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.

A few days ago, I received exactly this question via email: ‘What, in your opinion, Josh, is the best workshop for Mammals that doesn’t necessitate a boat? I get tragically sea sick when I even look at the ocean and can’t even entertain the idea of getting on any boat. I know it’s a stupid fear, but I can’t join anything that needs a boat or ship.’ Before we get to my answer, I did seek the author’s permission to write about this, which they kindly agreed to:

With apologies to the author for my brief chuckle at their thalassophobia, I did not have to stop and think about this for very long. My immediate answer is the Arctic Fox workshop we offer in Iceland in Winter. However, this requires a boat ride (albeit a very short one) and thus takes this workshop out of contention. I realised on a second reading that the question also contained the plural of the word ‘mammal’, and that changes the game further. For others, my answer remains the same, though. If you are happy to target one species specifically and put all your effort and focus (pardon the pun) on that critter, then the Arctic Fox workshop in Hornstrandir Nature Reserve is unmatched for encounters that will leave you breathless and your memory cards full.

However, if you can’t even look at the ocean without getting nauseous and want the opportunity to photograph multiple large carnivore mammals in a stunning Autumn setting, then the Wolves and Bears of Finland are equally unmatched. This is a workshop that will see you depart with memory cards full of keeper images of Wolves and Bears, an ear-to-ear grin and a vastly more profound understanding of wildlife photography. I still hold to this day that Finland (along with Mongolia) is one of the most underrated destinations on earth for wildlife. From the private hides we use, it is common to see and photograph Wild Wolves, Brown Bears and Wolverine – all close up and not at a significant distance. While many hold Yellowstone in the USA as the mecca for Wolves, I can assure you from much first-hand experience that it isn’t a patch on Finland’s offering of these incredible canines.

Northern Finland is the only location I have ever photographed Wolves from, where I came away from a single week-long trip with enough photographs for an entire book – Never Cry Wolf (and yes, I have been to Yellowstone and photographed Wolves there). This is not an isolated incident. Every autumn visit has yielded both incredible opportunities and powerful photographs. In addition to the mammals in Finland, we often photograph both White-tailed and Golden Eagles – all from the exact location. There is also a plethora of smaller forest birds, including such species as the Crested Tit and the Great Spotted Woodpecker. I have even photographed the European Pygmy owl in this region. You can check out the full portfolio for Finland HERE. And, It isn’t just the photography that makes this Finland workshop so special. It is a combination of the ease of access (there is minimal walking required as we drive to the hides – the walk is less than 100m), the homely and cozy log cabin we use as a base and the incredible surroundings of the Boreal forest. Not to mention the breathtaking landscapes around the many lakes in this location. This is a workshop that invites and offers the photographer the opportunity to deep dive into their mammal photography in a location unmatched anywhere on earth, in my experience. Capturing a stunning portfolio is only the beginning. Expect to come away with not only powerful and evocative images, but a deeper appreciation of Nature and a better understanding of what it takes to create emotive images.

It is for these many reasons that I have engaged my friend Chris from White Space Films for the second time in the same year to join us this September to make a short film about what it is like to photograph wild Wolves (along with the Brown Bears) in this part of Finland. We start shooting next month and hope to wrap our field shooting toward the end of September with a release of the film before Christmas. Our September workshop this year is long sold out – but we have now opened bookings for our August 2026 Workshop. Details are online HERE. Please get in touch with us if you would like the opportunity to photograph these apex predators in a stunning Autumn setting.

I can hear the question now – What about Winter in Finland? Yes, Winter is possible, and the snow-covered ground and frozen Taiga forest, in combination with the low angle of the sun, can serve as the perfect winter setting and backdrop. This combination alone has fueled my creative imagination and lured me back for repeat Winter visits. However, this time of the year, the bears are hibernating and the wolves are notoriously difficult to see and photograph during the short daylight hours – preferring to visit the hides at night under the cloak of darkness. Over the years, I have tried on several occasions to photograph Wolves in the depths of winter (December / January) in Finland with little to no success. I have seen their tracks and heard their howls on the wind, but that magical image of a wolf softly padding through deep, fresh snow against a frozen forest wall under golden winter light has eluded me to date. Whilst the allure of a soft white canvas, illuminated by winter’s glow, continues to draw me back, it is essential to temper expectations that a winter trip for Wolves can be an exercise in frustration. It is not uncommon to enter the hides at first light, surrounded by recent wolf tracks in deep, fresh snow, only to watch the short golden hours tick past before darkness again envelopes the Boreal forest – without so much as a Raven for company to pass the time.

Autumn, on the other hand, offers not only an explosion of fiery forest colour, but the chance to photograph these predators in the first snows of winter. On several Autumn trips, we have been blessed with snow, and all of the images in the Finland Winter Portfolio HERE of Wolves were made at this time. Autumn is brief this far north in Finland, and the seasonal line is frequently blurred between Autumn and Winter, providing opportunities to photograph in snow when the weather turns toward Winter.

