jean-simon bégin
Québec, CA
Member since December 29, 2017
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The most beautiful grouse
The most beautiful grouse Remember the morning when the two Trumpeter Swans left my lake just before sunrise? Well, I found myself alone in front of a mirror lake with a mist worthy of my greatest expectations and a sun that was rising in a few minutes. Imagine what was going on in my head. Everything was gathered together to make my dream images of this swan. And yet it was gone. I looked at a map where the swans might have flown away. A few miles away was a lake. A huge protected natural lake and the trip to get there was estimated to take about 40 minutes. I had nothing more to lose and I started this adventure towards the unknown. Through flooded paths and tortuous dirt roads, I stayed on the lookout for any encounter. It was early and it was an exceptional time to drive on logging roads. After about thirty minutes, I had only come across two fleeing grouse. It was then that in front of me, as if to prevent me from advancing, a female was in plumage and was parading around. The black feathers on her neck and the fully open tail gave her everything but the look of a usual grouse. And, the color of its feathers was the red shape of the species. But there was more, it was particularly special this female. I had never seen such a beautiful coat of feathers. Believe me, I've seen hundreds of grouse, maybe even thousands, and she was the most beautiful. I only had the chance to take five pictures of this beautiful bird before she became a simple grouse without extravagance. All this way led me to this beautiful find which is nevertheless of a disarming simplicity. I arrived at the lake and realized that my estimates were far from being good. It would have taken me at least three hours of kayaking to be able to reach the opposite shore. It was big, beautiful and still icy in places. The sandy and blond beaches contrasted with the blocks of pure ice that washed ashore. The air was fresh and good. It was a beautiful morning, the beginning of a promising day! I was thinking about living on the shores of this lake and every morning I would witness this silent, millennial spectacle.
The big grey
The big grey It's the first time I've had the chance to meet the hypnotizing gaze of a great gray owl so early in the season. When I arrived, she was sleeping on her perch. The sky was overcast and the light was imposing a certain technical challenge on me. However, beyond photographing it, I wanted to observe its behavior. Once the sun went down, almost mechanically, the owl opened its eyes and stretched its right wing. Badly positioned, I couldn't take any pictures because of the branches behind which it was standing. It was then that it spread its other wing twice in a row leaving me just enough time to capture this angle of view. Then, warmed up from her long nap, she took off. Silently, like a leaf carried by the night, she perched on a stump at eye level. The light was weak, the blue hour was at its peak. Her piercing yellow eyes were still clearly visible to me through the darkness. She swayed her head in quick swings. Watching and listening to the slightest movement in the icy reeds in front of her. I left the place as I could only see her imposing perched silhouette looking far off towards the river. The arrival of this bird in our territory is a real chance. Could it be the harbinger of a winter rich in the observation of this species? No one really knows. It is said that an invasion of Great Gray Owls can occur every 5 or 10 years on our territory. Some censuses in southern Quebec report more than 600 observations in the early 2000s in a single season. When food becomes scarcer in the north, they come to visit us. Last winter I had the chance to photograph one. During one morning, I was alone with her. Besides the undeniable beauty of the bird, it is also one of the less shy. It does not fear humans and seems almost always to accept their presence during its hunting periods. My first encounter with it was in 2012, at Cap-Tourmente. I remember as if it were yesterday the emotion I felt. She was hunting a few meters away from me and I was able to photograph her with a small shrew in her beak (I slide the image in commentary). The span of its spread wings and the silence of its flight had made me mute. Since that day, with each first snowfall, a memory of this traveler crosses my mind. It reminds me that northern winters are much more arid than ours and that certain species find a haven of abundance.
The curious
The curious It is not without reason that caribou are the animals I admire the most. I have been fortunate to spend countless hours with all the herds in our province. Unlike most other mammals, caribou often adopt an attitude of curiosity towards us. This image dates back to my very first encounter with the Charlevoix caribou in the fall. This individual was a particular one. In every herd that I observed, there was always a curious individual. Sometimes it was an old male, other times a female and very often a young of the year. You can see that his plume is broken on one side, which is very common in caribou. The finesse and elegance of their antlers cannot rival the intensity of the sometimes bloody fights. I had the chance to photograph this male for almost three years. His panache and features set him apart from many others. Among caribou, each one has a very different look. At least, much more discernable than in his cousins the Virginia Deer and the Moose. He was the only one of the herd to come and find me until he approached less than five meters away. There was in him that curiosity and confidence that still fascinates me today. What was he looking for while staring at me like that? What did he want from me? The beauty of his encounters lies in these unanswered questions. The only thing for which I have a certainty is that if each person could have the chance I had to enter the gaze of these animals, we would do everything in our power to save them from almost certain disappearance.
