Wilderness book of the Month #1 - February 2014

If somebody would ask me to point out what is the main source of inspiration for my profession of wildlife photographer, I wouldn't hesitate and name literature, both fiction and non-fiction, instead of other photography or any other form of art. The freedom words give to talented writers and thinkers in order to express the subtle feelings elicited by nature and animals, articulate their reflections on the world and describe fleeting situations is unsurpassed in my opinion by music and visual arts.

As a wilderness "book-oholic" with an ever-growing collection, I have my little circle of similarly-affected people with whom I share the latest releases and virtually unknown highlights. Way too often, we have the feeling that so many incredible findings are appreciated just by a very small percentage of the population and, especially in the case of Europe in general and Italy in particular, those books get known only within a very limited entourage. Wether this happens because of a limited distribution or the barrier of foreign language (and because of the general lack of interest for nature), I often thought it would be worth to share authors and books that I've found exceptional and worth to be widely known. So, here comes the idea to name regularly on my blog a "Wilderness book of the Month". No matter if the book is twenty years-old or freshly published, French or American, writes about food culture or grizzly behavior, I hope to trigger your interest and create momentum for a broader diffusion of wilderness culture!

Wilderness book of the Month #1 - February 2014

Among Wolves: Gordon Haber's Insights into Alaska's Most Misunderstood Animal
by Gordon Haber and Marybeth Holleman - University of Alaska Press, 2013

From the back cover: "Alaska’s wolves lost their fiercest advocate, Gordon Haber, when his research plane crashed in Denali National Park in 2009. Passionate, tenacious, and occasionally brash, Haber, a former hockey player and park ranger, devoted his life to Denali’s wolves.He weathered brutal temperatures in the wild to document the wolves and provided exceptional insights into wolf behavior. Haber’s writings and photographs reveal an astonishing degree of cooperation between wolf family members as they hunt, raise pups, and play, social behaviors and traditions previously unknown. With the wolves at risk of being destroyed by hunting and trapping, his studies advocated for a balanced approach to wolf management. His fieldwork registered as one of the longest studies in wildlife science and had a lasting impact on wolf policies. Haber’s field notes, his extensive journals, and stories from friends all come together in Among Wolves to reveal much about both the wolves he studied and the researcher himself. Wolves continue to fascinate and polarize people, and Haber’s work continues to resonate."

Pardon my ignorance but I didn't know about Gordon Haber and his departure until I stumbled upon his great website: http://alaskawolves.org, and must thank my friend and fellow book-oholic Antonio Antonucci for recommending it to me. This book has been an incredibly pleasant read during a few days of flu and forced bed rest. Although it mostly focuses on Haber's research on wolves in Denali, Alaska, I believe his findings to be of broad interest for all the wolf enthusiasts around the world and his approach to be a very rare example of conservation commitment and scientific clarity. We should all pay homage to this great person and make sure his brave voice won't be silenced. I would like to quote his words at the end of the book, after Haber arguments his position against wolf exploitation: "(…) we are unknowingly destroying the very treasure on which we thrive and, in fact, depend. A sameness results with a numbing of the spirit, and we gradually lose our ability to marvel. The battle to protect wolves or a wild caribou herd, alligators or whales, or another tract of wilderness isn't a plot to lock wilderness and wildlife away. This battle really represents and attempt to ensure that we do not neglect some of our most basic non material needs. It is nothing less than a matter of helping ourselves toward full achievement of the human promise." In this dark age for wolf conservation across Europe and the whole world, I hope these beautiful words will echo in everyone's head.

My little "heart of darkness" - part two of three

Images and words ©Bruno D’Amicis/www.brunodamicis.com

Bonga. At 2000 meters altitude, the capital of Kafa is a maze of dirt tracks, which cross an undefinable set of brick, mud and metal buildings, all interspersed by banana and enset plantations. You breathe the smell of rancid butter, roasted coffee, smoke and spices. A few horthodox churches, three restaurants, two hotels (one serves also as a brothel), a hospital and a weekly market: here live about forty thousand people and at least as many heads of cattle, in addition to dozens of black kites, ravens, vultures and hadada ibises that take advantage of the situation. All around, at few kilometers of distance, lush and unwelcoming, the Forest.

To get there it takes a whole day by jeep from Addis Ababa. The road follows the ancient landscape of the Rift Valley and crosses (literally) dozens of villages, where the driver must carefully dodge chickens, cows and kids. You leave the asphalt to Jimma, a half of the trip; then it's all dust and sand until here. It seems that this will no longer be a problem: Chinese and Korean investment will bring soon the asphalt (and traffic) also to this final stretch.

From Bonga start all expeditions to the Kafa Region and, therefore, also my photographic adventures. Following a radial gradient, to get to the wildest areas, one need to overcome the patches where the axe, fire and livestock have made the forest back off. 

