At the end of September two Italian photographers came here for a vacation, and stayed one week at our hostel; guests for the first time, then, in the term's classical meaning. Nature and outdoor enthusiasts as they are, they got things going in the right way, exploring the territory without sparing any energy, following the hints by yours truly. This way they have been able to enjoy most of the beauty of these latitudes' autumn, albeit a weakening one. I am glad to give visibility to their passion and niceness devoting this post to a gallery made with a selection of the pictures they made here around: thereby, they are guests a second time. At the same time it's a way to show what results the commitment and a correct approach could produce – from a wildlife standpoint – even in such a short period of time, and not in the very best season, at least for the animals.
Ladies and Gentlemen I give you, in strict alphabetical order, the dynamic duo Perlino & Pons (Luca and Massimiliano respectively), whom I thank here for the helpfulness. By the way, the Chronicles are today passing the milestone of 400 pictures, since May 2007. I went up to "Erik-Knutsåsen" observation tower nearby Gördalen, along the northern borders of the national park Fulufjället. It's a lovely viewpoint upon a wild area covered by a high ground, sparse forest with spruces and birches, wavy hills alternated with marshes and small ponds. Just got to the top, I spot on the platform some tiny masses of material, which at a closer look reveal to be droppings (or hairballs) from an owl. I raise my eyes: twenty meters away I cross the magnetic ones from a hawk-owl, which clearly chose as well to take advantage of the view from the tower. A wonderful encounter, unexpected and not so usual. You can’t be ready for anything anytime, and I had climbed the tower with a landscape, “short” photo set up: thus this picture is a generous crop, which, however, reflects the spirit of the original composition, where the animal (by choice, by need or both) is placed in the environment. The kind of wildlife image I prefer. I believe I could spend the rest of my life in Sweden (and, to be honest, I hope to do so) and yet continue to experience a special emotion at every encounter with the Nordic fauna. After all, I am and I’ll always be a foreigner, a man from South of Europe raised between broad-leaf forests and Mediterranean scrub. To whom "Capercaillie" is a name which the aftertaste of a myth, that urogallus taken as paradigm of the endangered wildlife in the Alps. A shape which still makes me jump anytime I see it, despite I meet it quite often. Moose, balck grouse, dotterel… those are now my fellow travellers, the characters that accompany the days of that journey which is my Swedish life. The Capercaillie, but not just, is also a road companion in the literal meaning: along the roads it's easier to spot it and distinguish it from the depths of the forest; and it’s along a road, from the privileged point of observation of a scarcely nature-friendly car, that it’s possible to get closer to it, being it more confident towards a car than to a human. Urogallus, then, and one from yesterday: a cold and windy morning where I met several female squatted in holes dug in the earth, warming up; then, who knows, bringing that warmth to the chicks probably waiting nearby, under the shelter of the undergrowth.
Today two months have gone without a new post. From today, a post every day for the next seven... for the lost time. Misunderstanding. There is no doubt it's a nest box, but probably that wasn’t exactly the way to use it, in the mind of the person who hung it. The bird, however (almost certainly a Fieldfare), somehow remained consistent to the object’s idea (I want to clarify that the nest was unused when I shot this). _ Yesterday I met a female Capercaillie especially friendly and cooperative. Instead of just stealing some of those furtive shots which are usually connected with such accidental encounters (and which always leave a bad taste in the mouth, under the point of view of personal fulfilment and empathetic relationship with the subject), I took advantage of its kindness watching her for quite a long time. And admiring her: the massive body, perfect to keep the heat, is also a masterpiece of mimetism, wonderful in its warm and marbled tones culminating in the tawny breast; the thick plumage on the powerful claws; the bill, an ideal tool to cut handfuls of pine's needles, taken away with a strong torsion of the neck: a move clearly visible in one shot of the sequence you can see after the break (click on Read More). I spent 45 minutes together with this remarkable bird, keeping myself discreetly in distance; during this time she just occasionally looked at that unknown shape which was producing strange swishes at six frame per second. Until she decided, for once in total quietness and freedom, it was time to move to another tree. _ Let's take a step back to the Söderåsen National Park, end of October. I am in the highest part of the beechwood when I hear a constant swish. Something quite similar to a river noise, but there are no streams here around. I approach the source of noise, which rises in intensity. All the sudden a cloud and a rumble explode, coming from the undergrowth: a huge flock of Brambling takes flight. And takes flight, and again and again... it lasts for a whole minute at least, filling the air with multiple twittering waves which land not far from me covering both ground and canopy, where they go back doing what they were doing before I disturbed them: frenetically feed on beechnuts. Bramblings use to gather for the winter, sometime building up enormous numbers: I remember well the wintering flock in Slovenia which, few years ago, made quite a sensation between bird enthusiasts, estimated in 4 million birds. Here the figures are lower, but I am looking for sure to some tens of thousands birds, hard to say exactly how many. _I keep getting close, and all around me more flocks rise, deflagrating in the mist with waterfall rumble, as geysers' eruptions. I carefully approach further: on the ground the birds are so many that the leaves are no more visible. Another group takes flight, heading towards me, flies over me, it's above me and around as a whirl, a maelström made by small bodies and frenziedly flapped wings. The hands run to the camera, but the result is totally inadequate, as easily predictable. I find myself covered with droppings but rewarded by one of the most touching nature experience I've ever had. Someone doesn't make it: last pictures shows a male trapped in a dead branch, perhaps during a sudden attempt to take flight.
