Ultimate Alaska Brown Bear Photography Tour | Katmai Coastal Bears with Christopher Dodds

Photographing Coastal Brown Bears in Alaska

The Ultimate Katmai Brown Bear Photography Experience

Every wildlife photographer dreams of photographing wild brown bears up close — safely, respectfully, and in one of the most spectacular wilderness landscapes on Earth.

This photograph of twin Coastal Brown Bear cubs was made during my Ultimate Coastal Brown Bear Photo Tour along the remote coast of Katmai National Park, Alaska. Moments like this are exactly why Katmai is widely considered one of the greatest wildlife photography destinations in the world.

Although many people call them “grizzlies,” Coastal Brown Bears are actually the same species as inland grizzly bears. The difference is their incredible coastal food supply. Salmon, clams, sedge grass, and other rich marine foods allow these bears to grow larger and thrive along Alaska’s rugged coastline.

And there are few places on Earth where photographers can observe and photograph them so closely in the wild.

A World-Class Brown Bear Photography Destination

The Katmai Coast holds one of the highest densities of Coastal Brown Bears anywhere on the planet. During our time there, it is common to spend entire days surrounded by bears — mothers with cubs grazing the sedge meadows, massive boars roaming the tidal flats, or young cubs playing together in the grass.

Photographing twin cubs like the ones in this image is always special. Cubs are endlessly curious and playful, constantly exploring their surroundings while staying close to the protection of their mother.

Timing is everything for photography. This tour is perfectly scheduled for early June, when spring cubs are active, and the coastal sedge grass is still short enough that the bears remain fully visible. Later in the season, the grass grows tall enough to hide cubs, but in early summer, the open meadows provide beautiful, unobstructed opportunities to photograph mothers and their young.

A True Brown Bear Photography Expedition

This 8-day Ultimate Coastal Brown Bear Photo Tour takes place along the remote Katmai coastline, where we live aboard a privately chartered vessel that serves as our floating base camp.

Our adventure begins with a scenic floatplane flight along the breathtaking Katmai Coast from Kodiak to meet our expedition vessel on Day 1, putting us photographing bears that very afternoon, with extraordinary bear photography opportunities each day through Day 7 before flying back to Kodiak after our final morning shoot on Day 8.

Living on and working from the ship allows us to move with the weather, light, and bear activity while exploring some of the most productive wildlife locations in Alaska. Each day we spend extended time ashore photographing bears and observing their natural behaviour in one of the most extraordinary wilderness environments in North America.

Join Me in Alaska

After more than 40 years of photographing wildlife, Katmai remains one of the most remarkable places I have ever worked with a camera.

If photographing Coastal Brown Bears in the wild is on your bucket list, this workshop offers a rare opportunity to experience one of the planet’s greatest wildlife photography destinations.

Join me in Alaska — and create images and memories that will last a lifetime.

👉 Workshop details:
https://www.chrisdoddsphoto.com/ultimate-coastal-brown-bear-photo-tour

Photographing Ospreys with Fish at Sunrise — Lake Blue Cypress Florida Osprey Photography Workshop

Few places in North America offer the kind of Osprey photography opportunities found at Lake Blue Cypress in Florida.

Each spring, hundreds of nesting Ospreys gather among the ancient cypress trees that rise directly from the dark, tannin-stained waters of the lake. For wildlife photographers, it’s one of the most exciting places anywhere to photograph Ospreys flying with fish, nest activity, and dramatic sunrise flight photography.

Our mornings start early.

Before sunrise, we step aboard the boat and glide quietly across the still water of Lake Blue Cypress. The silhouettes of massive cypress trees appear in the half-light, their branches filled with Osprey nests.

And everywhere around us are birds.

You hear them first — the sharp whistles of Ospreys calling across the lake as the sky begins to brighten in the east.

Then the movement begins.

Some birds leave the nests to hunt, flying out across the lake in search of fish. Others are already returning. One by one, they appear over the water, wings stretched wide, carrying freshly caught fish in their talons as they fly back toward the nests.

For photographers, this is the moment we’re waiting for.

Ospreys flying past the cypress trees glowing in soft Florida sunrise light, fish visible in their talons, wings fully extended as they glide toward their nests.

Ospreys bringing fish back to the nest.

Parents delivering breakfast to hungry chicks.

Birds soaring through warm golden light with the prehistoric cypress forest as a backdrop.

The photograph above captures one of those moments — an Osprey carrying a fish as it returns to its nest at sunrise over Lake Blue Cypress.

It’s a scene that repeats throughout the morning here, offering incredible opportunities for Osprey flight photography, wildlife action photography, and bird photography in Florida.

Simply put, Lake Blue Cypress is one of the best places in the world to photograph wild Ospreys.

Florida Osprey Photography Workshop — Lake Blue Cypress

If photographing Ospreys flying with fish in beautiful sunrise light sounds like something you’d love to experience, I have two remaining spots available on my upcoming:

Ospreys of Lake Blue Cypress Photography Workshop
April 8–10, 2026

During this small-group wildlife photography workshop in Florida, we photograph from a large, stable pontoon boat exploring the cypress forests of Lake Blue Cypress during the best light of the day.

With a maximum of only five photographers, everyone has space to shoot comfortably and receives personal instruction throughout the trip.

This workshop is designed for photographers who want to capture:

• Ospreys flying with fish
• Osprey nest activity and feeding behaviour
• Osprey flight photography in sunrise light
• Birds perched in ancient cypress trees
• Florida wildlife and bird photography in a truly unique setting

Lake Blue Cypress is often called the crown jewel of Florida Osprey photography, and once you experience a sunrise on the lake surrounded by hundreds of nesting birds, it’s easy to understand why.

Only Two Spots Remaining

At the time of writing, only two spaces remain for this workshop.

If you’ve been wanting to photograph wild Ospreys in Florida, this is one of the most productive and exciting locations anywhere in North America.

You can learn more about the workshop and reserve your spot here:

https://www.chrisdoddsphoto.com/ospreys-galore-photo-tour

I hope to see you on the lake this spring.

I had the pleasure of meeting Chris Dodds a few weeks ago in Florida when I signed up for his Osprey workshop. The sign up process and pre workshop communication was excellent and concise. I must admit that as I drove over from Tampa to the hotel I was a bit uneasy after looking at Chris's images wondering if he was approachable, patient, and a good teacher with someone like me who didn't have a lot of experience shooting wildlife before. We met in the hotel lobby , chatted for 30 minutes or so and thankfully Chris put my concerns to rest. I went to bed that night knowing that the next few days would be an adventure.

