Jack Illingworth, @jamuudsen on Instagram
The land discussed and covered in this interview is the traditional home of many First Nations and Indigenous peoples. Tkaronto, where Jack and I both work, is a Mohawk word which translates to “Where The Trees Meet The Water” or “The Gathering Place.” Tkaronto is bound by Dish With One Spoon, a treaty between the Anishinaabe and the Haudenosaunee to share the territory, promote peace, and protect the land. I am extremely grateful to have a home in Northern Ontario, on the North Shore of Lake Huron, the traditional land of the Métis Nation and the Anishinabek. This is Robinson Huron Treaty land, and I demand that my governments resolve the longstanding revenue-sharing inequity tied to that covenant, and honour the terms as agreed.
Jack Illingworth attempting to blend in, so you don’t see him. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
Jack Illingworth lives and works in Toronto, Canada, but you’d hardly know that by following his Instagram feed, which is full of trail cam shots of bears, wolves, and moose, and beautifully framed photos of the north Lake Superior landscape that is clearly his happy place. It is also full of sharp and amusing captures of birds doing their birdy things in that most natural of natural settings.
Jack and I have been professional colleagues in Canada’s writing and publishing industry for well on thirty years now. We’ve even actually done the exact same job. I was Ontario’s Literature Officer from 2008 to 2012, administering the (woefully inadequate — I can say that now) provincial funding budget for writers, publishers, literary performers, festivals and reading series across a landmass bigger than many countries. Jack took over that position in 2013 after I moved back “into the field” as we bureaucrats say, and has only recently moved on to become Executive Director of the Association of Canadian Publishers. In my own day job as Chief Executive Officer at The Writers’ Union of Canada, I anticipate many a joint meeting in Ottawa, where Jack and I charm and battle federal bureaucrats into properly supporting and protecting literary culture in Canada.
While I have always been interested in birds and wildlife, that job with the province really introduced to me the profound variety and beauty of Ontario outside its major urban centres. Business trips involved many hours on single lane northern highways, distracted by the hawks and ravens that regularly swooped through the view, and my first real opportunity to gaze out for extended lengths of time across the awesome spectacle that is Lake Superior. I vividly recall stepping out of my car after an eight-hour stretch of driving and being confused by the smell in the air around me. Something was radically different, and it took me a few minutes to realize that what I was smelling was an intense absence of the smog and other pollutants I’d left behind in the south.
But I’m guessing Jack needed no real introduction to the north. I gather from his Insta feed that he has deep personal roots in the country well north of heavily industrialized southern Ontario, and that his own well of interest and knowledge in birds and other wild creatures might just stem from his having grown up surrounded by the great bounty of the north.
A trail cam shot of a black bear near Jack’s parents’ house in Neebing, Ontario. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
So, let’s start there, Jack. Welcome to the Book (and Bird) Room. Tell me a bit about your connection to the northwestern shore of Lake Superior, and all its wild inhabitants.
I was raised in an area known as Neebing, which is the rural municipality that follows the north shore of Lake Superior between Thunder Bay and the Minnesota border. Neebing is 2,000 square kilometres with 2,000 widely-scattered residents and essentially no retail stores or services of any kind. It is generally acknowledged as the traditional territory of Fort William First Nation, but the nearest developed community to our home is the Anishinaabe community of Gichi Onigaming, or Grand Portage. That town marks a major stop on the original trans-continental highway, where Indigenous people and voyageurs would carry their canoes, belongings, and trade goods on a gruelling 14 km portage in order to avoid the waterfalls and rapids of the lower Pigeon River. That river, named for the Passenger Pigeons that used to flock in its valley, is now the Canada-US border.
A northern shrike on the hunt. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
In hindsight, my parents have made some eccentric choices, and my upbringing was a strange one, but it didn’t feel like that. We own some 200 acres of land on a side road that runs to the big lake, with no neighbours in line of sight. That quantity of land sounds extravagant, but it isn’t expensive or particularly unusual up there; a parking space in Toronto costs considerably more. I was a curious kid and grew up embedded in nature. My parents are devoted gardeners, even into their eighties. They still have a couple of acres under cultivation as a sort of private botanical garden/arboretum. They’ve never hired help to do this; it’s all their own sweat and blackfly-extorted blood. Birdwatching was always there as a background activity. We’ve observed over 150 species on our property, and a couple of provincial rarities – Grey-crowned Rosy-finch and Lazuli Bunting – have brought in visitations of twitchers from afar.
