Puddle Steamer

Here’s Mud In Your Eye

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Late last August, I was at the tail end of a six-hour hike through Kluane National Park in the Yukon. Despite gathering clouds at the start of our hike, the rain had stayed away, but as the narrow track gave way to a wide pathway, my attention was caught by this huge mud puddle.

Let’s put it this way. It was so big that Bob Beamon, winner of the 1968 Olympic long jump with the amazing world record, would have struggled to get across it in one leap. Okay, so that’s mere hyperbole. Beamon would probably have spanned it easily, but I wouldn’t have cleared it even with a jet pack on my broad back.

The mud puddle caught my eye because I live in drought-stricken Australia. And yes, if you must know (can you please stop twisting my arm behind my back to make me confess) I had the irresistible urge to splash my sturdy boots in it, just as I did when I was a kid.

From three sides of the puddle, the sight was simply muddy. But when I turned my back towards Lake Kathleen and concentrated on the absolute edge, the late-afternoon light and shade through the ancient, tall trees, gave me a wonderful opportunity to capture the reflection of the sky.

And just for the record, this is what the view looked like across the lake.


For other participants in Dot’s concept, go to Sky Watch HQ.

Log On

Just A Simple Sight By The Rocky Shore

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

I’m lucky to be able to travel to some amazing places with my camera. This was shot on the very edge of Lake Kathleen in Kluane National Park, in the Yukon.

I guess it’s a clear example of looking beyond the obvious for something to shoot.

The light was not great. It was mid-morning last September. There was a fairly strong breeze and there was heavy cloud cover. We were literally on the shale at the water’s edge and surrounded by hills to our left and right.

In front of us was the gateway to some amazing snowy peaks. All around us was autumn foliage that seemed to span every colour.


Yet my eye was drawn to this simple sight, so devoid of colour that it was almost a monochrome. The dappled light across the water was one factor; the beautiful variations across the wet wood of this heavy branch was another.

I only shot three frames, but I would have loved to know how long the thick branch had been there. Days? Weeks? Months? Years? A century, maybe?

Nature places many stunning sights in our path, The trick is to stop and identify them, even if they are not vivid splashes of colour.


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Put Your Left Leg Out, Put Your Right Leg ...

And You Shake It All About

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

This shot was taken on the edge of Lake Kathleen in Kluane National Park, four months ago. We were just about to set off on a hike through amazing terrain when I watched this couple unload their canoe.

I was concentrating on the fall colours against the snow-capped mountains on the far side of the lake when my attention was instead caught by the body language of the two canoeists.

As they walked across the grey shale to the water’s edge, this image snapped in my head and I immediately turned my camera towards them. I had to make sure I was directly behind them so that they could not be identified.

But the real beauty, in my mind, came not just from the beauty of their surroundings but from the symmetry of their bodies and the complementary angles of their extended arms. In addition, I could not have asked for better colour contrasts, because the man on the left was wearing dark blue and the woman on the right was wearing red.

Just as they sought perfect balance in their task, I looked for exactly the same kind of balance in the image that captured their effort.

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A Sliver Of Silver

Taking Leaf Of My Senses

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

It’s been a fair while since I sketched or painted with any seriousness. Make that ten years, actually. But when I am privileged to see scenes such as this, I wonder to myself if there really is a distinction between a photographer’s instincts and a painter’s instincts.

Do we see things in the same way? If painting occupies one section of my brain and photography occupies another totally distinct section, which one really switches on when I pick up my camera and which one is activated when I have my sketchpad and paintbrush?

I know this is open to debate, but I reckon it’s a bit like having two adjacent townhouses on a single block of land.

Each property has its own entrance, its own mailbox, its own décor and its own personality. Yet both townhouses share the same garden, the swimming pool and the tennis court. Both townhouses are warmed by the same ray of sunlight. Both are chilled by the same layer of glistening winter frost on their separate roofs.