I can honestly say that Chris Dodd's workshop for Ospreys far exceeded my expectations. Chris is a great guy, very happy to answer your questions and the best thing of all, fun to shoot with. I learned a lot, met a new friend and best of all was blown away at the quality of my images because of Chris's help/techniques. I cannot wait to meet Chris somewhere else in the wild and experience another awesome outdoor shooting experience. Thank you Chris, I hope to see you again soon!

Mark Weaver Tampa, Florida, USA

Raven Intelligence in Autumn Gold: How to Photograph Black Birds Properly

Raven Intelligence in Autumn Gold

Photographing One of the Most Remarkable Birds in the North

There are birds you photograph… and then there are birds that seem to photograph you back.

The Common Raven falls firmly into the second category.

While exploring the forests of Northern Ontario last autumn, the landscape was alive with deep golds and warm amber tones. The birches and poplars had turned the forest into a glowing canvas, and against that background a raven landed nearby — calm, watchful, and intensely aware of everything around it.

Ravens have a presence that is hard to describe until you experience it. They are among the most intelligent birds on the planet, capable of complex problem-solving, playful behaviour, and even recognizing individual human faces. When one looks directly at you, there is a moment where it genuinely feels like you are being studied.

This individual gave me exactly that feeling.

Rather than chasing flight shots or action, I decided to slow down and focus on a portrait — something that really revealed the bird’s character. With the rich autumn colours behind it, the raven’s glossy black feathers provide a striking contrast, but they also present a technical challenge for many photographers who don’t fully understand exposure theory.

Black birds are notoriously difficult to expose properly.

Getting the Exposure Right

When photographing dark plumage, the biggest mistake is relying too heavily on lifting shadows later in post-processing. If the exposure is even slightly under in camera, recovering those deep blacks can introduce noise and destroy the subtle feather detail that gives the bird its texture and depth.

This image was captured with the Sony A1 II and the Sony 400–800mm lens, a combination that provides incredible reach and resolution while maintaining exceptional feather detail.

With ravens in particular, the key is to protect detail in the blacks while still maintaining a natural look. Their feathers are not truly “black” — they contain subtle tonal variation, layered textures, and sometimes even hints of iridescence. If the exposure is too dark, all of that disappears into a flat silhouette.

How to Photograph Black Birds

Photographing black birds such as ravens, crows, grackles, or blackbirds can be surprisingly challenging. The deep tones in their feathers can easily fool a camera’s meter into underexposing the image, causing the plumage to lose detail and appear flat or muddy.

One technique I often use when photographing black birds is spot metering directly from the darkest part of the bird’s plumage. When doing this, the correct exposure typically occurs when the meter reads approximately –1⅔ stops, since black subjects reflect roughly 1⅔ stops less light than a midtone.

The easiest way to dial this in with your camera set to manual exposure mode is to adjust your exposure in a logical sequence.

First, choose your aperture based on the depth of field you want.

Next, set your shutter speed fast enough to stop any unexpected movement.

Finally, adjust the ISO.

In many cases, raising the ISO slightly to intentionally brighten the blacks during capture helps ensure the feathers are recorded with enough light to preserve their structure and texture. This allows the camera to capture far more detail while reducing the need to push shadows later in post-processing, where noise most often appears.

At the same time, it’s important to monitor your histogram and highlight alerts to ensure that brighter areas — such as the bill or reflective feather edges — are not clipping.

Getting the exposure right in the camera is always the goal.

When done correctly, black feathers reveal beautiful texture, subtle tonal variation, and even a slight sheen that gives the bird depth and life in the photograph.

The Quiet Magic of Ravens

What I love most about this image is the calm intensity of the bird. Ravens have a presence that feels almost mythical — something many northern cultures have recognized for centuries. They are playful, mischievous, brilliant problem solvers, and endlessly curious.

Standing there with this raven only a short distance away, it felt less like photographing wildlife and more like sharing a moment with another intelligence.

The bird watched me carefully for several seconds, tilting its head slightly as if trying to understand what I was doing.

Then, just as quietly as it arrived, it lifted off and disappeared back into the forest.

Moments like that are part of what makes wildlife photography so addictive.

You’re not just documenting nature.

You’re interacting with it.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, the bird lets you see a little bit of its personality.

Moments like this are exactly why I love leading photography workshops. Spending time in the field, watching wildlife behaviour unfold, and learning how to capture those moments with the right exposure and technique is something that can’t really be taught in a classroom.

Join Me In The Field

If you’d like to experience moments like this yourself, consider joining one of my upcoming wildlife photography workshops. Whether it’s photographing owls in winter, songbirds at Point Pelee, Ospreys in Florida, or puffins along the Atlantic coast, the goal is always the same — helping photographers learn to see light, understand exposure, and capture meaningful images in the natural world.

You can see the full list of upcoming workshops here:
www.naturephotographyblog.com

Last Frame Before Goodbye — A Barred Owl in the Rain

Some moments in the field stick with you — not because they were easy, but because everything aligned at just the right time.

This was the last image I made on week seven of eight winter owl workshops last week — rain falling, forest turning dark, everyone heading toward the airport in about an hour.

Sony A1 II
Sony 400–800mm at 641mm
ISO 20,000 | f/8 | 1/5,000s

High ISO still makes some photographers nervous, but the reality with modern sensors is this: ISO isn’t the enemy — poor exposure is. In situations like this — low light, rain, an owl moving fast — I make decisions based on freezing motion and preserving detail in-camera, not pulling shadows later at the expense of quality.

I needed 1/5,000s to hold the wings crisp and to render the rain as droplets instead of streaks. f/8 gave me the depth I wanted across the wings. The forest was dark. There was no soft golden light coming from anywhere. Exposure discipline was the tool that kept this frame from being just another passing shot.

Owls in the rain are magical. The air gains texture. The background simplifies. The bird feels like it’s floating in its own world. Nothing about it feels staged. Everything feels real — and earned.

That’s part of what draws me back to winter owl photography year after year. It’s not just about seeing the birds — it’s about being there with them in whatever light and weather they choose to show themselves. You learn to read the conditions. You learn to trust your gear. You learn to trust yourself.

