In late August 2025, I was invited to Spain by my friend Craig from Canon Rumours to try to photograph the rare and endangered Iberian Lynx. When the invitation arrived, despite knowing embarrassingly little about the Iberian Lynx, I did not have to think long. A chance to photograph one of the world’s most endangered cats? I was in.

When I boarded the flight from Stockholm to Madrid, I knew two things: Summer in Spain is brutally hot and that the Iberian Lynx, one of the rarest wild cats on the planet, would prove a serious photographic challenge. As a photographer drawn to clean, monochromatic Polar palettes, the thought of sitting in dusty hides in circa 40 °C heat was not exactly thrilling. Still, the opportunity to capture this rare feline in its mysterious, sun-baked territory outweighed almost every misgiving. I took a deep breath and plunged into the heat….

The heat hit me like a sledgehammer the moment I stepped off the plane in Spain. A visceral wave of silent oppressive heat —immobile, thick and heavy. The summer heat of Spain is a different kind of quiet from the cryogenic Arctic silence I’m so used to. The hides we would use to try and photograph the Iberian Lynx are located roughly two hours’ drive from Madrid, so after picking up a rental car, we made our way through Spanish traffic in the witching hour to our remote countryside hotel. 

On our first visit to the Mediterranean scrubland, we were greeted by a dusty yellow and ochre savanna of golden grasses and parched scrubland. I knew, from the monochromatic environment, that there was fantastic potential to make a great photograph. The ever-present question was whether the Lynx would show itself? These are knife-edge moments for a wildlife photographer. Recognising the potential for a great photograph which fate then fails to deliver is far more painful than failing to ever see the opportunity in the first place.

Once on location in the first hide, I was struck by how the simple palette resonated with me: ochres, muted ambers, and sandy yellow browns. Though far from the polar monotones I love, this warmth held its own poetry. The canvas spoke of simplicity, a pared-back approach to composition focused on form, light, and the delicate tension of a wild cat’s movement in a monochromatic environment.

Over the next several days and nights, I found myself trapped in a hazy, hot loop of the good, the bad, and the ugly:
• The Good: Quiet cool mornings when a Lynx would gently pad into frame mid-stride. I’d catch that ghost-like elegance in the yellow light, the quiet puff of dust beneath its paws, eyes locked on something off-scene. Those frames, where all the elements converged—Lynx, environment, light—are, for me, the essence of pure wildlife photography. These moments don’t just create photos; they are narrative fragments of a moment impossible to stage.
• The Bad: That infernal heat. The hide, far from insulated (and without air-conditioning), became a furnace by midday. My skin glistened with a sheen of sweat; my gear felt hotter than freshly forged steel. I wondered, not for the first time, if my love for Arctic minimalism made me a masochist in deserts. I learned quickly to guard against overheating and to keep water nearby, yet the scent of dust and sun-baked earth permeated everything.
• The Ugly: The waiting (in combination with the heat) was often brutal. For every brief, but sublime encounter, there were hours of nothing. Empty frames. Moments when I thought I’d made a mistake, dragging a heat-stricken body into a setting so foreign. But then, a whispered movement, a ghost emerging from the heat haze and scrub at the edge of the long lens, and all doubts evaporated.

As the heat roiled and baked the landscape into silence. I was dozing in a stupor of dehydration and sweat when I saw a Lynx approaching the watering hole: I lifted the camera as a juvenile Lynx, golden-spotted, ghosted through the frame. Its stride kicked up a whisper of dust, matching the dry hues of the ground. In that split second, everything came alive, and I arrived at my destination.

The animal paused, ears perked, body taut, before pausing to drink. I reviewed the frame on the back of the camera, and felt the familiar – yet rare – click of alignment: subject, environment, dynamics, story. It was that single mid-stride shot that would later feature as my Photograph of the Month for September: the monochromatic palette, the poised motion, the swirl of dust embodying primal drama.   

What struck me most was how much this experience echoed my love for the polar environment, despite being so juxtaposed. In both cases, simplicity reigns. The Iberian landscape, in its parched austerity, offers the same clarity of tone I see in snow: minimal distractions, a palette narrowed, subtle tonal relationships bold yet understated. The Lynx, defined sharply against the sombre background, becomes a living shape, a typographic form in motion.

The muted yellows and browns required that I look for contrast not in colour but in texture and light. The yellow and oranges of the dust, the ridges of dried grasses, the Lynx’s fur catching the slanting sun—these become the tools to create something magical. The challenge was to stay patient and observant, to wait for that perfect convergence. Moments with the Lynx in front of the camera are fleeting and rare. A 5-hour hide session may result in just a few seconds with a Lynx as it passes by, or pauses at the watering hole to drink, or it may result in nothing more than lost sweat and patience in the oppressive heat.

This trip reaffirmed something I often say: that wildlife photography, at its core, is simplicity and emotion. It is about telling a story without clutter—just animal and environment, moment and mood. Here, the Iberian Lynx told its story in pauses, in dust kicking beneath silent paws in the harsh Spanish summer environment. It was not explosive behaviours—but rather subtle, refined, ghostly poetry. Of course, the opportunity for dramatic behaviour is always there, but this requires serendipity, and with just three full days in the hides, the odds were not stacked in our favour to witness or capture dramatic interactions. We came close, one afternoon, when seven Lynx approached the hide simultaneously from the scrub only to have one of them suddenly spook and within a flash all seven vanished into the haze and dust not to be seen again. These are the trials and tribulations of being a wildlife photographer. Sometimes the most potent and evocative shot is snatched from your grasp when you can almost taste it. Yet that’s wildlife photography. Joy and frustration, woven together. And when nature finally offers a glimpse—however fleeting—it feels earned and profound.

I’m grateful I pushed through the summer discomfort. This trip was not just about ticking a species off a list; it was about learning the language of a new landscape, discovering a different form of beauty, and testing myself outside my comfort zone. It was also about determining the best time to visit and how the experience could be improved for future visits and workshops. The primary reason I have consistently advocated for scouting trips like this is to identify potential problems or issues and resolve them before an organised trip.

Encountering and photographing the Iberian Lynx has left an imprint. It’s a reminder that wildlife photography is both about what you endure—and what you learn to see. In the dust we often call ugly, there lies possibility. In the patience we endure, there lies a reward.

To those who ask if I’d sit in a hide at 40 °C for these photos: yes—because when that Lynx steps into frame, all the heat, all the waiting, all the effort fades. What remains is the photograph, and afterwards, the memory it carries. We also have to remind ourselves that it is the journey that matters and that the destination only arrives when the hard work is accomplished.

Will I return to Spain? The answer is ‘Yes’ – but on very different terms. Or, better said, on terms I can dictate and where I can ensure the right experience for all. If you have listened to my recent podcast (number 130) on this experience, then you already know the issues I had with this particular trip. However, I have been discussing and working through these problems in detail with the owners, and we are planning to run a future trip where we (Wild Nature Photo Travel) will take over the entire hides for a period of five days in December. This time of year is renowned for having the most Lynx activity, as the young Lynx are being kicked out by their parents. Additionally, the Lynx are in their thicker winter coat and at their most photogenic. Perhaps best of all, temperatures are far more temperate. With a complete takeover of the hides on the cards for a completely private experience, we know we can offer the best possible experience. We will have more details soon (and you can reach out if you wish to pre-register). Until then, the experience and memory of Spain serves as a not-so-gentle reminder that sometimes we need to suffer for art – so that our art can suffer for us.