Over the years, I have read many negative reviews and comments about the Canon EF 100-400mm zoom lens, ranging from softness in the resolution capability to a useless “toy” lens. Many of those I have asked follow up questions to about their views reveal themselves to have never used the lens themselves (they have just “heard” bad things). Others seem to spend more time deriding the lens than going out and improving their photography skills.
A male northern cardinal stands under the shade of a bush. Although most commonly seen throughout the eastern US and Mexico, this species was introduced many years ago to the Hawaiian islands.
This lens was in fact my first “bird” lens, and I used it extensively until I could prove to myself that I was passionate about wildlife photography enough to justify spending more on a more specialized lens. I have found the lens to be sharp and reliable. While it doesn’t provide the extreme sharpness or reach of my 800mm, it is smaller, lighter, and I typically hand hold it, giving me ultimate mobility. It was for these reasons that I opted to take it on my recent trip to Hawaii, in lieu of my bigger lens.
A cattle egret is reflected in a pool of water as it searches for food amongst the grass. This one is in full breeding plumage, with long reddish-orange feathers on the top of the head, back and breast. Also, the skin behind the eye has turned a brilliant purple.
Rather than a traditional zoom, this lens utilizes a push/pull style of zoom, which will take some getting used to. Once you master this style of zoom, however, you’ll be making sharp photographs in no time. For bird photography, I usually just lock out the barrel in the “long” position, giving me the 400mm reach.
If you are just starting out in bird or wildlife photography and don’t want to make a huge investment, this is a great lens with which to get your feet wet. Starting out with a lens like this will force you to improve your non-camera skills, such as stalking and waiting. The limited reach will force you to get closer to your subjects, often requiring patience and creativity to get the desired shot.
The Scaly-breasted Munia or Spotted Munia is known in the pet trade as Nutmeg Mannikin or Spice Finch. Its name is based on the distinct scale-like feather markings on the breast and belly.
On this latest trip, I found that by watching the birds more to understand their patterns, I was able to predict their directionality, and situate myself in a position they would move toward. Then it was just a matter of staying low, being patient, and remaining as still as possible as they came to me. Other times, I would find a tree or bush with lots of activity, move toward it and wait. Even if I scared off the birds on my approach, by remaining still and quiet, many times they eventually returned, sometimes very close to me.
Take a look through these photos and my recent Hawaii posts to judge for yourself. The fact that it is still a regular part of my arsenal shows that I certainly don’t consider it a toy, but a valuable tool that has its place in my toolbox.
Don’t get me wrong – I love my big lens. My primary lens for bird photography is the Canon 800mm, which serves as a real workhorse. However, there are times while using that lens that I get frustrated. One of the lens’ limiting factors is its minimum focus distance. I can’t bring any subject closer than 16 feet into focus, which means that very small things (for example, hummingbirds) still appear fairly small in frame. What to do about this limitation? Enter the extension tube!
An anna’s hummingbird pauses from its rapid flight to warm itself in the sun
Recently I took an out of town colleague to some of my favorite local bird sites. We found an area rife with anna’s hummingbirds, zipping this way and that, and generally causing a ruckus as they battled each other over territory. I took some shots, but couldn’t get close enough to these little creatures to fill the frame. I resolved to come back the following day, this time armed with my full array of extension tubes.
Luckily the hummingbirds were still there, sparring and resting, and this time in beautiful light. I wanted to get as close as possible, so I stacked three tubes together and placed them in between my camera body and lens. This allowed me to get as close as about 10-12 feet away from the birds, finally filling my frame. Creeping closer yet, I wanted to push my extension tubes to their limit, and was able to get the image below.
An anna’s hummingbird perches on a small branch and opens its beak
Extension tubes have no optics in them, and can even be in the form of cardboard – no electronics required! My tubes happen to have small contacts that still allow me to use my lens’ autofocus system, albeit much slower than normal.
The principal of an extension tube is to move the rear focusing element of the lens further away from the focal point, which in today’s world means the camera’s digital sensor. The effect is that the lens’ minimum focus distance is reduced, allowing the entire rig to move closer to the subject while keeping it in focus. The downside is that with extension tubes attached, the lens will no longer be able to focus to infinity.
In comparison to most photography gear, extension tubes are relatively cheap. I have a set of Kenko tubes that stack together. If you ever want to dabble in macro photography, I recommend first getting a (cheap) set to tubes before spending bigger bucks on dedicated macro lens. Yes, the macro lens will give you better quality, but a set of extension tubes will allow you to bring your entire collection of lenses into the macro world.
When we pulled up to the stand of aspen that Jack had scouted earlier, I could tell he was hopefully optimistic about the coming sunset. I was participating in a 5 day photo workshop with landscape legend Jack Dykinga, and this was our first field excursion of the workshop. We were in Grand Teton National Park and the weather had been less than optimal, with thick smoke sitting on the floor of the valley, extirpating any hope of a clear view of the mountains. However, earlier in the day, there had been a shift in the wind, and the weather forecast called for a storm moving through in the next couple of days.
“You know, we might just get a killer sunset,” Jack said to the eager group. The location certainly was beautiful. A colorful grove of fall aspen stood before us with the grandeur of the Tetons rising behind. But the clouds were building in the west and there was still a haze in the sky above the mountains. I just didn’t see it. Uninspired, I set about working with tight shots of the trees.