This owl made one solid pass through the forest at just the moment we needed it — and then it was done. A quiet full-stop on a long week in the field.

On Exposure, ISO, and Getting It Right

Some photographers still worry about high ISO numbers.

Here’s the truth I share with every group:

• You can shoot at ISO 20,000 today and get clean, rich images — but only if you expose with intent.

• Underexposure plus heavy shadow recovery is when noise becomes a problem — not because of the ISO number itself.

• Modern mirrorless sensors like the Sony A1 II deliver latitude and detail that reward careful exposure choices in challenging light.

Your histogram should be pushed confidently to the right without clipping critical highlights in feathers. Don’t guess — check. That’s how you capture usable detail in every zone that matters — especially in a dark background and rainy scene like this one.

Why These Moments Matter

Owls don’t perform on cue. They don’t wait for sunrise, perfect wind, or magical light. They are what they are, where they are — and our job is to see them, not force them.

Rain adds depth. Dark woods add mood. High shutter speeds bring out detail. But none of that works if your exposure falls apart.

This frame was not luck. It was knowledge and preparation meeting opportunity.

That’s why I love teaching these workshops — not just showing birds, but showing you what they look like when you get your settings right, when you trust your instincts, and when you stay present in the moment.

Join Me Next Winter

If images like this — real, wild, unpredictable, demanding — are the kind that make you want to keep learning and keep shooting, I’d love to have you out in the field next season.

We’ll be doing it again — rain, snow, dark woods, early light — and every workshop is a chance to grow as a photographer and deepen your confidence with your camera.

The owls will be here next winter.
I hope you will be too.

A Second Migration Gift — Prothonotary Warbler Reflections at Point Pelee

Spring migration at Point Pelee National Park is already legendary for small songbirds arriving low and slow after crossing Lake Erie. In my recent post about photographing an American Redstart during spring migration, I touched on the magic of warbler fallout and how understanding bird behaviour can completely transform your photography.

But there was another moment — one that pulled me into the shadows and reminded me why I chase light as much as birds.

This Prothonotary Warbler wasn’t perched out in the open, nor was it offering a classic pose against fresh spring greens. Instead, it moved quietly along the edge of a dark, still pool, gleaning insects from wet bark, its golden head briefly mirrored in the water below. The surrounding bark—layered with texture and shadow—formed a natural frame, and the stillness of the moment became its own kind of light.

Photographing it was less about reacting and more about waiting, watching, and blending. The bird wasn’t high, wasn’t bold — but it was present. And when I found the light as it dipped into the pool, the reflection emerged like a second subject: a mirror image capturing both behaviour and environment in a single frame.

Moments like this are exactly why spring migration at Pelee is so special. It’s not only the abundance of species — the Redstarts, Blackburnians, Bay-breasteds — but the quality of opportunity that comes when birds aren’t fleeing but settling. They arrive tired, intentional, and yes, sometimes reflective — literally and metaphorically.

You can read the full story of this encounter, and see how light and shadow played a role in making this image come alive, in my earlier post:

👉 Light and Shadow — Capturing a Prothonotary Warbler’s Reflection
https://www.naturephotographyblog.com/blog/light-and-shadow-capturing-a-prothonotary-warblers-reflection

Why this matters for your photography

This kind of moment isn’t random. It’s the result of:

• Being in the right place at the right time – Point Pelee during peak spring migration

• Reading bird behaviour – noticing when songbirds are low and deliberate

• Understanding light and environment – letting shadows and reflections work for you

• Mastering in-camera exposure – catching subtle tones without over or underexposing

When you align those elements, you find pictures you didn’t even know you were looking for.

Few spots left — join me at Point Pelee

If these kinds of experiences speak to you — American Redstarts moving low after crossing Lake Erie, Prothonotary reflections in shadowed pools, and the subtle art of seeing before you shoot — there are still a handful of spots left in my Songbirds of Pelee Bird Photography Workshop, May 7–11.

We’ll explore:

• Photographing warblers and other songbirds during spring migration

• Ethical fieldcraft and how to read bird behaviour

• Mastering in-camera exposure for fast-changing light

• Working thoughtfully during warbler fallout days

📸 Limited spaces remain.
👉 Learn more and book here:
https://www.chrisdoddsphoto.com/songbirds-of-pelee-photo-tour

Spring migration won’t wait — neither should your opportunity to photograph it.

Chris

Photographing an American Redstart at Point Pelee During Spring Migration

Why warbler fallout makes this Canada’s best bird photography workshop location

Every spring, Point Pelee National Park becomes one of the most important bird migration stopovers in North America—and for bird photographers, it’s nothing short of magical. During my Point Pelee Spring Migration Workshop, I had the opportunity to photograph this stunning American Redstart at close range, in beautiful light, during peak migration conditions.

American Redstarts are typically fast, restless warblers—constantly flicking, darting, and disappearing into dense foliage. But spring migration changes everything.

Why spring migration is the best time to photograph American Redstarts

By the time American Redstarts reach Point Pelee, many have just completed a demanding overnight crossing of Lake Erie. This is a major physiological effort for a bird weighing only a few grams. When weather systems align—southerly winds, overnight rain, or sudden temperature drops—birds arrive low, slow, and visibly exhausted.

For bird photographers, this creates rare opportunities. Instead of racing through the canopy, American Redstarts often perch at eye level, forage methodically, and pause just long enough for carefully composed images. These conditions are exactly why spring migration at Point Pelee is so productive for photography.

Gear and approach in the field

This image was made using the Sony a9 Mark III, paired with the Sony FE 400-800mm f/6.3-8 G OSS Lens @790mm—a really portable setup that allows me to keep a respectful distance while still filling the frame with fine detail. During migration, patience and restraint matter more than speed. When birds are tired, ethical fieldcraft means letting them settle, feed, and recover while you work quietly and deliberately.

American Redstart migration facts

American Redstarts are long-distance migrants, wintering in the Caribbean, Central America, and northern South America. Each spring, they travel thousands of kilometres to reach breeding territories across Canada and the northern United States. Point Pelee, as the southernmost point of mainland Canada, acts as a critical first landfall—making it one of the best places anywhere to observe and photograph them during spring migration.

When warbler fallout happens at Point Pelee

On the right mornings, Point Pelee delivers what birders and photographers dream about: warbler fallout. Dozens of species—American Redstarts, Blackburnians, Magnolias, Bay-breasted Warblers, and more—can be found feeding low, resting in open cover, and allowing intimate views that are rarely possible elsewhere.