They come back every year. Welcome, as welcome, after almost seven months of snow, is the warm season which drives them back here. I'm obviously speaking of migratory birds. Usual presences they are, whether they are on the top of a tundra covered peak – as Dotterel and Golden Plover on Nipfjället, or in the village's gardens – as Pied Flycatcher. The appointment with the two plovers is a kind of ritual of mine: they arrive in May, when the snow is melting on the high altitudes and I'm busy in my own spring migrations. In June I am seeking them, and the quest sanctions that my summer has begun; I find them where I left them at the end of the previous one (you can see other images of Dotterel in the Chronicles from June 2008 and July 2010). All Swedes, instead, are looking after the Pied Flycatcher, and they fill their gardens with nestboxes, gladly used by the small bird in black&white. I've seen them darting from tree to tree for years, and these are two simple documentary shots I delayed for a long time.
Why doing them now? Because the nestbox is the one in my garden, this time, and its residents have been our next-door neighbours along June. We saw them courting, breeding, struggling to feed always hungrier and noisier chicks, defending the area from fieldfares, magpies and even squirrels (the lovely rodent is a skilled eggs predator. We all have a dark side). Until the beginning of this week, when the nest was suddenly quiet, and the surrounding trees deprived of the frantic coming and going of the parents. A new offspring is out there, now; we'll meet next year. Söderåsen National Park, Skåne. A park well-known for its beautiful and extensive beech forest and for the rift which creates fairy forest and stream scenery, to say the least. Despite being rich in species (including Stock Dove, symbol of the protected area), its main attraction aren't birds; however, it is just the winged presences in the small lake of Skärdammen that I want to focus on. They all are wild, it goes without saying, starting from the Whooper swan pair, part of a small population wintering in Germany that stops in the south of Sweden rather than all the way along the traditional route to the northern taiga quarters. In last years the couple is regularly back to nest in the small site, and has become an attraction in itself for the many visitors of the Park (the Visitor Center overlooks the pond). Went to Skåne on a landscape-oriented trip (therefore with a maximum focal length of 300mm), with a little surprise I found myself having fun with birds, trusting on the trust - if I may use the expression - typical for animals accustomed to continuous - and above all well-disposed - human presence. Those are opportunities not to be missed, in order to try new approaches with a calm and availability not normally granted. In this case the idea was to play with the light and the peculiar reflections, kindly offered by the young leaves of the surrounding beech trees at dawn, and to combine them, whenever possible, with a motion blur.
The first cranes have been spotted here in Northern Dalarna, and I'm now waiting for them here in Särna. Just off the town a narrow strip of land stretches into the frozen lake, towards an area where the water is freeing itself sooner than elsewhere. There, some pairs of cranes regularly stop every year right in the middle of April, before to scatter into the surrounding marshes to breed. I thought the whooper swans were the sign of spring, and as a matter of fact they are the first birds to return from the winter migration. Nevertheless, I discovered that in Sweden that role is taken by cranes, which are acting as local "swallows" (the swallows will come too, but in late May), and are also considered to bring good luck, to the point that the first spring observation is usually a news on local media. The picture here has been taken last week at Lake Hornborga in southern Sweden, where every year the cranes make a stop over during their trip to north: along three weeks up to 18,000 cranes stop to rest and feed, before the final leap to the nesting quarters. The sight is extraordinary for the birds amount and confidence along with the passion and respect from thousands of people who go watching them: that took a chapter in my last book, and will be the subject of a future portfolio on Exuvia. I went back there for a couple of days, this as almost every year in a sort of sentimental pilgrimage; each time it's fascinating to think that I'll meet later here in Särna some among the cranes I see there. Yet I'll never know which ones they are. |
All site contents are: © Vitantonio Dell'Orto, all rights reserved worldwide. The Chronicles of Särna, and other stories from the North.
I live in Sweden, in Särna (Dalarna). The Chronicles are a photo diary about the nature (but not just) here around and from all the Scandinavian areas where my photo job takes me.
My book: "My Sweden - Tales from an Italian photographer in the North" is available in the bookstores and by the publisher.
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