Pine marten on a first snow
First snow On the high mountain plateaus, the cold has been appearing for some time now. In the early morning, the colorful leaves and yellow thorns of the larch trees are wrapped in frost. The remnants of a rich and hot summer become inert and motionless. The blanket of fine icy crystals that covered everything dictated the end of the comfort of the forests. While life seemed to desert the forests, many animals were stirring there. Winter was approaching and there was little time left to reproduce and store energy. Arriving at night, I observed the moon in a still clear sky. With the cold, I always found that it looked different. In this lunar atmosphere, the distance from the cosmos seemed, for a moment, closer. A wind was sweeping away the thin layer of snow that had covered the lichen. Behind the mountains, the sun was rising. The clarity of the blue sky faded with the appearance of clouds. The deeper I went into the boreal forest, the more snow there was. The wind had not been able to make its way there. Protected by large coniferous ramparts, this ecosystem was silent and peaceful. My book, "Contemplation", I created it with the idea of bringing this feeling to life. This silent cold with divine allure. Between the black spruce trees, often scattered, were larch trees. Their yellow and fragile thorns fell like colored snow at the slightest gust of wind. This carpet of snow is for me a great book. The secrets of the night are written in it. For some time, near the discharge of a river, a marten seemed to have found an interest in the trout that spawned there. It was in the frozen sphagnum moss that I positioned myself to make a lookout. In front of me, in the icy water, dozens of speckled trout were swimming. Each one more magnificent and colorful than the next. I was at the water's edge and after more than an hour I could recognize some of them. Sometimes they would bite each other and at other times they would lay their eggs in the gravel while a male would fertilize them. This ballet kept my mind busy. In front of me was a tree lying down, crossing the river. A thin layer of snow covered it. I hoped that the said marten would cross this tree. After a few hours, lying on my stomach with my legs soaking in water, my body began to shake strongly. This is a moment that I usually welcome because it allows me to generate heat. I also did several contractions held with my abdomen and arms to generate heat. With this cold that was invading me, I decided to eat a little. It's one of the best ways to give your body the energy it needs to keep warm. My fingers were wet and frozen. As I opened my meal that was in a can, I cut my thumb deep. I didn't realize it right away because I couldn't feel my fingertips. It wasn't until I saw the drops of blood dripping profusely on the green moss that I realized the severity of my injury. The bleeding wouldn't stop and I had to maintain pressure and wrap my thumb in my clothes. Once the coagulation was successful, I took two small branches from a dead labrador tea bush and made chopsticks out of them to eat my meal! After a long period of waiting without success, I decided to dismantle my blind and go further. The sun was up and the simple fact of being exposed to it comforted me. Everything that had been illuminated had been stripped of its snow dress. Observing nature still awake at night, I saw small mushrooms whose hats had protected the foot from the snow. They were tube-shaped chanterelles and they were of good size. I picked some for my supper. It was while walking in the direction from which I had arrived that this little American marten appeared to me. Spirited and fast, it was watching me and would return as soon as I stopped in the woods. All I had to do was lie on the ground and wait. Every time I came across specimens of this species, I was amazed at how close they could be to us. Their curiosity is legendary and offers to the one who crosses it, a spectacle of the most unique in the world. I was able to observe it in its routine for more than an hour!
November the grey
November the grey There comes a moment after the fall of the colors when the subjects become dull. The immaculate gray of November is a stage that triggers the capsizing of life towards sleep. The plants fall asleep according to the length and coldness of the short days. What a few months ago screamed of life is now mute. The hot days come to bruise the first snows having started their migration too hastily. There is a struggle between winter and the persistence of the Indian summer. In the manner of the first peoples of our territory, in accordance with these first snows, the nomads left their summer residence near the St. Lawrence. Following the habits of the boreal fauna, they headed inland, well into the depths of the forest, a place for hunting and winter protection. The occasional warm spell sometimes allowed them to stay a little longer on the banks. In those times, the woodland caribou roamed abundantly in the mountains of Charlevoix. I like to let myself be carried away by the thoughts of those times. At that precise time, we humans lived in perfect harmony with the beings that surrounded us. I sometimes walked on lines and trails that were perfectly maintained by these same caribou. These paths, clearly visible from the air, are the book that tells the story of the caribou's life. Their thousands of hooves, walking heavily on the sparse and green carpet of lichen. A silent writing that draws the slowness and peace of those faraway times. With my feet in their hooves, I always try to get in touch with this story that disappears before our eyes. At the vision of these two caribou, time, which had already slowed down considerably, continued its sinking. The falling snow looked like the grains of an hourglass. It froze in the air in a final effort to strip me of the landmarks of my troubled time. Between me and their eyes, there was this space-time where humanity had not yet ransacked everything. I was there with my friends, the three of us living in the same kilometer, breathing the same air. The same little snowflakes were hovering, swinging from left to right to lie on our heads and rest there. The love that emanated from this couple was not a love from our modern and human spectrum. By their glances and positions, the two watched over the other's blind spot. Both breathed in unison the innocence of their lives. The contact between these two cervids was pure, but above all simple. By consulting each other with the big, bulging eyes of my presence, I was able to learn what harmony, true harmony, is. On the way back, my head saturated with these moments that I would have liked to last forever, I felt a serene joy. As I got closer to my vehicle, this joy was transformed into bitterness. Perhaps such intense encounters end up making me bitter from fights that are not won. I am immensely fortunate and grateful for what I have been able to see since exploring our territory. This luck comes, I believe, with a price to pay. Often in photography, I have to deal with sets and subjects that require me to find a particular angle. An angle that does not include human structures, garbage and any other intruders from our world in theirs. In these moments that I live in the company of animals, I see a much larger human intruder, yet invisible in my sensor. Something that I hide from my mind by showing it only one angle so as not to break the beauty of the encounters. This view that I can no longer help but look at is the awareness of the beauty that has disappeared. Of this harmony between men and nature that is no longer there. Of those species which, once extinct, are forever extinct. How beautiful it is to see one of the last caribou of the Charlevoix herd. How sad to see one of the last caribou of the Charlevoix herd. So how do I keep my head high? I enjoy and comfort myself in the little fights that people do every day to protect the last wild spaces of our territory. It's not a question of protecting everything, nor of recreating what has been ransacked. We just need to at least preserve what remains. The last remnants of that time when we, humans and animals lived the transition to winter together surrounded by the greyness of November.