When fallout occurs, the park feels alive. Every trail holds possibility. It’s not about chasing birds—it’s about slowing down, reading behavior, and letting moments unfold naturally.

Join my Point Pelee Bird Photography Workshop

If photographing American Redstarts, experiencing warbler fallout, and immersing yourself in spring migration at Point Pelee sounds appealing, I invite you to join me for my Songbirds of Pelee Bird Photography Workshop, running May 7–11.

📸 Limited spots available.
👉 Join me at Point Pelee this May and experience one of the finest bird photography workshops in North America—right in the heart of spring migration.

Rough-legged Hawk in Extreme Cold: Sony Mirrorless Battery Reality at −20 °C

Sony NP-FZ100 Batteries at −20 °C: What Actually Happens in the Field

The Sony NP-FZ100 is one of the better mirrorless batteries I’ve used in cold conditions—but let’s be honest: at around −20 °C, physics always wins.

You will see a noticeable drop in usable capacity once both the battery and the camera body are fully chilled. What matters far more than any spec sheet is how you manage warmth, shooting rhythm, and power-hungry habits in the field.

Setting Expectations

Sony rates lithium-ion packs like the NP-FZ100 for operation roughly between 0 °C and 40–45 °C, and performance falls off rapidly once you head well below freezing. In truly cold conditions, losing half—or more—of your normal runtime is common. If you go out at −20 °C, assuming room-temperature performance, frustration is almost guaranteed.

One Warm Battery, Warm Camera (At First)

When both the camera and battery start warm, the pattern is fairly consistent:

• For the first 10–15 minutes, things often feel “normal.”

• After that, the percentage begins to descend faster than expected.

• Long pauses, menu use, and heavy LCD chimping accelerate that decline as the battery cools between bursts.

• Once the entire body is at ambient temperature, the remaining percentage on the display is more of a rough estimate than a promise—abrupt shutdowns can occur even when the meter still shows some charge.

Cold Camera, Warm Battery

Dropping a warm NP-FZ100 into a camera that has been sitting at −20 °C is a very different experience. The battery is immediately surrounded by a cold magnesium body, cold electronics, and a chilled display, so it cools rapidly and becomes less able to deliver current efficiently. As a result, the apparent capacity drops much faster than when both the camera and the battery are warm—the pack is effectively placed in a small, well-insulated freezer.

This is where cycling batteries become critical. A pack that seems “dead” in the cold will often deliver a surprising number of extra frames once it warms back up in an inside pocket. In practice, that means planning your shooting in bursts: make images while the battery is warm, then let it recover while another one takes its place.

Two Batteries in a Vertical Grip

Running two NP-FZ100 batteries in a vertical grip changes the equation, mostly in your favour. Drawing from two cells shares the load, reducing the instantaneous current each one must supply and helping them cope with the cold more gracefully.

If both packs begin warm, the combination of extra capacity and shared load can feel close to “normal” for a meaningful stretch of time, and you’re less likely to hit a sudden shutdown in the middle of a good moment. Once both packs and the grip fully chill, the same physics still apply: the curve is gentler, but it’s still heading downhill.

Why Using the EVF Helps

On cameras like the Sony α1 II and Sony α9 III, both of which use the NP-FZ100 battery, the EVF typically draws less power than the rear LCD in real-world use. The EVF is physically smaller and doesn’t ramp up brightness as aggressively as the larger LCD, which makes it a more efficient way to compose and review shots—especially when every milliamp counts in the cold.

(EVF vs LCD power differences vary by implementation, but many experienced shooters notice a practical savings using the EVF in cold conditions.)

A Simple Trick That Really Helps

One simple addition that makes a real difference is slipping a chemical hand warmer* into the same inside pocket where you keep your spare batteries. You don’t want direct contact—just shared warmth. That gentle heat helps batteries recover faster between rotations and keeps “resting” packs from dropping all the way down to ambient temperature. During prolonged −20 °C sessions, this can be the difference between a battery that comes back to life and one that stays stubbornly flat.

Practical Cold-Weather Habits

A few simple habits matter more than obsessing over exact shot counts:

• Keep spare batteries inside your jacket or mid-layer, not in an exterior pack pocket.

• Swap batteries before they run completely flat and warm them up before charging later.

• Use the EVF instead of the rear screen when possible, and minimize review time.

• Think in planned shooting bursts, not constant on-off wake cycles.

Which Sony Cameras Use the NP-FZ100?

This applies to Sony full-frame mirrorless cameras using the NP-FZ100, including:

• Sony α1 and α1 II

• Sony α9, α9 III

• Sony α7 III and α7 IV

• Sony α7R III, α7R IV, and α7R V

• Sony α7S III

These cameras cover the bulk of Sony’s current battery-hungry professional bodies.

Where This Post Comes From

This article grew directly out of conversations during my winter owl workshops, where battery performance at −15 to −25 °C becomes a daily, practical concern—not a theoretical one.

Standing in frozen fields at dawn, rotating batteries between gloves and inside pockets, and watching cameras shut down mid-sequence inevitably leads to these discussions. Comparing notes with participants using different Sony bodies—but the same NP-FZ100—has been a great reminder that while shooting styles vary, the cold behaves very consistently.

Your Turn

Real-world experience is more valuable than any lab test.

• How many frames (or minutes of video) are you typically getting from a single NP-FZ100 at around −20 °C when the camera starts warm?

• Have you noticed a clear difference when the camera body itself begins the session already cold?

• If you shoot with a two-battery grip, does it feel like twice as long, or more like a buffer against sudden shutdowns?

• Have you tried rotating batteries with a hand warmer in the pocket—did it noticeably extend usable life for you?

Sharing honest field results from truly cold conditions helps turn winter frustration into something genuinely useful for other Sony shooters who live and work in winter.

*So-called “chemical” hand warmers are not chemical in the sense of containing hazardous substances or producing toxic reactions. They work through a controlled oxidation process (typically, iron powder reacting with oxygen) that safely releases heat. When used as intended—inside a pocket, not in direct contact with bare skin for extended periods—they are widely used, non-toxic, and safe around camera batteries and electronics. Avoid moisture and direct pressure on lithium-ion cells, but shared warmth in a pocket is both effective and well within normal field use.

