Behind the Shot: The Rhythm of the Road

There's something special about bringing together a group of people who may have never met before and discovering they already have so much in common. A love of photography might bring them here, but it's really curiosity, adventure, and a willingness to explore that binds our workshop tours together.

Over the course of a week, strangers become travelling companions. We share sunrises, long drives, memorable meals, and moments that simply can't be planned. Cameras come along for the ride, but they aren't the reason any of us will remember the experience years from now.

This tour took us from the first light at Cape Spear to the seabird cliffs of Cape St. Mary's and the wild shores of Bonavista. We photographed puffins, whales, foxes, and some remarkable Newfoundland landscapes, but as always, my favourite memories live somewhere between the shutter clicks.

Years ago, I would have been racing from one photograph to the next. Sunrise means get the shot. Wildlife means get closer. Sunset means don't stop shooting until the light is gone. There's still some of that in me, I suspect there always will be, but somewhere along the way I started paying more attention to everything happening between the shutter clicks.

This tour was a good reminder of that.

We began before dawn at Cape Spear. There are few better places to welcome the day than standing on the eastern edge of North America watching the sun climb over the Atlantic. The light wasn't dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled softly over the landscape, painting the ocean in shades of amber and gold. Sometimes that's enough.

The rest of the morning was spent wandering St. John's before making our way through Quidi Vidi, one of those places that somehow manages to feel both timeless and alive all at once. Fishing stages sit quietly beside colourful homes while the cliffs rise behind them, reminding you that in Newfoundland, the landscape is never very far away.

Then it was south to St. Vincent's.

If you've never stood on that beach while Northern Gannets are plunge diving just offshore, it's difficult to describe. They don't simply hit the water. They fall from the sky with an impossible kind of grace before disappearing beneath the surface in an explosion of spray. Watching dozens of them hunting together feels wonderfully chaotic. Your eyes never know where to look next.

Cape St. Mary's never disappoints. Thousands upon thousands of birds transform the cliffs into something alive. Gannets glide effortlessly overhead while murres pack themselves onto impossible ledges below, arguing loudly with their neighbours and looking perpetually overdressed for the occasion. They don't have the celebrity status of puffins, but they've always held a special place for me. There is an understated elegance to them that I never seem to tire of photographing. No matter how many times I visit, I'm reminded that some places simply refuse to fit inside a photograph. The scale, the sound, and the movement of Cape St. Mary's has to be experienced to be understood.

And then we arrived in Bonavista.

If there is one place that keeps calling me back with my camera, it's here.

The landscapes were generous this time around. Sunrises that painted the sea in gold and evenings where the light seemed reluctant to leave. I've photographed Newfoundland countless times, but occasionally a place you've seen a hundred times decides to introduce itself all over again.

The puffins were equally accommodating. There is a reason they've become Newfoundland's unofficial ambassadors. They're absurd and beautiful in equal measure. They stare directly into your lens with an expression that always feels somewhere between curiosity and mild judgment. Watching them walk along the cliffs or disappear into their burrows never really gets old.

The whales, however, stole the show.

There's a particular kind of silence that falls over a boat when everyone suddenly realizes what's unfolding in front of them. Cameras stop clicking for a moment. Conversations stop mid sentence. Everyone simply watches.

We were fortunate enough to witness humpbacks lunge feeding, mouths impossibly wide as they rose from beneath the surface among clouds of capelin and seabirds. It's difficult not to feel small when something the size of a school bus emerges from the ocean only metres away. No photograph can truly communicate that feeling, but we keep trying anyway.

And then there were the foxes.

I've spent enough time photographing them now to know that every encounter feels like a gift. This year's kits are growing quickly, and the adults are working overtime to keep everyone fed and out of trouble. There is something wonderfully familiar about watching a fox family. Different species perhaps, but the story remains much the same. Feed the children. Keep them safe. Hope they grow well.

Finally, as always, there were the people.

I've come to believe they're the most important photographs I make on these trips.

It's easy to think Newfoundland Photo Tours are about landscapes, whales, puffins, and foxes. Those things certainly bring us here, but they're not what people talk about months later. They remember sitting on the rocks waiting for sunrise. They remember laughing because a puffin landed somewhere completely unexpected. They remember sharing stories over dinner after a very long day.

Photography gives us an excuse to gather in beautiful places. The real gift has always been the people we get to share them with.

By the end of every tour I'm tired, my memory cards are full, and I have far too many photographs to sort through. I wouldn't have it any other way.

There are still wild places waiting for us out there. I'm looking forward to the next one.

Newfoundland Photo Tours was built around more than photography. It's about exploration, shared experiences, and discovering this remarkable place together. I hope you'll join us on a future adventure.