Waiting For Grandfather
click to enlarge images
A
group of nine of us sit on the bank of an unnamed stream rushing down
from an unnamed mountain on Admiralty Island in southeast Alaska. We are
here today to photograph bears -- brown bears coming down to the stream
seeking salmon. Our guide, a veteran wildlife photographer, has told us
this is a good stream for bears, and indeed we saw numerous bears along
the shore as we sailed into the bay, for the only access to this spot
is from the water. There was a large coastal brown bear on the shore near
where we dropped anchor in this sunlit, remote bay. Excitement rippled
silently but palpably through the group as we waded ashore. We are anxious
for our first encounter with Grandfather, as the aboriginal Tlingit called
the brown bear.
Except for the high-tech camera equipment and our yacht riding at anchor on the deep blue water, we could be in any century. It makes no difference to Grandfather; to him the centuries are the same; the same now as they were before the arrival of the Tlingit, before the arrival of the Russians followed by the Yankees. Each wave of bipedal mammals brought increasing technology and changes in their own lifestyles, but Grandfather’s remained unchanged, except when it became necessary to cope with these pesky men and their annoying habits of showing up without invitation.
The nine of us even now are the trespassers, encroaching on Grandfather’s territory, having arrogantly issued an invitation for him to come dine in HIS stream at our convenience so we could capture his image in our little noisy boxes with obscenely long snouts. However, Grandfather has declined our invitation. We sit here waiting; the table is spread, the sun is warm on our faces, the breeze gentle and cool at our backs. The conditions for the photographers are right, but Grandfather has other ideas. The Bonaparte gulls are feasting in the salmon-laden stream, though it is not salmon that they are after.
When we first arrived we jockeyed for position on the bank, nine of us seeking the best spot from which to greet the anticipated arrival of Grandfather when he should amble out of the forest a few yards upstream. Our guide chose the spot, he has been here before, and set up his snout-box on its three spindly legs, nose upstream to sniff out Grandfather’s first appearance. The rest of us array ourselves up and downstream, all the big glass eyes peering intently into the cool dark arboreal shadows. Will Grandfather really come from that direction, or will he approach our backs, coming up from the shore?
Still, Grandfather doesn’t show up. Earlier, the
cameras clicked wildly at the mass feast of the gulls, but after an hour
we grew bored with those, so gradually we relax, some taking naps, others
cleaning equipment, or studying the high 
mountains
behind us or the green upon green patterns in the forest wall, composing
shots of small subjects in the complex curtain of forest.
Suddenly an unusually large group of gulls congregate just upstream, hovering on their wings, diving into the water, scrapping over their finds. For a few minutes the men and women awoke from lethargy to capture the mass feeding, film advancing rapidly through black or white bodies, the longest glass proving useless at such a short range. But the Bonapartes moved on and the line of foreigners again grew silent.
The sky has, over the past two hours, become overcast, good conditions for Grandfather, who, due to his heavy coat and inability to change into tee-shirt and cut-offs, prefers shadows to sunlight during the long days of the Alaskan summer.
But Grandfather has other ideas. For all we know, he may be languishing just inside the protective wall of forest, contemplating the small creatures just one-sixth his size, but still equipped with long-snouted arms not too dissimilar to the long-snouts that others of his kind carry during certain times of the year to show off their moral and physical superiority.
Though unproductive in terms what we came to photograph, it is very productive for us as we commingle with the Alaskan wilderness, what is left of it, in part to become more like Grandfather, approaching his surroundings with studied, alert indifference, seemingly unaware of things going on around him, but keenly aware of all that happens, and very much a part of all that happens, in his neighborhood. Grandfather does not isolate himself from nature, does not need to make periodic excursions to the wilderness to affirm his worth and his being.
Eight
of us are getting into the rhythm of uncluttered existence when the guide,
with a schedule in mind, announces that it is time to leave. Grandfather
has gotten the upper hand, but in the process teaches us something about
his world, about our limitations. Without a single image of a bear to
show for four hours in the field, it has been a glorious morning. The
real joy of nature photography is working outside, regardless of conditions,
regardless of the results. The ambiance is the message, and the most priceless
lesson learned today.
Maybe next time, Grandfather.
Windfall Harbor, July 21, 2001