So the way I figure it is simple. I’d say there is a fair bit of overlap between a painter’s brain cells and a photographer’s brain cells.

When I was about ten years old, I painted a landscape in varying nuances of one colour. I thought it was pretty special. When I showed it to my mother, who was my Google, my mentor, my guide and my earliest inspiration, she told me it was a monochrome. I’d never heard the word before, but when Mum explained (as she always did) the significance of "mono" and "chrome", it all made perfect sense.

Sometimes monochromes simply dominate everything in view, like the shot I took three years ago in Quebec City. But on the other hand, sometimes monochromes play hide-and-seek with us, presenting themselves coyly behind the veil of "normal", perfectly defined, high-definition, full-palette landscapes.

The shot above was taken during a short breather on a recent hike through Kluane National Park. In reality, it was only a very tiny slice of the stunning scene in front of me. It was early fall and the colours at ground level and downhill were a stunning array of red, burgundy, lime, bronze, orange and some small patches of strong green. Beyond that was a blue and silver lake. Dominating the skyscape was a range of snowy mountains.

High above me, a small wedge of sky caught my attention. The early-afternoon sun was peeping weakly through fast-moving cloud. In a few seconds the cloud would have passed and the sun would no longer be obscured. I guess I "saw" the shot and knew I had to act fast.

The prevailing light meant that the leaves themselves could be used as strong silhouettes. I shot only two frames, both with my 18-125mm Sigma lens. The first had the vertical branch in sharp focus and the second (below) had the furthest horizontal branch in sharp focus.

Let’s say you viewed the entire scene as a clock face. If you started at the very top, where the clock hands show noon, and worked your way completely around and back to the start, each hour showed a different scene spanning a vast array of colours. The minuscule wedge of sky in these two shots was perhaps a three-degree arc in the 360 degrees available to me - but they were three degrees of validation, not three degrees of separation.

For other participants in Dot’s concept, go to Sky Watch HQ.

K Is For Kluane

Hike, Eisenhower

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

It’s hard to pick a single outstanding feature of Kluane National Park in the Yukon. When we started off, skirting Lake Kathleen, the clouds glowered briefly over the water (as you can see in the first shot), giving my lens a study in varying shades of grey. They passed swiftly, leaving the water looking like mercury, as you can see in the post The Lake Was Placid.

So, what makes this place so special? Is it the changing light across Lake Kathleen?

Is it the clouds that cloak the snow-capped mountains and then move slowly aside to reveal their true majesty?

Is it the array of early fall colours splashed across the hillside? Well, I honestly don’t know the answer, but maybe if I give you all the pictorial evidence, you can tell me what the true answer is.

As we climbed, the delicate shades of the sky looked like someone had daubed a paintbrush across it. To emphasise the skyscape, there was no shortage of tall trees standing like sentinels along the ancient hillside. You just had to pick one tree (see above) and hit the trigger.

The snowline on the mountains to our right was clearly defined. When I took this shot I thought the dramatic white slashes across the dark grey shale looked like deep-powder versions of a lightning strike.

It can be very interesting when you’re climbing a narrow pathway and the soles of your sturdy hiking boots bring you great reassurance. You have to contend with tree roots, loose rocks, slippery tracks and trying to emulate Rudolf Nureyev as you leap gracefully (ahem) across gurgling rivulets.

You also have to decide where your priorities lie and whether to use both hands to steady the two cameras, both with long lenses, around your neck. Sooner or later, chances are you’re going to slip (I did) and either you use your hands to break your fall or you use them to protect your cameras and lenses (I chose the latter option, naturally).

And just when you think you cannot possibly take another shot of a mountain peak, the light changes to prove you wrong.

For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.

Kith And King

Which Way Now, Your Majesty?

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

The king was in his counting house, counting out his money. I saw this signpost, and thought it was quite funny. Okay, that's enough of the nursery rhymes, but you get the idea.

This shot was taken during a hike in Kluane National Park. No, there is no royal family there - this sign just points the way to two different hiking paths. Go left to King's Throne, or you can go right to Cottonwood.

