THERE IS A MOMENT when it will all come together.” That is what I kept telling myself. For months, I trudged through snow-covered terrain or stood motionless, neck craned, staring high into the trees. Many times I was defeated by their speed and stealth; many times I found myself questioning the decisions that had led me here. I was tempted to give up, but I was too stubborn. I refused to be beaten by a squirrel.
This prolonged contest of wills commenced quite by accident. In 2019, I was waiting for a fish. I spend the bulk of my time documenting marine life, and this requires planning. Capturing images of reproduction, for instance, necessitates being at a specific location at exactly the right time. Miss the moment and you miss the photo. You could say that I structure my life around the sex lives of fish.
But that year, the ocean was wonky. The animals that I wanted to photograph were nowhere to be seen. And thus I turned my attention to , also known as the Ezo flying squirrel ( in Japanese), which is only found on Hokkaido, the northernmost of Japan’s main islands. It was actually