At the end of January 2012, having covered more or less all photo objects that my assignment required, I focused on the search for the alleged forest lions. Fresh information about livestock attacks that occurred near Adjo (a name that says it all...), a village situated over sixty kilometres from Bonga at the southeastern border of Kafa.

After nearly four hours of Land Cruiser and dirt roads, we arrived at this little group of houses scattered around a colourful circular building, halfway between a church and a tucul hut. Muluken, my young interpreter, told me that it was the palace of Habedagoda, local noble man and religious leader. The only truly recognized authority in that area, to whom we were supposed to ask informations and, more importantly, permissions to move in that territory. I, a farangi ("foreigner"), was announced and was asked to wait. Dozens of flies and at least as many pairs of staring human eyes were concentrated on me: I was definitely the event of the year for the villagers. I pretended to ignore that and looked up to the sky. Several African griffon vultures were soaring above us. After half an hour, I did enter the building round. Inside, apart from the darkness and a very strong odor, I saw that the walls were covered with old photos, fake flowers and portraits of Jesus.

Some men stood against the wall around an imposing figure sitting at a small table. White Nike sneakers, a red-green-and-yellow vest, a cream-coloured cowboy with "made in China" written in gold caracters on it; all under a black and gold cloak: Habedagoda leader shook his giraffe's tail fly swatter. An old spear was also standing against the wall. I was appalled and felt truly privileged to be there: a little like the poor brother of Indiana Jones or a wanna-be Claude Levy-Strauss of the third Millennium! 

I was invited to sit down (at a distance from leader) and I was offered coffee. After a few moments of embarrassment, Habedagoda began to ask me questions in dialect kafinho: he asked me about everything, including my monthly salary and the eye color of my girlfriend, and the interpreter had to translate our entire conversation. We explained to the chief our mission and he confirmed that He was nearby and had killed several cows. He spoke with great respect and with a bit of awe. (Do note, that nobody in Ethiopia would ever dare to utter the word "lion". It would be a blasphemy, as this is a legendary and highly respected animal: it is ambassa, "king", and appointing him would be enough to draw his rage.) Then, Habedagoda generously offered us hospitality and help, a high quarter of cow (which I politely declined) and two village hunters as guides. This provided that, every night, we would report a detailed account of our excursions. I understood he liked me and even dared to take some shots with my camera. That morning, nobody mentioned if what we were doing was dangerous or not.

And so began our search for the lions, carried out in a very unorthodox way. Instead of scanning the landscape from the comfortable seats of a Land Rover driven along dusty roads, in fact, we went backpacking, beating the steep slopes of the area. For five days, we roamed the silent forests, crossed turbulent and foaming streams, by walking (me crawling) on super slippery tree trunks put crosswise, and sweated the proverbial seven shirts.

And, again, spectacular rocky gorges and thick prairies of yellow grass that arrived to the chin (perfect for a lurking lion, for instance): my guides kept saying "we are very close", "here they have been seen a week ago" and "look here, the grass was crushed by one of them asleep." Instead of a safari in Africa, to me it looked only like the umpteenth (and useless) hike in the footsteps of the bear in the Abruzzi mountains and smelled stench of failure. Luckily, the monotony was sometimes interrupted by cries of a family of blue monkeys, the fleeting vision of a turaco or the stabbing bites of giant ants. 

Every night, as we returned exhausted to the village, in addition to fatigue I was also responsible for entertaining the chief, reporting faithfully all the events of the day and waiting for its approval and that of our faithful "audience". When, late in the hour, I would eventually walk into my tent, I was happy because I could finally be all alone … (to be continued)

The Vulture

Like it or not, the end of an year always smells a bit like the end of a cycle: something older than us which somehow makes all look ahead and follow the necessary transformation.

I had the luck to conclude my 2013, at least photographically speaking, sitting on a high rock in the Simien Mountains of Ethiopia with ravens, vultures and several other birds of prey soaring in front of me in the crystalline mountain light.

When the most awaited one, the bearded vulture, finally came and slowly circled around my head, my eyes met its: I could perfectly see the famous "cercle rouge" around its orbits (please read the great Robert Hainard on this). Although being an atheist, by admiring the majestic lightness of this species (the "bone breaker") which arrives at the very end of an animal's life, I could not stop reflecting on the perfection of Nature when it comes to cycles. Materials (atoms!) that smoothly move from one creature to another - for ever. Nothing being wasted. Everything transformed. Endless life.

And so, I thought once again of the magic words of Robinson Jeffers in his poem "The vulture" and by thinking of death, I didn't feel sad, but instead it gave me more energies for the times ahead. 

My best wishes for a great New Year to all of you!

"The Vulture"
I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit
narrowing,
I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight- feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, 'My dear bird, we are wasting time here.
These old bones will still work; they are not for you.' But how
beautiful he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten by that beak and become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes--
What a sublime end of one's body, what an enskyment; what a life after death. (Robinson Jeffers)