and East Yorkshire had done the same if our ground was good enough to put a tunnel under the Humber? It would be interesting to visualise...
Coming into Liverpool city centre after having passed through the Queensway from Birkinhead is Arriva Merseyside's 4532, a Volvo B5LH Wright Gemini 2 lowheight branded for the 'Crossriver' services, here making a right onto Crosshall Street as it comes to the end of route 437 to Liverpool.
Japan is perhaps the safest place on earth, with the lowest death rate of any country on the planet when standardized for age of population. The above bar chart shows the low levels of accidental death in Japan. Pink bars are show sub-category composition data of the red bars above them.
There are however two areas in which Japan is less safe than international averages (shown in darker pink) one of which is especially pertinent at this time of year.
There are higher rates of chocking on foods, and higher rates of drowning in baths in Japan that in other countries. The elevated age of the Japanese population is one reason for these increased accident levels. Old people are more likely to choke on their food and to slip or otherwise fall below the waterline of their baths and be unable to get out.
Another reasons pertains to Japanese culture in each of these areas. Japanese baths have deeper traditionally cubic tubs which allow shared bathing (particularly mothers and children) and foetal positions for that pre-sleep return to the womb feeling.
In respect of choking, the Japanese enjoy a number of high-density, gelatinous foods such as konyaku, octopus and, the biggest killer, rice cakes (mochi) which are consumed especially at the beginning and end of the year. These high density foods enable the Japanese to enjoy a food rush without consuming the sort of quantity and weight consumed elsewhere of Christmas cake for instance. The fatalities to asphyxia as a result of rice cake eating are likely therefore to be far less than the fatalities due to obesity due to Christmas cake eating. Even so one should take care when eating rice cakes and perhaps gem up on ways to treat chocking in oneself and others (see below).
The above chart is based on my translation of Japanese government statistics available from Statistics Japan Table 5-31.
Other statistics of note to a Briton like myself, are that traffic accidents are so rare due to the great care that Japanese take on the roads one is almost as likely to choke on your food or drown in your bath as die on Japanese roads. Another fact that may take some visitors by surprise -- take care, drink water -- as many die from the heat of the Japanese summer (hyperthermia) as die from the cold (hypothermia).
Animals cause 17 deaths per year due to brute force (including wild boar) whereas another 30 lives are claimed by dangerous animals (my mistranslation) including giant "sparrow hornets," the creatures that causes the most accidental death in Japan. From the sparrow hornets' point of view the death they cause is far from accidental. They are territorial and attack those that approach their nests and sources of food.
Treatments for Choking in Oneself and Others
Here is a video showing how to do the Heimlich manoeuvre (abdominal thrusts) on yourself, should you wish to dislodge a mochi stuck in your throat when you are on your own. Back slaps are recommended as the first thing to do to others, alternating with abdominal thrusts and chest thrusts once the patient is unconscious. If both don't work the brave of heart may wish to perform an airway incision centrally into the cartilage one inch below the voice box. A doctor performed this successful with a steak knife and barrel of a ball point pen (Daily Mail article with instructions)
St Mary, Stoke by Nayland, Suffolk
Perhaps only St Peter and St Paul at Lavenham has a grander exterior than this mighty ship. But Lavenham's setting is thoroughly domesticated. Here, in the wild hills above the Dedham Vale, St Mary lifts its great red tower to heaven, and nothing can compare with it.
John Constable loved this tower, and it appears several times in his paintings, not always in the right place. Simon Jenkins, in England's 1000 Best Churches, says that when the bells of Stoke-by-Nayland ring, all Suffolk stops to listen. All Essex too, perhaps, since this church is right on the border between the two counties.
St Mary is pretty much all of a piece, late in the 15th century, although there are some older bits, and a great deal of rather undistinguished 19th century work. But the glory of the church is the red brick and dressed stone tower, completed about 1470 and surmounted by stone spires, reminiscent of Bungay St Mary, away on Suffolk's northern borderland. There are fine views of this from many places, and from many miles away. Close to, it is immense. Stoke by Nayland is, after all, a small village rather than a town, and the setting of cottages only enhances the sense that this tower is enormous. The buttresses are laced with canopied image niches - how amazing it must have looked before the 16th century reformers removed all the statues! Tendring and Howard shields flag up the dead people we'll meet inside.
On the north side there is a dinky little Tudor porch (although it would be rather more imposing against a smaller church), but the south porch, which is the main entrance, is rather more of a curiosity. It was entirely refaced by the Victorians, and at first sight you might even think it 19th century, but the windows and bosses in the vaulting reveal to be one of the earliest parts of the church, an early 14th century addition to the building that was then replaced in the late 15th century. There are two storeys, and the parish library is still kept in the upper one. The bosses include an Annunciation scene and a grinning devil.
But a serious distraction from the vaulting is straight ahead. St Mary has the best set of medieval doors in Suffolk. The figures are remarkable. They stand proud of Gothic turrets and arches. They seem to represent a Tree of Jesse, effectively Christ's family tree, with Mary at the top and ancestors back into Old Testament times beneath. I think the figures in the border are disciples and apostles - in which case I could identify St Paul with his sword (although it might be St Bartholomew with his flencing knife) and St John the Evangelist. Medieval doors haven't survived at all widely in East Anglia, and it is exciting to see them at such close quarters.