If you are a frequent traveller to this Scandinavian part of the world and looking to expand your portfolio, then you may wish to roll the dice and try in Winter. We will be offering a future Winter trip to Finland to try for Wolves again, but recommend this only to those frequent travellers willing to invest the time and effort, and who understand that failure is a distinct possibility. If it is your first visit (or even second or third) to Finland for Wolves and Bears, then I strongly recommend Autumn as the perfect time to visit for all those reasons listed above. Of course, nothing is guaranteed in Wildlife photography, but you do significantly stack the deck in your favour for both sightings and photographs at this time of the year.

Regardless of when you choose to travel to Finland, the experience of photographing Wolves in the Boreal Taiga forest remains one of the most underrated and rewarding experiences a wildlife photographer can have. There is something very primal about Wolves, and the eerie, haunting echoes of their howls stay with you long after you leave their forest home. This is a workshop I wholeheartedly recommend to anyone wanting to photograph mammals (and specifically carnivores) who doesn’t want to get on a boat. And even those who will happily embark on an ocean-going vessel for their next photograph will find this an experience not to be missed.

Puffins, Solitude, and the Soul of the Arctic – There are few places left in the world where you can photograph wildlife in complete solitude—where the only sound is the rush of wind across dramatic basalt cliffs, the echoing cackle of seabirds, and the soft high-speed click of your mirrorless cameras electronic shutter. Grimsey Island, perched on the Arctic Circle just off the north coast of Iceland, is one of those places. It is wild, raw, and unforgiving—but in its ruggedness lies extraordinary beauty and a rare opportunity for intimate encounters with wildlife. Grimsey is the hidden gem of Iceland, packing a photographic punch well above its size and weight.

This May and June, I had the great privilege of leading two back-to-back photography expeditions to Grimsey Island focused primarily on the charismatic Atlantic Puffin, but with ample opportunities to photograph a host of other seabirds and Arctic landscapes. The trips—May 27th to June 2nd and June 3rd to June 8th—delivered not only exceptional bird photography but also some of the most dramatic weather and moody light I’ve encountered in recent years.

Grimsey isn’t easy to reach, and that’s a good thing. Its remoteness keeps it pristine and blissfully free from crowds. To get there, we journeyed north to the Icelandic town of Dalvík, where we boarded the ferry for the three-hour crossing. The first group arrived smoothly, with calm seas and mild winds—a gentle welcome to the north. But the second trip was greeted by nature’s fury: high winds exceeding 30 metres per second and ocean swells over five meters delayed our departure by a full day. While the delay wasn’t ideal, it provided an impromptu opportunity to explore some Lightroom processing and discuss the optimal camera settings for the upcoming photography.  The one-day delay also served as a reminder that in the Arctic, nature always has the final say.

Once we landed on Grimsey, however, everything fell into place. Our home for the week was a humble guesthouse near the island’s southern cliffs—a perfect base from which to venture out for both early morning and late evening sessions. Grimsey is a relatively small island with only a few basic roads. Nevertheless, a car (4WD) is of significant benefit for moving around quickly and accessing the more remote and higher sea cliffs. At both of these workshops, we took a 4WD with us on the car ferry so we could maximise our photography on the island. Other groups don’t necessarily offer car transport on the island, but this can be a significant error of judgment in inclement weather. Over the course of our trip, we watched several groups uncomfortably trudging uphill through the rain with their camera gear, headed for the high cliffs. Meanwhile, we travelled comfortably to the top by 4WD with all our gear, arriving dry and ready to photograph.

The stars of the show were, of course, the Atlantic Puffins. These endearing seabirds return to Grimsey in the thousands each spring to nest high on the cliffs that ring the island’s perimeter. Unlike other sites in Iceland where the birds are often skittish or the cliffs too distant for intimate photography, Grimsey offers something truly special: proximity. Not only does it provide an incredible opportunity to get close to these fantastic birds, but it also offers the chance to photograph these birds in a stunning Arctic setting.

Each day, we were able to approach puffins within mere meters, lying flat on the soft grass as they hung out on the high cliffs or returned to their burrows. With patience and respect for their space, they allowed us into their world. We photographed them in dramatic light, and during moody, misty afternoons that added emotional depth to the frames.

What makes Grimsey exceptional is not just the access, but the solitude. Unlike well-trodden sites on the mainland, we had entire stretches of cliff to ourselves. No tourists and no other visitors. No other groups. Just us, the birds, and the Arctic wind. It’s a kind of photographic meditation—one that allows you to connect deeply with the landscape and your subject.

While puffins were the headline act, they were far from the only performers. Grimsey is a seabird sanctuary, alive with an astonishing diversity of species. Razorbills nested alongside puffins, their bold monochrome plumage striking against the green moss and black cliffs. Black-legged Kittiwakes shrieked and soared on coastal updrafts, offering opportunities for stunning in-flight images as they banked and hovered in the wind. Mixed amongst them were northern Fulmars and common murres.

We watched and photographed Common Murres and Guillemots packed shoulder-to-shoulder on the narrow cliff ledges, each pair tending to a single egg balanced precariously on bare rock. Northern Fulmars glided effortlessly past our lenses on fixed wings, while Arctic Terns dive-bombed intruders with typical ferocity.

