Summer In The Country

Low altitude aerial photography is complex, requiring flying skills and photography skills at the same time. But after the onset of the pandemic crisis, whenever I contemplated taking photographs with the drone, I experienced an added layer of complication.

Frankly, in fear of infection, I was nervous about going into parks or other areas where there might be a lot of people.

At the same time I was desperate to get outside and capture photographs that would intrigue and entertain. So, from time to time, I headed out into the countryside to see what I might find.

Driving north of Port Hope one day, I spotted a few dozen cattle in a large field. I liked their varied colours, and was intrigued by the herd instinct that held them together as a group.

But when I launched the drone to photograph them, I was dismayed to see them apparently nervous, walking away from where it was hovering. Frightening cattle or any other animals is the last thing I want to do, and I figured their farmer would feel the same way. So I directed the drone away from them, in search of other images.

A few minutes afterwards, I was surprised to see that the cattle reverse their direction several times, ambling to and fro even though the drone was nowhere near. That’s when I realized that wandering was their natural inclination, nothing to do with the buzz of the flying camera. So I brought the drone back and photographed them as they stood in a little bunch, at rest between strolls.

In editing later, I noticed a happy circumstance. Although the cattle had a variety of colours, there was one unifying factor in the photograph, their shadows, all deep black.

During the summer, it seemed to me that farms offered a better scope for my efforts than parks. Near Keswick one day, I spotted a series of interconnected buildings on a horse farm.

Attracted by the pattern of their bright blue-steel peaked roofs, I sent the drone up high. From the air, I could see that these buildings, large and small, displayed an appealing symmetry.

But the best thing of all was the one element that was not symmetrical. That building at the bottom right, with its odd angle, was just plain fun. It looked as if I had interrupted, just as it was trying to squeeze into a parking space.

Its identical roof connected it with the dominant pattern. But it seemed also to be demanding to be regarded as unique. “I’m part of this situation,” it seemed to say, “but I’m apart from it too.”

At times when I’m driving, the challenge is trying to imagine how the landscape I see from the ground will appear to the drone. It’s hard to picture what’s just out of sight beyond those trees, or what patterns may be evident from the air.

And what I see from the ground may not be appealing from the air. For instance, rolling countryside can be spectacular to photograph from on foot, where it’s dramatically three-dimensional.

But drone photography rarely captures the height of the hills or the depth of the valleys. From above, those contours often smooth out into two dimensions, erasing much of the spectacle. Only if I’m lucky and the sun is low enough in the sky, will the shadows in the valleys suggest the depth of the contours.

On the other hand, capturing shapes and patterns is one of many strengths of aerial photography. In fact, on the day that I photographed the blue barn, I later spotted fields that I thought might look like brush strokes on canvas. So I launched the drone again.

At once, lines in the fields were evident, revealing the pattern of how they had been plowed, seeded, and reaped.

Bordering each field were green, uncultivated boundaries. Emerging from one of those alleyways a white tree, long dead, stood erect, like a ghost stretched up into the heavens, perhaps reaching for redemption.

Once I had finished photographing the fields, a little tired, I landed the drone. But then another opportunity suggested itself, another field full of yellow flowers. So I carried the drone into the middle.

Then I launched it, sending it up almost directly over me. Lying flat on the ground, with the remote control in one hand, I took photographs at various altitudes. I’d wait till editing later, to choose the image that best conveyed the idea of someone asleep in a lush field.

And that’s what I did, a few days later, selecting an image that balanced the immensity of the field and the little shape of a person at rest.

However, there was one problem. In the photograph, my one free arm was stretched out in glorious abandon, but the other was close to my body because it was operating the remote control. The image was not symmetrical, and it looked very much as if I were still at work.

So I cheated. Just a little bit.

In editing, I copied the outstretched arm and reversed it. I then applied it to the other side of my body, so it concealed the arm holding the controller.

Now the photograph appeared as I had originally seen it it in imagination, two arms outstretched in bliss, a person at rest in the midst of a flowered field.