As it got later, I decided to move up the road a bit and get into a position that removed my foreground, composing just the trees and mountain. Just in case we have a sunset, I thought. A few minutes later, Jack appeared to my left and a little ways behind me. Apparently he had found his spot and was getting ready for the sunset he was anticipating. I could tell he was getting more excited as it got later. I still didn’t see anything special in the light, so I asked him what he thought was going to happen.
“We have just a trace of smoke in the sky, with clouds building above, that when the sun sets behind that notch,” he pointed to the right of the mountains, “we might just get God beams blasting up from behind.” Not sharing his optimism, I adjusted my composition anyway, including the notch he pointed to. Just in case. Eventually, the sun set behind the notch, just as he predicted, but no great light. “Just wait,” he called out to the group. “And be ready!” Moments later it all came together.
Dramatic light bursts from behind the Tetons at sunset. Thick smoke and haze from nearby forest fires create God beams as the sun drops behind the horizon, Grand Teton National Park
As he captured his images, Jack whooped into the air with joy. And he let out more than one of his trademark “Woof!” shouts. As amazed as I was about Jack’s ability to predict exactly what the light was going to do, I realized that what was happening here was not pure luck or voodoo magic. Certainly this ability to anticipate the light came from his years of experience working with 4×5 cameras. Working with large format film requires a far slower pace than what is possible with the run-and-gun potential of 35mm format. One of the requirements of this slow pace is the ability to anticipate and then patiently wait for the light to happen in front of you. Since he was a successful large format photographer for so many years, logic dictates that he must also be an expert light forecaster. It is a skill I greatly admire and will strive to hone in the future.
A few days later, Jack was giving one of his amazing photographic lectures. When a student asked how he “lucked” across a particular cactus with a perfect bloom, Jack said that this image was taken on something like his tenth trip to this spot in as many days, waiting for the bloom to become optimal. And he had previously visited this site close to a hundred times. In other words, Jack knew these cacti very well. After all, the best photographers are experts on their subjects.
After the workshop, I got a chance to put this lesson to practice. My friend Jerry Dodrill (and the workshop’s co-leader), suggested that although we had been to the same stand of aspen several times already (our group had revisited the first night’s location later in the week), he felt the location still had more to offer. “I’d love to see both the mountains and those trees side lit in the early morning,” he told me. And although this would make three visits in four days to the same spot, we awoke long before dawn and made the journey out to this secluded forest service road. I had my doubts as we watched the clouds in the pre-dawn light, streaking to the east, but I trusted Jerry’s experience, and knew that this was an opportunity to try out Jack’s suggestion that we revisit locations well known to us.
As I set up my composition and waited for the light, I became aware that each time I came here, I did know the area a little better, giving me a better idea of how to approach the subject. In fact, as I lined up my shot that morning, I felt I was in the best spot of all my previous attempts at this shot. Moving left and right, forward and backward, zooming in and out gave me infinite possibilities to compose this type of shot. It helped to understand the some of the subtleties of my subject and have a clear vision in my mind of exactly what I wanted to achieve.
The sun just lights the top of the Tetons as it rises behind a grove of aspen in their fall colors, Grand Teton National Park
As the top of the mountain began its alpenglow transition to day, the scene in front of me was beautiful. But I heard Jack’s voice in my mind – “Wait for it!” All at once the morning sun brushed the aspen with luminous side light. I clicked the shutter, appreciative for these lessons from Jack.
I have always thought of myself as a patient person. Even before I earned the “Patience” award in kindergarten, I knew that I was good at waiting quietly, while others around me clamored for something to grab their attention. It was not until years later, after photography fully took its hold on me, that I realized how important this natural trait would become.
Whether it be sitting for hours overlooking a grand vista waiting for the perfect light or weather event, or hunkered down behind a large lens waiting for that animal to show the perfect expression, patience is a vital part of photographing the natural world. It is even more important for bird photography, where nine times out of ten, that bird that flushes is never to be seen again.
A killdeer stands in the sun on the broken shells that give name to Shell Beach in Foster City, CA
I started thinking about patience recently, as I was carefully stalking a killdeer along the shoreline of San Francisco Bay. Killdeers are very fast runners, occasionally taking to flight when spooked. I was following one while crouched behind my lens, the tripod legs all the way down and splayed out. Our dance went like this: the bird would run 20 – 30 yards, I would pick up my rig from a squatting position, shuffle forward slowly in increments of 5 yards or so, with both of us carefully eying each other the whole time. We repeated the sequence several times, each time the bird running a shorter distance.
A killdeer stands in the sun on the broken shells that give name to Shell Beach in Foster City, CA
Finally, the killdeer seemed to stop paying so much attention to me, and he focused on poking around the shells at its feet for food instead. I used this opportunity to get a little closer, but now only inches at a time. With the killdeer finally used to my presence, and with me working at a comfortable distance, I settled in to watch and photograph. I ended up spending over half an hour with this bird, getting to know it just a little bit. Sometimes I photograph with more of a “run and gun” style, but this was definitely one of those situations that called for a little patience.