Why I Don’t Use Flash on Birds and Owls (and Why We Used To)

Why I Don’t Use Flash on Birds and Owls (and why we used to)

I’m occasionally asked why I don’t use flash for birds—especially owls. My answer is pretty practical: with modern cameras, I don’t need it, and it’s one more factor that can influence a bird’s behaviour.

That wasn’t always true.

A quick bit of history: film days, slow light, and the “Better Beamer”

In the film era, low light was a wall. Film was slow, usable shutter speeds were hard to come by, and you didn’t have today’s clean high-ISO files or low-light autofocus.

Flash became a solution—sometimes for exposure, and sometimes for aesthetics. A small catchlight can make a bird feel “alive” in the frame; without it, subjects photographed in flat light can look oddly lifeless.

That’s where the Fresnel flash extender came in: a simple lens that concentrates the flash beam so more of the light lands on the bird instead of being wasted across the whole scene. One of the best-known versions is the Better Beamer, which uses a Fresnel lens to narrow and concentrate the flash output.

And the Better Beamer has a name attached to it that matters to me personally.

Walt Anderson (RIP) and real innovation

My friend Walt Anderson (RIP) was the inventor/creator of the Visual Echoes Flash Extender—widely known as the Better Beamer.
He began exploring the then-new TTL flash systems in the early 1990s and founded Visual Echoes to produce and market the product.

It was a smart, practical innovation for the realities of that time. It helped many bird photographers produce better images when the tools simply weren’t what they are today.

What changed: modern cameras changed the need

Fast forward to now: modern sensors can handle ISO levels we wouldn’t have dreamed of in the film days, and autofocus can lock onto a subject in very low light. For most bird photography situations, I can make the image with ambient light and good technique—without introducing artificial light into the encounter.

So for me, flash has shifted from “useful tool” to “unnecessary tool” for bird photography.

Owls in particular

Most Owls are highly adapted to low-light environments. Their hunting and movement patterns are built around darkness and subtle contrast. Even if long-term effects of flash are debated in different contexts, the short-term reality in the field is that some birds react—blinking, flinching, shifting posture, or leaving a perch. If I can avoid introducing that variable, I will.

What the research says (a simple, measurable point)

There’s also a research-backed reason to be cautious with anything that increases disturbance.

A 2019 study in Biological Conservation looked at bird photography and quantified escape responses (flight-initiation distance). One of the headline findings: for most species, photographers triggered escape at greater distances than walkers, suggesting that photography can be a stronger disturbance stimulus than a normal passerby.

That doesn’t “prove” flash is always harmful—but it does reinforce a basic idea: our choices and behaviours around birds matter, and it’s worth minimizing anything that can add pressure.

The ethical baseline I follow

I try to keep my approach simple and consistent with widely shared best practices. NANPA’s Principles of Ethical Field Practices puts it plainly:

“If an animal shows stress, move back and use a longer lens.”

That line is easy to apply, and it works.

Where I land

I’m not interested in turning this into a debate. I’m interested in stacking the odds in favour of the bird.

So I work with available light, modern sensor performance, and field craft. And when the light isn’t there, I’d rather miss a frame than add a variable that I don’t need.

References

• NANPA — Principles of Ethical Field Practices (Revised March 2018).

• Slater et al. (2019) — “Camera shy? … avian responses to [bird photographers]” Biological Conservation(highlights include longer escape distances to photographers than walkers).

Short-eared Owl — Winter Flight with Lone Tree by Julie Morrison (Asio flammeus, Hibou des marais, Búho campestre, SEOW) January 8, 2025, during week 1/8 of the Snowy Owl Workshops in Ontario, Canada. Sony a9 Mark III mirrorless camera body & Sony SEL FE 200-600mm f/5.6-6.3 G OSS Lens @600mm. ISO 5,000, f/6.3 @ 1/5,000s Manual exposure.

That same afternoon—the very one that gave me the image at the top of this post—also produced a milestone I’m genuinely proud of: my wife, Julie Morrison, made an image that’s now being published here on the blog for the first time. If you’ve spent any time with us in the field, you already know she’s a gifted photographer with a calm, confident eye and a knack for timing. But what really makes my wife a force to be reckoned with on workshops is her owl-spotting superpower: she’ll pick up a shape, a posture, a blink of movement in the grass that most people would drive right past. I love watching her work, and I’m thrilled to share her first blog-published image—made on the same afternoon as mine.

Dear Bird Photographer: On the Images That Matter More Than Likes

Dear Bird Photographer,

While everyone is filling their feeds with carefully curated “Best of 2025” collections, I wanted to pause and share something a little quieter.

This image—a Red-tailed Hawk in flight—was made during my recent Better than Bosque workshop. No drama. No explosive sky. No once-in-a-lifetime chaos unfolding in the frame. Just a wild bird doing what it has always done, moving effortlessly through clean New Mexico air in honest, early light.

And yet, this photograph represents more than it might appear at first glance.

You know the investment that goes into images like this. The early mornings. The cold hands. The long stretches of waiting. The years spent learning light, behaviour, timing, and restraint. When it finally comes together, the result is often something beautifully simple: sharp, well composed, and true.

But here’s the strange part—we hesitate to celebrate these photographs.

Why?

Because we already know how they’ll land online. They won’t trigger an epic response. They won’t stop thumbs mid-scroll. They don’t shock, exaggerate, or rely on spectacle. And in a world overflowing with astonishingly capable cameras and millions of people making technically solid bird images every day, work like this can start to feel… ordinary.

It isn’t.

Look a little closer.

The wing position is classic red-tail—broad, powerful, unhurried. The light slips gently through the primaries, revealing just enough translucence to show that the sun angle was correct. The warm tones in the tail and upperwing are present but restrained. The head is sharp, the eye alert. There’s space to fly. Nothing is forced. Nothing clipped. Nothing is screaming for attention.

This is the kind of image that comes from understanding birds, respecting light, and trusting patience. It’s what happens when experience quietly does its work.

Social media rewards novelty and extremes. Photography—real photography—rewards consistency, restraint, and the ability to recognize a good moment even when it doesn’t shout.

So here’s my invitation to you.

Instead of asking which image performed best this year, ask yourself which photograph still carries a story only you remember. The cold morning. The quiet drive. The bird you didn’t expect. The moment that made you pause and smile behind the camera. The image that may never go viral, but still feels right every time you return to it.

