Gallery & Stories – Frederik Miller

Framed by Giants

It was a very hot day on safari, and we stopped at a small waterhole. To our surprise, nine rhinos had gathered there — males, females, even calves. Normally, males would never tolerate one another, but the drought had softened the rules: as long as they showed submission to the territorial bull, peace prevailed. For a while, I just watched through my binoculars, fascinated by their quiet interactions. Then, for a brief moment, three rhinos aligned perfectly, forming a natural frame around a small oxpecker. I quickly grabbed my camera and captured the scene before they all moved on.

Surprising Catch

On the island of Runde, I spent days hiking along the cliffs, searching and photographing puffins, skuas, and eagles. One evening, an eagle appeared almost beside me, diving steeply toward the sea before vanishing behind the rocks. I barely had time to raise my camera, firing a few quick frames before it disappeared. On the tiny display, I was thrilled with the shot — the motion, the light, the background. Only later, on my laptop screen, did I notice what I hadn’t seen before: the eagle was carrying a puffin in its talons making the photo even more unforgettable.

Lion Block

Early one morning on safari, our guide told us about a rhino that had been killed two days earlier in a territorial fight. Hoping to find predators nearby, we drove toward the spot. But didn’t get far. A pride of lions had already claimed the area, two males lying heavily on the road, their bellies full and their eyes half-closed. We waited, rested beside them, then slowly reversed, taking another route around. From there, we could finally see the others feeding.

Waiting Game

I was lying in the grass on a hillside in Germany, hidden behind a small ridge, waiting for ibexes to appear. Time passed slowly, and with it came stillness: that kind of quiet where you start noticing every sound, every flicker of movement. In front of me, a tiny ant was carrying something through the tall grass, climbing over obstacles, determined and precise. I had plenty of time, so I watched her, fascinated, and took a few photos. Later, the ibexes finally emerged but the little ant had already reminded me what patience in nature truly means.

Killshot

It was midnight at Vikten Beach, and the sun was still painting the waves in gold. I had set up my tripod for HDR shots of the vibrant scene, the wind and sea gently brushing against me as I stood on a rock. Each wave rose and fell softly. Until one didn’t. A sudden surge knocked over my tripod, throwing the camera onto the stones and into a pool of seawater. I managed to pull it out, but the salt had already claimed it. This image was the last one it ever took — a beautiful but sad ending to a camera that had seen countless adventures.

Finally!

For weeks I visited the wetlands of Murnauer Moos, morning and evening, hoping to see a corncrake — a secretive bird that usually stays hidden deep in the grass. Many times I heard its distinctive call just a few meters away, but never caught a glimpse. It was frustrating, yet something kept me coming back. Then, one quiet morning, the impossible happened: a corncrake stood right in front of me on a narrow dirt path, calm and unbothered. I lay down, took a few quick photos, and watched as it slowly disappeared back into the tall grass, leaving behind a moment I had waited for all summer.