Further up the track, I saw this other sign carved on the bark of a tree - and so I just had to get a shot of the message, while trying to include some of the vivid fall colour on the hillside.

There is another reason I took this shot. We had four Dutch hikers as our companions that day and I was able to point out to them that the "crown" symbol above the letter "I" actually looked exactly like the symbol in the corporate logo of KLM, the Dutch airline.

(The Odd Shots concept came from Katney. Say "G'day" to her.)

Inter Nest Explorer

You Giving Me The Bird?

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

So here's the deal. You're walking up a slippery hillside path at Kluane National Park. Snowy mountains dominate the skyscape and Lake Kathleen shimmers below you, almost as far as the eye can see. You've got not one but two cameras around your neck and as you climb, they seem to get incrementally heavier.

You're concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, as efficiently as possible. If you slip, you're going to end up on your butt. There are tree roots. There are rocks. There is lichen. There are rivulets. There are mountain streams. Not dangerous, in any manner of speaking. But seriously embarrassing if you lose your balance.

So you get the idea? I have my eyes firmly focused downwards. That's when Brent Liddle, our guide, asks if we've seen the ptarmigan.

Ptarmigan? Mate, what ptarmigan? I can't see anything that looks remotely like a ptarmigan.

That's when he points up into a tree several metres in front of us. So now it's confession time. A city slicker like me would not have seen the bird, even if I'd been looking into the branches. It's all about natural camouflage. See how the bird blends into its surroundings and the tree bark in the first shot?

And precisely because of that, I try and creep forward, in order to get a better composition. The bird's one thing, but hey, I want to get him framed against the yellow and soft green of the fall colours. So one step at a time, I inch forward, making up ground while arcing round to the right a bit, to get the colours I want.

Mister Ptarmigan is watching me, but he ain't afraid. He ain't skeered at all. He's just a-sitting there, swivelling comfortably on his branch and making sure I show him some respect.

Even when his body language changes, he's in no hurry to take his leave. He leans forward, as if he's about to take flight - and I have the Sigma 300mm lens ready, if he takes wing. But he just sits there, as if he's testing me.

If I thought that was the only wildlife I'd see during the hike, I was mistaken. A few hours later, I had the opportunity of a lifetime. How many photographers get the chance to shoot an image of a Charging Grizzly?

Check out the rules at Camera Critters or go to Misty Dawn.

The Lake Was Placid

Anything I Canoe, You Canoe Better

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Last week, the sun started to break through thick cloud at Kluane National Park in Haines Junction, Canada, as we hiked around Lake Kathleen. Around the same time, the wind was gently rustling the leaves of the beautiful trees around the lake.

In the space of a few minutes, I watched the water's surface change to blue-green to a distinct shimmering silver. Then I watched these two people in their canoe and I realised that if I used my 300mm lens, the bright colour of their canoe would be a perfect foil for the glittering water.

Sometimes things just set themselves up for a great photograph - all we have to do is "see" the image and hit the shutter.

Pentax Branch Office

Twig Or Treat

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Sometimes, just sometimes, a photographer has to put his cameras down. On Monday I had the privilege of being taken on a hike into Kluane National Park, which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Our guide for the day was Brent Liddle of Kluane Ecotours and I reckon that I lagged behind the group for most of the day, simply because I kept stopping to take photographs every few seconds.

This shot was taken on a rocky outcrop just before we turned back and let me tell you, the views were simply stunning. As we sat there, eating our lunch in the silence of the mountainous region, we were truly blessed with our surroundings.

Behind us we had a rocky peak with fresh early-autumn snow. To our left we had a mountain range shielding Canada's highest peak, Mount Logan, from view. In front of us, we had the shimmering expanse of Lake Kathleen.

While the rest of the group sat there, getting their breath back, I simply had to keep shooting because the view were simply priceless. Regretfully, I had to eat too, and the thought of the salmon and cream cheese bagel could not be ignored for much longer.