If you’re inclined, take a moment to revisit that photograph. Recount the story behind it—to yourself, to a friend, or in a few quiet words shared somewhere meaningful. Those are the images that remind us why we show up in the first place.

Sometimes, a simple, honest photograph of a beautiful bird in good light is more than enough.

And sometimes, that’s precisely the point.

—Chris

Snowy Owl - A Silent Start to the New Year

There’s a certain kind of quiet that only exists before sunrise on a winter morning. Not the absence of sound, but a deep, enveloping stillness—the kind that makes you slow your breathing without even realizing it.

This image was made before the sun rose on the very first morning of the new year. The world was locked in a hard freeze, every stem and twig coated in hoar frost and fresh snow, the air so cold it felt brittle. No wind. No voices. Just that hushed, almost sacred calm that settles in when nature is completely at rest.

The Snowy Owl sat patiently, perfectly at home in this frozen landscape, its white plumage echoing the frost-covered branches around it. Then, quietly, the first hint of warm light began to build behind the clouds—subtle and fleeting, but enough to soften the scene and add a gentle glow to an otherwise icy morning. That contrast between biting cold and emerging warmth is something I never get tired of witnessing.

Photographing in conditions like this is always a balance between respect for the subject and respect for the moment. The light was barely there, long before sunrise, which meant leaning hard on modern tools while staying invisible and quiet. This frame was made with a Sony a1 Mark II, a Sony 600mm f/4 lens, and a 2X teleconverter, at f/8, 1/5,000s, ISO 20,000. Some moments are worth every challenge, every frozen fingertip, and every early morning—this one was so cold my eyelids briefly stuck together when I blinked.

As the new year begins, experiences like this feel especially meaningful. Extraordinary wildlife encounters don’t announce themselves; they reveal themselves slowly, to those willing to stand in the cold, in silence, and pay attention. They remind me why I keep returning to wild places—year after year, before dawn—chasing those brief intersections of light, life, and stillness.

Wishing you a Happy New Year—one filled with warm light, extraordinary wildlife encounters, and the quiet joy that comes from simply being there to witness them.

A Western Meadowlark in flight New Year's Eve: Hope, Renewal, and Gratitude in Nature Photography

There’s something about New Year’s Eve that naturally slows me down. Before the noise, the countdown, and the fresh page of a new calendar, it feels like a moment meant for reflection—looking back with gratitude and forward with quiet hope.

As this year draws to a close, I want to say a heartfelt thank you. Thank you to everyone who joined me on workshops, attended presentations, supported my work online, or took a moment to like, share, comment, or send a note. Photography may start as a solitary act, but it becomes far richer when shared, and I’m deeply grateful for the community that surrounds this work.

I chose this image of a Western Meadowlark in flight from my recent Better than Bosque Workshop for New Year’s Eve for a reason. Suspended in warm Southwestern light, it feels like a pause between chapters—neither here nor there, simply moving forward. In ancient and Indigenous cultures, the meadowlark was seen as a symbol of hope, renewal, and good fortune, its song believed to welcome light after darkness and signal better days ahead. That feels especially fitting tonight.

For me, this bird also represents what keeps me coming back to nature with a camera. These moments can’t be rushed or controlled. They ask for patience, presence, and trust—qualities worth carrying with us into the year ahead. As the meadowlark lifts on open wings, it feels like a gentle reminder to release what no longer serves us and step forward with curiosity and optimism.

As we say goodbye to this year, I hope you find a moment of calm, a reason to feel grateful, and something to look forward to. Thank you for being part of this journey and for sharing in the quiet magic that nature offers when we take the time to notice.

Here’s to closing this year with gratitude and welcoming the next with good health, golden light, open hearts, peace, and love.

Chris

A Coyote’s Call: A Perfect Ending to the 2025 Better Than Bosque Workshop

There are moments in the field that feel less like photography and more like being quietly invited into another world. This was one of them.

It happened near the very end of our final session of the 2025 Better Than Bosque Workshop, earlier this December. The light was already sliding toward evening, that soft, honey-warm glow that Bosque does so well when the day begins to exhale. We were just starting to think about wrapping things up when this female coyote stepped into view.

She stood tall in the grass, bathed in that last, low sunlight, lifted her head—and called.

Not a quick yip or passing note, but a long, soulful call that carried across the landscape. It stopped all of us in our tracks. Cameras came up, then slowly lowered again. This wasn’t just about the image anymore.

Coyotes are deeply family-oriented animals. They live in tight-knit family groups—often a bonded pair with offspring from one or more years—and cooperation is at the heart of their survival. Both parents help raise and protect the pups, hunt together, and maintain their territory. That bond was on full display here.

She didn’t sound casual. She sounded anxious.

Her calls had urgency, as if she were checking in, making sure her mate knew where home was, where the family waited. We watched and listened in silence, fully aware we were witnessing something intimate and real. There was a collective sense among the group that this was special—one of those rare moments you don’t plan for, can’t script, and never forget.

Then the light finally faded. We stayed a little longer, just soaking it in.

About twenty minutes later—after sunset, when cameras were mostly away—we saw movement again. Her mate appeared in the distance, slowly making his way back toward her… with a noticeable limp. Suddenly, everything made sense. Her concern. The calling. The waiting.

No drama. No spectacle. Just a family reconnecting at the end of the day.

It was a magical way to close out this year’s workshop—quiet, emotional, and deeply grounding. Moments like this are why I keep coming back, year after year. And sharing it with such an incredible group of people—patient, respectful, fully present—was truly the icing on the cake.

Some images stay with you because they’re beautiful. Others stay with you because of what they mean.

This one will stay with me for a long time.

Hooded Merganser with Crawfish at Sunrise – Golden Light Duck Photography at My Better Than Bosque Workshop

There’s something about first light that never gets old. During my Better than Bosque Workshop in early December, we rolled up to one of my favourite little duck ponds—calm, quiet, and absolutely glowing. When the sun finally crests the horizon here, it doesn’t just light up the water; it turns it into molten gold as the golden light reflects off the tall grass on the pond’s edge. On a still morning like this one, the reflections go buttery smooth, and it honestly feels like the ducks are swimming through liquid metal. Magical doesn’t even begin to cover it.

We all got low—really low—because that’s where the magic happens. When your lens is right at the waterline, the perspective shifts, the foreground melts away, and the world becomes a simple band of colour and light. Before long, this handsome male Hooded Merganser slid into frame like a little torpedo wearing a tuxedo. That brilliant white fan on his head lit up beautifully against the warm background, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any better… he popped up with breakfast.