A drone shot of the Pine River house in Neebing where Jack originally emerged from the woods. The big lake (Superior) in the background. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
Wow, as a born, raised, and mostly stayed southerner, that sounds like an upbringing out of a fantastical novel.
It took a few years of city life for me to realize just how special all that was. Especially in a country like Canada, where a fiction of wilderness is the national brand. Anyone who is born into an iota of privilege will take it for granted until they understand the alternatives. In my case, part of that journey involved appreciating that most Canadians will never see a moose (much less one in their yard) or hear a whip-poor-will.
A chestnut-sided warbler… I’m guessing in the springtime. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
Wait… I’ve heard a whip-poor-will! Before I learned to appreciate birdsong, some buddies and I were tormented by that bird on a camping trip. Very repetitive call – not good for hangovers.
Jack, as much as I love my Lake Huron home, I don’t feel fully rugged and naturey until I’m beside Lake Superior. Same?
Superior is special. The lake’s modern shore is not old, as it was formed by glaciation, but the basin proper is a testament to ancient geological turmoil – it is a rift valley, a relic of North America nearly tearing itself in two some billion-odd years ago. It makes its own weather, stays cold year-round, and (compared to the other great lakes, at least) is relatively undeveloped, especially once you get into the offshore archipelagos.
My relationship with the big lake proper developed later in life. It was always there, of course, but our home is inland, and growing up we never had the right watercraft for open water. Around 15 years ago, my father spontaneously bought a pair of sea kayaks, and I gradually developed the skill and gear collection that are necessary for safe-ish paddling on Superior. I have some congenital leg deformities that have always made back-country hiking or multi-portage canoe tripping a risky proposition. The kayak, for me, is freedom. I don’t have to worry that a kneel will turn into a meniscus tear, that my ankle will roll into a strain, or that a hard trail will give me shin-splints. I can cover 30 km in a day.
One of the Pine River kayaks working the big lake. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
The world that opens up when you paddle Superior is a gorgeous, alien one. Wildlife starts seeing you more as a peer than as a threat. You learn to see force running through wind, water, and stone, and to anticipate its effect on your journey. I returned to fishing, which I hadn’t done since my childhood, and I started to memorize the headlands and islands that form Neebing’s little-travelled coast. Soloing Superior is a risky endeavour, but I minimize my risk with common sense and a dose of technology (drysuit, ditch bag of survival essentials, satellite rescue beacon). The joys I’ve experienced out there exceed the dangers a hundredfold, but I’d never encourage someone to do the same without some training, a good self-rescue, the right gear, and many hours on the water.
Face in the cliffs of Victoria Island, Lake Superior. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
I paddle inland too, as the northwest is blessed with a number of massive road-access lakes that can accommodate multi-day trips with ease. But nothing beats Superior’s expansiveness and energy.
Do you remember when you first made the mental transition from just observing and appreciating the wildlife around you to wanting to track and document it through photography?
When my wife and I were first dating, she lived in an apartment in Cabbagetown, and we’d take walks through the parklands that flow away from Riverdale Farm. One day, we were confronted by a relatively unafraid Black-crowned Night Heron. They’re remarkable birds – one was famously ennobled by a 10th century Emperor of Japan – and we don’t have them up north. I was able to manage a few snapshots with the modest 120mm lens I owned at the time, but I immediately wanted more.
It took time to go from birds to other types of photography. I continue to be a wretched portrait photographer, with no eye whatsoever for the decisive moment. But I’m happy with the progress I’ve made on botanicals, landscapes, and abstracts.
Photography has a particular importance for me, because I have aphantasia – meaning that I have no meaningful visual memory. If I want to retain an experience as more than a concept or a memory of sound and sensation, I need to make an image of it.
