09/01/2022
The Catskill Mountains contain many different types of terrain nestled between the rocky, forested mountain tops. I have always had a strong attraction to marshes, swamps and wetlands of all kinds. And like most of us, I’m powerfully drawn to the moon. In many cases we have beavers to thank for these marshy woodland water sanctuaries. Although humans often find beavers a nuisance, they are one of nature’s best habitat providers. The flooding and pooling of stream water into ponds created by beaver dams kills off trees and brush, nourishes delicate plants, encourages amphibians, fish, insects, and especially birds. Some time ago I discovered and began frequenting a beautiful and unique marsh, formed by beaver activity, that supported a large number of wild heron families. Literally, a heron rookery. With each visit I looked about for ways to photographically express the strange and beautiful essence of this marsh. In the middle, surrounded by cattails, stood the odd twisted remains of dead trees holding large heron stick nests. During the summer months I stayed clear of these nests to avoid disturbing the occupants. Finally, in the fall of 2007, I visualized an image that would best represent this place: a full moon rising through the unearthly trees and nests. I waited a month for the sunset, weather conditions and ris ing moon to converge. Sensing the time was at hand, I embarked in the late afternoon. Cold temperatures had frozen water on the marsh’s surface while the water below slowly reced ed, leaving a thick suspended crust over a foot above the mud. In some places this crust could support my weight, and in others I went crashing through to the mud below, pain fully striking my shins against the ice in the twenty degree air. Finally, the camera was in place. Behind me the sun was setting. Before me the full moon rising. To add more drama, a nearby pack of coyotes howled, rejoicing with me in the moonrise. I made three negatives with the 8x10 camera as the moon rose through the increasing darkness. I moved the cam era twice to compensate for the drift of the moon, again each time painfully falling through the ice. Finally the moon moved out of position, and the cold and dark signaled it was time to begin the mile-long trek out. Months later, in the darkroom, I relived that experience as the primeval image developed in the tray before me.