Some call it a crawfish, others say crayfish, and if you’re from certain parts of North America, you might insist it’s a crawdad. Whatever name you prefer, this tiny crustacean became the star of the show for a few thrilling seconds as the merganser maneuvered it, tossed it, and did everything short of smiling for the camera. Tiny droplets of water hung in the air like little diamonds while the bird worked to get that spiky snack down the hatch. Watching behaviour like that, in perfect light, on mirror-calm water, with everyone in our group sharing in the excitement—that’s the kind of moment I live for.

Workshops are about learning, yes, but they’re also about joy, discovery, and being present when nature gifts you something special—this morning delivered all of that and more. Golden light, still water, great friends behind cameras, and a merganser doing exactly what mergansers do best… it doesn’t get much better than photographing ducks on liquid gold.

American Goldfinch: A Little Thistle-Bird and a Christmas Wish

Happy Holidays!

Every image has a heartbeat, and this one has been pulsing quietly in my archives for almost 25 years. This American Goldfinch, photographed in a dreamy sea of pink thistles, feels like pure joy. She’s busy gathering thistle fluff—the stuff that feeds, shelters, and sustains life—while looking completely at home among the spikes and softness.

In French, the Goldfinch is called “chardonneret” from chardon—thistle—because these birds genuinely love thistle seeds. Even the scientific name, Carduelis, traces back to the Latin carduus, meaning thistle. This little bird has been linked to this prickly plant in language, art, and storytelling for centuries—proof that nature remembers what matters, even when we forget.

And somehow, that feels wonderfully appropriate for Christmas.

This season is about warmth in cold places, kindness in the rush of the year, and gratitude for small but meaningful gifts. The Goldfinch thrives on something most would ignore—those stubborn thistles—and turns them into life and beauty. There’s a hopeful message there: that resilience, grace, and gratitude can grow from unexpected places.

This photograph reminds me how lucky I am to spend my life in nature, to witness moments like this, and to share them with all of you. And to everyone who has supported me—especially those who join my workshops, travel with me, trust me to guide them in the field, and share in the adventure—thank you. Your enthusiasm, friendship, curiosity, and passion make this journey incredibly rewarding.

Wherever you are in the world, whatever season you’re celebrating, and however you mark this time of year—Christmas, Holidays, Hanukkah, Solstice, or simply the closing of another year—I wish you peace, health, and joy. May your days ahead be filled with wonder, kindness, and time in nature. Thank you for being part of this journey and for sharing in the beauty and magic of the natural world with me.

Quiet Gold – American Wigeon in Morning Light

Molten Morning American Wigeon

Beneath a sky of molten gold, he glides, the white-capped drake drifting through silence. I wait—Sony in hand, heart racing— the world narrowing to one perfect frame.

The air is still, the marsh is hushed, no shutter's click to break the spell. The a9 III, a silent witness, holds the emerald glow and the fire of the sun.

For a breath, the wild pauses just for me, the lensman, the birdman, chasing wonder. Then—in the quiet—the moment lives forever, feathers, light, and grandeur captured in time.

© 2025 Christopher Dodds

If the Wood Duck from my last post was all drama, saturated colour, and pure visual fireworks, this handsome American Wigeon was the quieter kind of magic—the kind that sneaks up on you and suddenly has you grinning behind the camera.

There’s something about these moments that I never get tired of. Calm water. Warm light. A cooperative bird just going about its business while I lie there at water level, hoping it’ll give me one more second… then one more after that. This drake Wigeon glided through what looked like liquid gold, every feather perfectly lit and etched in detail, the reflection soft and painterly below him. No chaos. No rush. Just calm, wild beauty right in front of me.

Images like this are why I keep doing what I do. They’re not loud or showy; they’re quiet, elegant, and deeply satisfying. After the bold, theatrical Wood Duck, this Wigeon felt like the perfect follow-up—subtle, refined, and every bit as rewarding.

Wood Duck: When the Fog Lifts and Magic Arrives

Molten Morning Wood Duck

Beneath a sky of molten gold he glides,
a living painting drifting through silence.
I wait—Sony in hand, heart racing—
the world narrowing to one perfect frame.
For a breath, the wild pauses just for me,
the lensman, the birdman, chasing wonder.
Then click—and the moment lives forever,
feathers, light, and gratitude captured in time.

© Christopher Dodds Dec. 2025

There’s a special kind of quiet that settles over the duck pond before sunrise—the kind you feel more than hear. The world is still blue and cold, breath hanging in the air, fingertips reminding you that nature photography isn’t always as glamorous as the finished image suggests. But honestly, I love this part. It’s where the day begins, where anticipation builds, where hope hangs thick in the air. You never truly know what the morning will deliver out here, and that uncertainty is half the magic.

As the first hint of colour creeps across the horizon, the pond slowly wakes up. A thin veil of fog drifts lazily across the surface, lifting and swirling like it has a mind of its own. Shapes begin to form through it—ghostly silhouettes at first—until ducks come to life. Wings stretch, ripples travel across the golden stillness, and the soft sounds of the marsh remind you that the wild world is already moving, even if the sun hasn’t quite arrived.

Then the light finally hits—and not just any light. This is the kind photographers dream about. Soft, golden, warm… it paints everything with a glow that feels almost unreal. The fog lights up, the water turns to liquid gold, and right in the middle of it all, a Wood Duck glides into the frame like he owns the morning. Every feather, every colour, every perfect detail comes alive. And yes—moments like this are exactly why we get up early, embrace the cold, and wait with ridiculous amounts of patience.

Sony in hand, heart racing, everything narrows to one perfect moment. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, nature pauses… just long enough to let you create something unforgettable.

Birds in flight: Mountain Chickadee

Sandia Crest near Albuquerque, New Mexico is the highest point in the Sandia Mountains at 10,678 ft (3,255 m) and, most of the time, it’s windy, cold, and pretty stingy when it comes to rewarding photographers for their suffering—so I rarely take my workshop groups up there. But after wrapping up the workshop, Julie and I had a few extra days around Albuquerque and figured… why not?

To my surprise, I’ve never seen Sandia Crest behave so kindly. Warm, sunny, barely a breeze—it almost felt wrong. A rare, quiet kind of beauty up there.

