Special thanks to Donald H. for asking a great question. Here is the answer:
Throughout human history, intelligent and curious people who struggled to understand the world in which they lived invented gods to explain things. A prime example of this would be the natural phenomenon that we call thunder. Today we know that lightning causes thunder, and that lightning is the result of static electricity between the Earth and its atmosphere. But if you don’t know what static electricity is, then you need some other explanation. In Greek mythology it was Zeus. In Scandinavia it was Thor. In Egypt it was Set. In Hindu mythology it was Indra. In Iroquois mythology it was the Thunderbird. The list goes on and on.
I began my photography career in 1998, and in very short order I started to have questions that needed answers. Why would a bird sit still right up until the point when I lifted my camera and attempted to take a picture? Why would an amazing bird appear, but only if I were looking into the sun? Most painfully, why would an amazing species appear and linger in front of me precisely when I didn’t have my camera? Why did this happen? During the long hours of quiet waiting that is required for nature photography I had plenty of time of ponder these questions, and in no time at all I came up with an answer. Since photography boils down to timing and light, then there must be two gods that were responsible for everything.
Nikonus (his name inspired by the Nikon cameras that I use) is the god of timing. He is kind and generous, but he operates without sympathy. If you are doing everything correctly, then you are rewarded. But even then you are tested. Too slow and the amazing species will vanish. If you make any sort of mistake (the most egregious of which is failing to bring your camera), then an amazing species will be sent to taunt you. All the while, like a whisper at the edge of your senses, you will hear Nikonus laughing in a deep, booming voice.
A prime example of this was my Martha’s Vineyard nemesis — the Osprey. I spent hours in the right places at the right times, and I wouldn’t see one of these giant birds. Then, I would go out to dinner with my beautiful wife Susan (sans camera), and an Osprey would fly low and slow right over our heads again and again. Ask Susan and she will laugh as she explains how many times I shook my fist at the sky and grumbled the phrase, “damn you.” I would not capture an Osprey photo until the end of the trip when I had finally put in enough time.
Iso, the feminine counterpart to Nikonus, is the goddess of light and color. Back in the 20th Century, when cameras still used 35mm film, the sensitivity of the film was indicated by its ISO number. Film was considered as “slow” if it had an ISO of 50 or 100. As the values increased to 200, 400 and 800 the film became “faster.” The slow ISO film required more time, but it had the capacity to produce silky smooth images with exquisitely rich color saturation. The faster ISO film allowed you to capture quick movements, but with decreased color saturation and increased graininess to the photos themselves.
Iso is also the goddess of compassion. If she sees that I am genuinely giving my best effort, then she will often convince Nikonus to cut me some slack. Thus, in situations when I have been sitting at the ready for hours and hours, or if I have put myself in an awkward position while attempting to find something interesting, the gods will “smile down upon me” and send me a reward.
My photo collection is filled with examples of such rewards, but I decided to share this photo of a Roseate Spoonbill as an example of the generosity of the gods. In February of 2013, Susan and I traveled to Florida to visit my mother-in-law. Close to her home was a “natural” area known as the Wakodahatchee Wetlands where the spectacular waterbirds of the southern United States abounded. I would visit this place again and again, but I would only catch glimpses of the spoonbill. Apparently, I had not put in enough time to earn a reward.
Then, during Christmas of 2013, we went to Florida again. I made several more forays to Wakodahatchee and on the last visit the gods finally deemed me worthy. The sky was cloudy, which softened the light and prevented any harsh shadows. This was a gift from Iso. Then a spoonbill flew across the water and landed right on the railing of the boardwalk upon which I stood. It paused, looked at me, and then slowly raised its wings as I watched it through the viewfinder of my camera. This was a gift from Nikonus. The result was an image that shows the incredible color of this bird with fine details of its feathers. The gods had seen my efforts, they smiled down upon me, and they sent me my reward.
Bill Danielson has been a professional writer and nature photographer for 29 years. He has worked for the National Park Service, the U.S. Forest Service, the Nature Conservancy and the Massachusetts State Parks and he currently teaches high school biology and physics. For more information visit www.speakingofnature.com, Speaking of Nature on Facebook, or the Speaking of Nature Podcast.