If a crystal-clear tornado had torn through this woodland, it might not have produced a more explosive image. One white-tailed deer, the centremost of three, appears suspended four feet in the air, kicking up its hind as if to swim through the night. A second deer launches into the foreground, head aloft, legs raked back as if retracting for flight. A third seems to levitate nose-down, perhaps after a mighty leap, or recoiling on all fours at once. This picture from the black of night at Whitefish Lake, Michigan, tells of an invisible blast.
But the blast hadn’t been invisible: it was a flash from history’s first remote camera-trap, tripped by the deer meeting a line of dark silk attached to the camera.
The photograph’s precise date isn’t known, but what’s known is that in 1891, its creator, well-to-do lawyer, politician, and outdoorsman George Shiras, almost them. The key was to observe them unawares and, ever since Shiras, to capture them with devices, forever and with certainty. That we label it curiosity or science is well and good, but we should be clear: curiosity is no side hustle for humans. We’re constantly on the prowl for the unknown. One of us almost blew himself up trying to light the dark we’re born to fear.