We did see a few small flocks of Black Rosy-Finches, which is always great, but there really weren’t many strong photo opportunities. Instead of chasing the impossible, I shifted gears and went small-scale, spending time trying to catch a Mountain Chickadee in flight. They’re tiny, fast, unpredictable, and ridiculously fun to try to photograph—exactly the sort of challenge that keeps me smiling behind the camera even when the action is slow.

One of the neat things about Mountain Chickadees is just how tough and clever they are. These little birds live year-round in high elevations and harsh winters, and they survive by caching thousands of seeds and insects in tiny hiding spots—then remembering where they put them. Their remarkable spatial memory is one of the best in the bird world, and that distinctive white eyebrow makes them instantly recognizable, even when they’re zipping around at full speed.

The frame preceding this one was actually even better… but a building crept into the background and spoiled it. Not every outing delivers portfolio images, and that’s OK. Sometimes it’s just about being on the mountain, enjoying the moment, and appreciating whatever nature decides to offer.

Bald Eagle in Flight at Bosque del Apache – One of the Highlights of My Better Than Bosque Photo Workshop

What a way to wrap up a workshop. This Bald Eagle was absolutely the star of our final day at Bosque del Apache NWR in New Mexico during my recent Better Than Bosque Workshop. After that classic Bosque moment—the thunderous blast-off of Snow Geese that fills your chest as much as your viewfinder—we made our way over to the spot where Joe, Nabs, and Sumi had seen an eagle the day before. That’s one of the beautiful parts of workshops like this: a little teamwork, a few good hunches, and a willingness to slow down and simply watch.

So we settled in, let the desert sunrise warm our backs, and waited. The ponds quieted. The excitement softened into anticipation. Then, just when it felt like maybe this bird would fly the wrong way, the eagle lifted from its perch and banked into the light—broad wings catching the sun, powerful, confident, and completely at home. It gave us a full, elegant show, gliding across the scene with the softly blurred Chupadera Mountains providing the perfect clean backdrop. Those subtle pastel tones behind that wild, elemental power… it just doesn’t get much better.

Moments like this are why I love Bosque and why I love sharing it with passionate photographers. You can’t script this stuff. You show up, respect the place, put in the time, and now and then, nature rewards you with something unforgettable. This eagle certainly did.

Female (Hen) Hooded Merganser in Flight

Some birds make you work a little harder than others, and the female Hooded Merganser is definitely one of them. She may not have the flashy crest and bold pattern of the drake, but what she lacks in showiness, she absolutely makes up for in attitude, speed, and unpredictability. And honestly… that’s exactly why I love photographing them.

This image was made during my Better Than Bosque Workshop at the beginning of December, and the morning could not have started any better. The light was gorgeous—rich, warm, and soft—the kind of light that makes you smile before you even press the shutter. The pond was calm, everything was peaceful… and then, as mergansers like to do, she decided she’d had enough of being calm and peaceful. No warning. No gentle build-up. Just: Boom—she’s airborne!

Trying to stay with a Hooded Merganser in flight is always a bit of an adventure. They don’t fly like mallards, and they don’t give you that big lazy arc of a goose. They’re small, fast, twitchy, and seem to enjoy changing direction just as you think you’ve got things lined up. It feels like you’re constantly a half-second behind, willing everything to stay together long enough for autofocus to hang on while you pan and pray the bird doesn’t suddenly dive out of the frame.

This was photographed with the Sony A9 Mark III, 600mm f/4 with the 2X (so 1,200mm), at 1/5,000s, f/8, ISO 2000. That fast shutter was key—there’s a lot of energy in those wings—and the light did the rest. When you get a morning like this, you just try not to mess it up.

What I love most about this frame isn’t just the detail—it’s the feeling. The tension in the wings. The slightly frantic, slightly determined posture. The warm glow wrapping her in that early morning color. It’s a split second of controlled chaos, and that’s exactly what photographing mergansers feels like in real life.

These are the kinds of moments that keep me excited about being out there. You never know when the shot is going to happen. You just try to be ready, pay attention, and enjoy the wild ride when it does.

Wood Duck Portrait in Golden Light — Better Than Bosque Workshop Success

This image of a drake (male) Wood Duck was created on the final morning of my recent Better Than Bosque Workshop, December 9, and it was a fitting way to close out an incredible few days in the field. We had two truly magical mornings at the duck ponds, each greeted with calm water, cooperative birds, and that warm, glowing first light photographers dream about. On this last morning, everything came together once again—still reflections, rich autumn colour in the background, and a confident drake swimming directly into the light. Moments like this are never guaranteed, which makes them all the more special when they happen. Sharing these quiet, golden mornings with a group of passionate, like-minded photographers—and watching everyone come away with strong images and big smiles—is exactly what the Better Than Bosque experience is all about.

Thank you!

Thank you to the wonderful group who made the Better Than Bosque 2025 Workshop such a huge success. Spending time in the field with a group of like-minded, nature-loving photographers truly elevated the entire experience. The camaraderie, shared enthusiasm, and respect for the wildlife and landscapes around us created an atmosphere that was both inspiring and rewarding. Together, we witnessed unforgettable moments, enjoyed incredible light, and came away with not only fantastic images but also great memories from time well spent outdoors.

Thank you to the entire 2025 Better than Bosque Workshop group: Back row, L to R: Joe (Repeat client/friend: Owls, Eagles & Ospreys), John (Repeat client/friend: Puffins), Chris, Jamie (Repeat client/friend: Owls), Jeanine (Repeat client/friend: Bears & Pelee). Front row L to R: Nabs, Sumi, Me (Christopher Dodds), Julie & Joe.

TESTIMONIAL

Participating in Chris Dodds’ Best of Bosque photo tour was an outstanding experience. Chris combines technical expertise, fieldcraft, and a genuine passion for teaching in a way that provides tremendous value. His insights into bird behavior and optimal shooting techniques significantly improved my approach to wildlife photography.

The workshop was well-organized, thoughtfully paced, and designed to maximize photographic opportunities. I left with a portfolio of images I am truly proud of and a much deeper understanding of the craft. Highly recommended for anyone looking to take their wildlife photography to the next level.

Chris Fryou Louisiana, USA

See a couple of Chris’ images below: Drake Mallard in flight and Snow Geese Silhouette images copyright and courtesy Chris Fryou.

Thanks, Chris. It was hard to pick two favourites from the dozen you sent.