A wicket door lets you into a space that widens and rises up around you, as if you were stepping into a larger space than you had left outside. To the west, the tower arch is a soaring void lifting to roof level. This is quality work, on a cathedral scale. This vastness swallows all sound. The font stands in tiny isolation, although it is actually on a massive Maltese cross pedestal and would dwarf furnishings in many smaller churches. It is a curious font, to say the least. Four of the panels show conventional evangelistic symbols, but three of the other four are unfamiliar. One is an angel, but the others are a woman in a cowl carrying a scroll beside a tree, a man with a sack pointing to a book open on a shelf, and a man with a scroll at a lectern.
Looking up, several 15th century corbels survived the Victorian restoration. One on the north side shows a ram caught in a thicket from the Abraham and Isaac story, and opposite it is a pelican in her piety. The splendid glass in the west window is by the O'Connors, and it may detain you for a moment, but eventually you must turn eastwards into the full drama of the long arcades stretching away like an avenue in a forest. Of course, from here you can see that St Mary is all pretty much all fully restored, but it is done well, it is well-kept and well-used. Still, you can't help thinking that the minister has a better view than the congregation. The north aisle chapel, now set out for weekday services and private prayer, was an early 14th century chantry chapel for the Peyton family, predating the rest of the church. A little ikon sits above the simple altar.
You step into a chancel which is full of colour in contrast with the high white light of the nave. Most of the glass is by JB Capronnier of Brussels, not something you'd wish on every church but it adds some particular character here. This end of the church is home to two large memorials, one in the south chancel chapel and the other in the north chancel chapel. The one to the south is to Lady Anne Windsor, originally one of the Waldegraves who we have met at Bures, who died in 1615. Her alabaster effigy lies between her two daughters who kneel at her head and her son at her feet. Across the chancel lies Sir Francis Mannock, 1634. His memorial is believed to be by Nicholas Stone. The Mannocks were a recusant family of Giffords Hall, who were responsible for the survival of the old faith throughout the penal years at Withermarsh Green, where a small and remote Catholic church still survives.
Curiously, Sir Francis's wife Dorothea does not lie with him, but under a brass set in the floor not far away. It is offset by an architectural niche. Mortlock thought Stone may have been responsible for this as well, and it certainly suggests that the Renaissance did not entirely bypass protestant England. There are several other brasses, including a substantial one near the priest door to Sir William Tendring, one of the donors of the 15th century rebuilding, a jolly little lion at his feet. A chrysom child is incised on a nearby ledger stone. Tendring's grim-faced wife Katherine lies nearby, and Mortlock points out how remarkable it is to see a figure of this period wearing rings.
And so, of course, the full drama of St Mary is best appreciated from a distance. But there is so much here of interest, apparently understated survivals which no doubt would shout in our faces in a smaller church. It is almost a surprise to step outside and find ourselves not in the heart of a great town after all, but in the quiet rolling hills above the Dedham Vale, and, if you are lucky as I was on one occasion, the sound of a village football match immediately to the north of the graveyard as if I had been transported into a poem by A E Houseman.
Perhaps my favorite external DAC to date, slight edge over the Parasound D/AC 2000 Ultra Analog DAC.
perhaps a place to sit at the end of the day
a glass of wine
a smoke perhaps
a view of the beautiful blue tiles
cladding your neighbours home
Well, it seems my second picture didn't upload for some reason, so here it is again!
I first took this picture as I sat outside, watching the sunset, because I thought the cloud rather reminded me of the Battlestar Galactica (NERD ALERT, right?). Then, as I watched it head out to sea, I thought more about the hydrologic cycle, how water had evaporated somewhere nearby (or far away), condensed in the cooler air of the high altitudes and formed the cloud I watched. Would it continue out to sea and gather more moisture? Dissipate? Or, perhaps, get drawn into a frontal clash and turn into a system that would rain water back down into the ocean?
I recently read Issac's Storm by Erik Larson (great historical narrative by an amazing author!) which, among other things, talked about some early beliefs in weather, like shooting cannons into the sky to either bring about or repeal storms. Hogwash as we know now, of course. But what if we actually *were* able to harness some part of the water cycle - prevent some of that moisture from emptying in the seas and redirect it to drought stricken areas? Maybe even dissipate cloud cover in our gloomier NorthEastern/Western states? Initiate small storms in the dry plains?
Given that mermaids are an endangered species, you are lucky to see just one of them. Some people might go their entire lives and never see one. Others, like the people on the beach last Saturday, got an unforgettable sight of *two* mermaids at the same time.
Mer-sisters, perhaps? The bottom halves match, that's for sure.
Model: mylittleecho and santa_sangre
Top: crowcouture
Tail: finfolkproductions
Strobist details: One 285HV to the left of the frame, bare, triggered by a Phottix Ares
Perhaps I should be a monk too. If only they really have peace of mind and nothing could bother them.
