Long-time readers of mine will be familiar with my tales of the Photo Gods. These are those supernatural beings that look over me during my photographic endeavors and either smile down on me benevolently, or take issue with something that I have done and see fit to tease me. They are omnipresent, omnipotent and beyond question or reproach. I included that last line because there is a chance that they might be reading my column this week.

Nikonus is the masculine god. He oversees anything and everything connected to timing. Basically, he represents the shutter speed settings on whatever camera I happen to be using. If I am slow with my reactions, he knows. If I look away for a moment, he knows. If I am distracted, lose concentration, or even if I close my eyes because I am tired, he knows. In my mind I see him as a powerful, older man; bearded, stern, and difficult to please.

Iso is the feminine god. Her domain is that of light. She governs the combination of sun and clouds, the thickness of the atmosphere and the harshness of shadows. There is actually another camera setting that is labeled “ISO” on my camera and this setting adjusts the device’s sensitivity to light. Some non-believers thought up the term “International Organization for Standardization,” which puts the letters of her name in the wrong order. Fools. Iso is the goddess of compassion, understanding and sensitivity and she is the one who tempers the cool and calculating moods of Nikonus. Together, they determine much of my fate as a photographer. They watch me closely, Nikonus tapping his finger with expectation and Iso smiling and trying to approve of what I am doing.

Generally, if I do the right thing for long enough I will be sent some sort of reward, but (as per the demands of Nikonus) I usually have to be quick enough to take advantage of the opportunity. Occasionally, however, Iso sends me a reward that is so easy to take advantage of that a child could manage it.

All of this sounds wonderful, but there are occasionally those days when one (or both) of the gods seem to be absent. Let me give you an example of something that happened recently and you can decide what actually happened. It was Sunday, Sept. 8 and when I woke up at 5 a.m. it was far too dark to go outside. I looked at the weather report and learned that there was a minimal chance of rain. I looked at BirdCast and saw that 420 million birds had migrated south during the night, many of them heading straight into our area. It was a morning for the Thinking Chair.

Still too dark for photography, I hit the snooze button and enjoyed another hour in bed before finally getting up and making some coffee. Heavy clouds had me slightly concerned, but I headed down to the meadow with confidence. I even remembered to bring an insulated pad to sit upon so I didn’t get too cold due to the temperature being 47 degrees Fahrenheit. When I arrived at the meadow, however, I discovered that I had forgotten my coffee. That was a red flag, but I ignored it.

I settled down and was quickly greeted by the chickadees. There was even a beautiful moment when the sun broke over the horizon and bathed the entire landscape in a gorgeous, golden light. This seemed a good sign to me, but things deteriorated quickly after that. Five minutes later the sun disappeared. Five minutes after that it started to rain.

It was the sort of precipitation that wasn’t going to result in a soaking, but also the sort that you couldn’t ignore. Expensive cameras and lenses don’t like getting wet and in fairly short order I decided that I had to tuck my camera underneath the long-sleeved shirt that I was wearing. The radar on my phone suggested that this was an isolated spot-shower that would pass quickly, but the minutes ticked by and the rain kept falling. Finally, after an hour of this nonsense, I decided to bail. I was cold, I was damp, I hadn’t had any coffee, and the clouds actually seemed to be thickening. It just wasn’t my morning. I hadn’t taken a single photo, nor had I seen a single migratory bird.

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Thoroughly demoralized, I headed back up the hill to my house and went inside. I quickly emptied my pockets and then headed straight to the shower where I let the warm water rinse away the stiffness that had resulted from sitting in the rain and the cold for an hour. Feeling greatly refreshed, I put on some soft sweats and decided that an early morning on the couch wouldn’t be such a bad substitute for a photo session in the meadow. But, as I headed into the living room to settle in for the morning, I was horrified by what I saw out the window.

The clouds had evaporated and the sky was clear and blue. The sun was shining and I simply couldn’t believe it. What? How? Why? Hadn’t the gods seen me shivering in the gloom of that morning? Weren’t they impressed that I stuck with it for so long? Didn’t they see fit to send me a reward in the form of a rare migratory bird that would pose right in front of my face while I took as many photos as I pleased? Even more appalling was this thought: What bird was sitting unseen in the meadow while I was up in the house asking these stupid questions? Had I not done quite enough to earn my reward, or had I been abandoned by the gods who had themselves hit the snooze and overslept?

Bill Danielson has been a professional writer and nature photographer for 27 years. He has worked for the National Park Service, the US Forest Service, the Nature Conservancy and the Massachusetts State Parks and he currently teaches high school biology and physics. For more in formation visit his website at www.speakingofnature.com, or go to Speaking of Nature on Facebook.