It was one of those rare moments on this six-day trip organised by Yukon Tourism when I actually had to put both my cameras down. But where's a bloke to put his cameras when you're in the wilderness?

On the wet grass? Naaaah. On the shale? Nope. On the rocks? Never. (My love affair with photography will never be on the rocks!)

That's when I spotted this dead tree trunk on the slope beside me. My Pentax K100D with the 18-125mm lens was soon nestled into the dry bark, suported by a gnarly branch. And the Pentax K200D with my 70-300mm lens soon found an equally inventive place, suspended by its strap from the fork in a strong branch.

But I simply couldn't resist the impulse that soon overtook me. I temporarily (only temporarily, mind you) deserted the delicious bagel and picked up my K100D. I simply had to shoot the other camera, secure in its inventive spot.

I took about a dozen shots, all up. The first one (above) was taken while standing over and slightly to the left of the fallen branch, to make full use of the splashes of autumn foliage. And the shot below was taken from a different angle to make best use of the snowy peak in the background.

The Yukon's like that. You don't have to go searching for a great angle. The real problem is choosing which of the stunning sights you're going to capture.

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G Is For Grizzly

This Bear Charged Me A Few Hours Ago

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Yes, you did read that correctly. I shot this photograph while being charged by a grizzly late yesterday evening.

Yes, I know - you're not the only one who thinks I'm mad. But this is how it happened.

Before I flew out to the Yukon, I thought the schedule that was meticulously prepared by Margaret Goodwin of Yukon Tourism was a great way to see as much of the Territory as I possibly could in a week. What we didn't know at that stage was that I would encounter a grizzly at speed!

We were taken on a hike in Kluane National Park by Brent Liddle (see photo below) of Kluane Ecotours. He's a very interesting bloke, who not only cares deeply for this park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but is a mine of information on the area, as well as local flora and fauna. At the start of the hike, Brent informed us that he had carried bear spray for thirty years, but had never had to use it.


At the end of a six-hour hike through a stunning landscape of mountains surrounding Lake Kathleen, we were probably five minutes from the four-wheel drives. That's when one of our seven-member group called out that there was a grizzly up ahead. She had seen the bear stand up and reckoned he was at least seven to eight feet tall.

With two cameras around my neck and a sweater and a rain jacket knotted loosely around my waist, I ran on to join the group. Brent told us to stand together so that the grizzly, with its poor eyesight, would think we were a large enough object to pose a threat.

At the start of the hike, he had told us not to make loud noises if confronted by a bear, so as not to frighten it. And he had emphasised that you never run, because that action signals to the bear that you are prey.

Run? I wasn't going to run. I wanted photographs of this grizzly.

Mate, how many people get a chance to do that? Seriously?

I moved to the front of the group just as the grizzly re-appeared. He looked at us very briefly and then began his charge.

There was no time to think. He charged 10 metres (about 30 feet) and covered the ground very quickly. I shot the first image during his charge, but before I had any time to hit the shutter a second time, he changed his mind and ran into the undergrowth instead.


A few seconds later, he re-appeared on another trail a few metres to our right - exactly where I'd run to catch up with the group. I got four shots of him on the track before he vanished again.

But here's the deal. Because I have an analytical mind, I tried working out why I'd only had time to shoot a solitary frame as he charged us. Then I figured it out. I had my 300mm lens on a Pentax K200D slung around my neck. Over that, supported in my right hand, was my all-purpose 18-125mm lens on my Pentax K100D.

I estimated that the bear appeared for three seconds while he made up his mind. His charge lasted another three seconds. That was six seconds in all - but here's where it gets really interesting.

I had shut off the Pentax K200D with the long lens and I had fully retracted the double-barrel lens, because we were practically at the end of the hike. As I mulled over the time-and-motion study in my head, I realised what the answer was.