In my profession, sometimes arguments are unavoidable. Some are academic debates which can be enjoyable. Some are pointless accusations which can be very frustrating. I am faced with the latter these few days. To say that it has not bothered me in the least is an understatement.
And I promise - no more pictures of monks from my Yunnan trip. :-)
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“1935: During 1935 a new style of uniform with a lower neckline was introduced. This uniform was to be phased in as others were written off, but it has never been seen since. Perhaps too revealing?”
Title: Envelope "Fashion through the Ages." Contains photos of Dental Nurse uniforms from the 1920's to 1980's; Scripts; uniform buttons
Archives New Zealand reference: ABKI 520 W4078 Box 1 / 1b
collections.archives.govt.nz/web/arena/search#/?q=R21081016
The first recruits for the School Dental Service began their training in 1921. These soon-to-be Dental Nurses would became part of a program that saw generations of children receive free dental healthcare at school.
A 50th anniversary Golden Jubilee reunion was held for school dental nurses, 10 - 13 May 1971. Material held at Archives New Zealand was possibly part of a jubilee function, "Looking at Ourselves", held on Wednesday 12 May 1971. This photograph is from an envelope titled "Fashion through the Ages", which includes a speech for the function and text describing each uniform style.
For further enquiries please email Research.Archives@dia.govt.nz
Caption from Te Ara www.teara.govt.nz/en/dental-care/page-4
Material from Archives New Zealand Te Rua Mahara o te Kāwanatanga
perhaps we will find the tea house*
love to you, dear friends!!
joy to you, dear travelers!!
(photo taken in the cuyahoga valley national park, at spring creek on the way to blue hen falls.)
Perhaps one of Cossette’s classical outfits inspired by the slow arrival of spring, the music of Vivaldi, and the memories of Venice. Of course seeing the fabric in store was the spark that ignited everything, followed by an irresistible urge to create something that matches the delicacy of the fabric, its subtle colors and lightness. The pigs offer a cute contrast, weave in a secondary story which this time you yourself can imagine dear visitor.
Perhaps the best shot I've taken with ATZ. I wish I could have scanned it right away, but we were on the road. Scanned two days later, it's already faded quite a bit and gotten those rusty marks on it. But I still like it.
Hasta el dia de hoy, eh conocido a muchos chicos sabes.. pero ah muy pocos hombres.. , le he dicho te quiero a la misma persona que termine odiando.. y le he dicho te amo a la misma persona que estoy olvidando, y esque yo creo que no existe ese hombre para mi ,y pienso que aunque ahora mismo este el en algun lugar del mundo.. jamas lo encontrare, porque solo puedo verlo cuando cierro los ojos , tal vez no exista ese hombre con el que yo soñe ,no existe esa persona para compartir ,yo paso cada dia por el cielo con la excusa de buscarte y asi bajarte hasta aqui .. tal vez las cosas no funcionan como las pense ,nose si debo de cambiar.. porque sigo sin tener pista de ese hombre.. que quizas no existe ,miro hacia a mi alrededor y veo a millones de hombres que todos me dicen solo mentiras! ..no ven que para nada es lo que quiero.. y porsupuesto que prefiero soledad antes de estar con tipos malos ,puede ser que yo exija demaciado solo quiero la mitad de dolor de lo que he llorado .-
Levee, Fog, and Sandhill Cranes. Central Valley, California. January 28, 2012. © Copyright 2012 G Dan Mitchell - all rights reserved.
A row of sandhill cranes pass above a levee on a foggy winter morning, Central Valley of California.
This is yet another photograph in which my landscape photographer brain perhaps took over from my wildlife photographer brain. I wrote elsewhere that even when I shoot wildlife, I often catch myself thinking about the landscape in any of several ways. While the birds are overhead, I'm purely in wildlife photographer mode, but during pauses in the action my eyes drift off to fix on elements of the landscape that might make interesting photographs.
Sometimes I put the two together and use a technique that, perhaps oddly, I also apply when doing some kinds of street photography. In essence, I think about what I can control in the scene, namely the fixed landscape elements, and I more or less create a composition with a "hole" in it where transient elements like birds might fit. Now I obviously have no control at all over what the birds will do or when and where they will pass through the frame, so there is an element of chance in all of this. Using a zoom lens helps, in that I can quickly reframe the scene if the birds happen to be lower or higher when they pass by. Needless to say, there is a lot of waiting involved, some of it which could be slightly frustrating as birds fly past just above the frame or too far away, or too low. But every so often they do pass though in an appealing location. To further blur the landscape/wildlife photography lines, I frequently do what I did in the sequence of images from which this frame comes - I pan with the camera on the tripod as the birds move along. In this case, I have to make instant landscape decisions as the background, formerly-fixed elements are now moving in the frame. Yes, landscape photography as an action sport!
By the way, this is a color photograph!
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer whose subjects include the Pacific coast, redwood forests, central California oak/grasslands, the Sierra Nevada, California deserts, urban landscapes, night photography, and more.
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Text, photographs, and other media are © Copyright G Dan Mitchell (or others when indicated) and are not in the public domain and may not be used on websites, blogs, or in other media without advance permission from G Dan Mitchell.