Red-necked Grebes, necking on the Etobicoke waterfront. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
I try very hard not to nerd out on gear, because I fear there’s a giant money pit there I can’t actually deal with. Tell me a bit about your basic gear set-up for a hike in the north woods.
Gear can be a money-pit, but camera tech is so good these days that a camera body can last more than a decade, if you aren’t constantly chasing high-ISO performance for available light night photography, and lenses can last much longer than that.
What I carry depends on how I’m moving and what I’m after. My birding setup is a Nikon D800 with a 300mm f/2.8 and a set of teleconverters. I settled on the 300 early on as the largest lens that I could comfortably carry. The teleconverters will bug purists, but the results I get from them are acceptable for my purposes. Support is essential to the way I shoot – I’ll either carry a tall 3000-series set of Gitzo legs, or a 5000-series Gitzo monopod.
I have a variety of other Nikon-mount lenses, but the ones that get the most use are a 15-30mm Sigma (a forgotten cheapo ultrawide that I love almost everything about), a Nikon 50mm f/1.4, and a Nikon 105mm f/2.8 macro. These cover my bases for almost any situation.
More recently, I’ve picked up a mirrorless Fujifilm XT-3 setup for kayaking and lighter-weight walkabouts when birding isn’t my objective. With it I’ve got a 10-20mm wide angle, a 16-80mm f/4 kit zoom (which is a bit of a dog, but easy to use on the water), and the magical 60mm f/2.4 macro. I use a Peak Design travel tripod with the Fuji, and it’s a brilliant bit of kit that just disappears in the hold of my kayak.
I also have a first-generation DJI Mavic Mini drone, which I use for occasional aerials, which really help me understand a landscape. It’s light enough to be exempt from Transport Canada licensing requirements, and takes OK photographs. The newer models seem much better, but I can’t justify an upgrade just yet.
Finally, I take a lot of photos with my humble phone, especially while kayaking. It’s there all the time, weighs next to nothing, is nearly waterproof, and fits in a PFD pocket.
Jack photographed these bald eagles so I don’t have to. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
I’ve said elsewhere, my “white whale” at this early stage of my bird photography is a clear, close shot of the bald eagles I’ve spotted while swimming in Huron’s north channel. Is there a bird or animal out there you haven’t quite managed to capture in the way you’d like? Maybe “capture” is the wrong word. Let’s say “depict.”
For animals, it’s easy: lynx. I’ve found tracks, but have yet to see a wild one.
For birds, it is still a very long list. Some of the Carolingian warblers would be in competition for top place: Cerulean and Hooded. But there are so many others. Phalaropes, the most elegant of shorebirds. Jaegers in full kleptoparasitic pursuit. Anything named for Georg Steller. Bohemian Waxwings. Crossbills. Boreal Chickadees. Rails. Enough? Enough!
Jack’s white whale, still unphotographed. Lynx tracks. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
Had to look it up. Kleptoparasitic – when animals, often birds, steal food from one another. I just saw my favourite corvid scientist on Tik Tok explaining that even though crows and wolves are often observed together, this is not a BFF-type relationship. The crows are waiting for the opportunity to steal part of the wolf’s kill, and the wolf is waiting for the crow to slip up and become dinner.
Thanks Jack. Let’s keep talking birds! If you don’t mind, I’ll come back to you for insights and answers occasionally. And feel free to use my northern home as a pit stop or overnighter on your trips to the big lake.
Thank you, John. As your readers can tell, I can go on and on about these things forever. And I look forward to hatching literary conspiracies on the north channel. And if we ever end up in the Lakehead at the same time, I’d be happy to show you some of my favourite spots.
Wolves trying to figure out which way Jack went. (Trail cam image courtesy Jack Illingworth)
Hope you enjoyed this first in a series of conversations I plan to have with some of the nature enthusiasts and birders in my life. Don’t miss a single posting — just subscribe to my newsletter below. And do let any other nature appreciators in your life know about this site. Newsletter recipients also get subscriber-exclusive photos from my own wanderings in the world of birds and nature.