We were fortunate to encounter several rarer species as well, including Black Guillemots, the delicate Red-necked Phalarope in its breeding plumage, and even the elusive Little Auk. Each day brought new sightings—Snipe performing aerial displays, Golden Plovers calling from lichen-covered rocks and buttercup-covered fields, Snow Buntings flitting along the coastal paths.

Throughout the two trips, we documented and photographed an impressive list of 30 species. I did not personally photograph every single species, but very much enjoyed keeping a list of those species we encountered.

• Atlantic Puffin
• Razorbill
• Black-legged Kittiwake
• Common Murre
• Brünnich’s Guillemot
• Black Guillemot
• Northern Fulmar
• Arctic Tern
• Red-necked Phalarope
• Snipe
• Golden Plover
• Snow Bunting
• Redwing Thrush
• Raven
• Common Eider
• Long-tailed Duck
• Black-headed Gull
• Gannet
• Black-tailed Godwit
• Common Ringed Plover
• Ruddy Turnstone
• Eurasian Oystercatcher
• Sanderling
• Common Redshank
• Arctic Skua
• Dunlin
• Mallard
• White Wagtail
• Meadow Pipit
• Canada Goose

Each species presented its own photographic challenges and rewards, from fast flight patterns to elusive behaviour. But the overarching theme was access—Grimsey offers unparalleled proximity to birds in their natural environment, free from the pressure and disruption of human traffic.

The Arctic teaches patience and rewards those who are flexible. Throughout our time on Grimsey, we encountered an extraordinary range of weather conditions: wind, sun, sea fog, and sudden downpours. But far from being an obstacle, the changing weather only enhanced our photography. I have long mandated that dramatic weather makes dramatic photographs, and Grimsey delivered in spades for both our workshops.

One particularly memorable morning, fog and mist rolled in off the ocean, blanketing the cliffs in a pale, blue-grey hue. Visibility dropped, but the mood became magical. Puffins stood like statues in the mist, their colourful beaks luminous against the muted backdrop. That afternoon, the fog burned off to reveal crisp skies and overcast light, and we returned to the same spot to photograph puffins against the ocean.

Another evening brought towering clouds that swept across the island like theatre curtains, letting shafts of light fall onto the sea. With long lenses and careful compositions, we captured seabirds soaring through these natural spotlights—a breathtaking juxtaposition of nature’s grandeur and raw simplicity.

Grimsey isn’t just about birds. The island itself is staggeringly beautiful. A windswept plateau broken by basalt cliffs and rolling meadows, it feels like a place lost in time. We explored beyond the nesting colonies to photograph the broader landscape: coastal rock formations, dramatic sky-scapes, and wild, empty vistas that echo the purity of the far north.

At times, the play between scale and subject became a powerful compositional element. A lone puffin perched on the edge of a massive sea stack. A pair of Black-legged kittiwakes on their nest. A group of murres slicing through shafts of light over a cobalt sea. Grimsey gives photographers room to breathe—to pull back and frame the subject in its environment with honesty and reverence.

Perhaps what made both trips so special was not just the wildlife or the location, but the people. Our small, tight-knit groups quickly bonded over shared meals, gear chats, photo reviews, and the inevitable jokes that come after long days in the field. We worked as a team—scouting, spotting, sharing tips and excitement. When one of us found a nesting site or a particularly photogenic perch, the news spread quickly and everyone benefited. There was no competition, just a shared passion and respect for nature and photography. Evenings were spent reviewing images, charging batteries, and discussing light, behaviour, and composition. More than a few nights ended well after midnight, reluctant to put our cameras down even as fatigue set in.

Personally, I shot over 22,000 images during the two workshops on Grimsey Island (not hard when your R1 camera goes at 40 FPS with birds in flight!). After an initial first pass, I was able to delete around 13,000 images, leaving approximately 9,000 keepers (sharp photographs with interesting compositions that are worth a second look). That is an extraordinary number of photographs to sort, edit, process, and catalogue, and the photographs in this report represent just a very small fraction of those I chose to keep and have processed to date. It will likely be many years before I finish mining photographs from these two workshops. This makes Grimsey Island one of the most productive locations in the Arctic to photograph Arctic birds.

Grimsey Island is not a destination to add to your bucket list. It’s something more profound: a place to slow down, to reconnect with the rhythm of nature, and to immerse yourself in the art of observation. It’s a place where puffins aren’t props for selfies but sentinels of a wild world that still exists if you’re willing to seek it. Both of these trips reminded me why I fell in love with wildlife photography in the first place. It’s not about the number of images or the reach of your lens—it’s about presence. About being there. About watching a puffin return to its burrow against the wind, or witnessing the sudden flash of an Arctic Skua as it harasses a tern mid-flight.

If you’re looking for an experience that combines intimate wildlife encounters, cinematic landscapes, and genuine solitude, Grimsey offers something truly rare. I’ll be back—and I hope to see you there, lying flat on a clifftop, your lens trained on a puffin with the wind in your face and the Arctic sun at your back. Details for our June 2026 trip are now online, and places are limited. Please contact me for details – Until next time, stay wild.