I asked one of the hikers to time me as I re-created the exact situation. I went through exactly the same motions. I moved the Pentax K100D away from my chest and grabbed the Pentax K200D with both hands. With my right thumb, I triggered the "on-off" switch. With my left thumb, I moved the focus button from auto to manual. Pointing the camera at the bear, I had rotated the first barrel to the fully open position. Then I had rotated the focus ring to the maximum. Next, I used my left thumb to move the focus button to auto and finally hit the trigger with my right thumb.

It took five seconds, as I had suspected.

All of which gave me one second to take the shot. I guess one solitary frame isn't a bad result in those conditions.

Brent's bear spray lives on - and hopefully he won't have to use it for another 30 years!

For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.

Sergeant Restive Of The Yukon

H Is For Helicopter (And For Hover Crafty)

Photograph copyright: MATTHEW McMAHON

He is one of Canada’s most decorated rescue helicopter pilots but the next time I catch up with Doug Makkonen, I won’t be shaking hands with him. Nuthin' personal, though. The last time I did, in 1999 at Haines Junction in the Yukon, my hand came back a different shape and I can still hear the knuckles cracking in his generous grasp. Doug, the base manager for Trans North Helicopters is a big bloke, and his vice-like grip befits the national recognition for his skills as a fearless chopper pilot and his bravery as a rescuer.

You think I'm kidding about his grip? Nope. Mate, look at the picture below and you'll see that his three passengers on the right have their hands determinedly out of his way. Doug was born to be a chopper pilot, but never, ever tell him ``Get a grip''. Ask me. I know all about it.

This is Kluane National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and we are shortly to head to the Lowell Glacier, even though the weather is not too flash. The yellow and red Bell Ranger is bound to mother earth by silvery metal clamps on the launch pad. Having mangled my hand, Doug (pictured here in olive-green cap and blue parka) makes amends by giving me the airborne equivalent of the penthouse suite, the left-hand seat in front with him, in the clear perspex bubble of the cockpit.

I make a mental note not to touch the white rudder pedals in front of me as Doug shows us how to strap ourselves in. Three metallic clicks later, we are in business and Doug does one final inspection of the chopper as he checks the outside locks on the passenger doors.

Then he settles into the pilot's seat, hands out a set of headphones to each one of us with brief instructions on how to use them ("make sure the microphone is really, really close to your lips") and then the whine of the engine and the thump of the rotors drowns out normal conversation.

The landscape starts to change. There are patches of ice on the ground. Shortly, we are in the thrall of the Lowell Glacier, its ridges and its edges and its awe-inspiring vistas that are a legacy of the Ice Age. Doug tells us how Lake Alsek, formed some time between the 18th and 19th centuries, reached halfway to Whitehorse and how it is thought to have drained back in just under three days after the ice dam broke.

What unfolds below us is one majestic sight after another. Doug reminds us that the glacier's levels keep shifting. "If I were to put down on the glacier and turn the engine off, you'd hear it groaning and creaking constantly." Suddenly I am struck by a colour on the glacier. To our left is a patch of vivid blue, a shade I have never seen anywhere before. More patches appear with the same unique colour and when I ask, Doug explains that it is caused by melting ice. As a photographer and painter, it is the purest blue I have ever seen.

On the way back to the airfield, Doug gives us plenty of photo opportunities. He gives us a James Bond-eye-view of some peaks, flying up to them and (to our untrained eyes) not clearing them by too much. It's one thing looking at 007's stunt pilots doing this in 70mm. It's another thing altogether when you're sitting there, alongside the pilot. Then Doug does his party piece. He skims over a looming peak and then, abruptly below us, is a deeply-riven valley. No warning. Whoa. I am convinced my lunch is about to reappear.

When I get my breath back, I ask Doug what the drop was. "Three thousand feet," he says, laconically. Three thousand feet? In my state of instant apoplexy, I'm convinced it was at least the height of Everest. But Doug's the king of the Yukon, so I take his word.

But we didn't shake hands on it. I'm not that stupid.