After 52 years as a couple—46 of those spent in marriage—Trish and I don’t just finish each other’s sentences; we sometimes don’t need words at all. We joke that we can read each other’s minds, but there are days it feels more like a shared soul than a shared home. That kind of connection doesn’t just come from time—it comes from the patience to appreciate what the other loves most.
Trish has always had the travel bug. Me? Meh. I used to see it as a detour from the familiar. But somewhere along the way—on a winding road in Costa Rica or maybe a back alley in Havana—I started to get it. Meanwhile, Trish developed a surprising affection for my photography. What began as tolerating long pauses on trails or early-morning departures turned into genuine excitement, especially when nature decided to reward our efforts.
And on one chilly morning in Narragansett, Rhode Island—our little piece of coastal heaven—that appreciation turned into something unforgettable.
We live near the John H. Chafee National Wildlife Refuge, a place stitched together with trails, salt marshes, and the kind of quiet that lets you hear waves about a half-mile away. That Saturday, I was upstairs when I heard Trish calling out—urgently but calmly, like someone who knows not to spook the moment.
“Honey, there’s a fox in the backwoods!”
Without hesitation, I sprinted downstairs, grabbed my camera, and set up on the deck. And there he was—trotting through the underbrush with the casual grace of a wild creature in its element. He wasn’t in a rush but moved with purpose, like he was surveying a familiar path or searching for a new den.
Then instinct—and experience—kicked in. I remembered an old hunting trick. I let out a short, sharp whistle.
He froze. Just for a second. And then he turned and looked right at me.
That moment—wild eyes meeting mine through a lens—was the kind of magic that keeps photographers hooked for life. He wasn’t alarmed, just curious. And rather than bolt, he slowed. I could feel it in my gut: this was going to be special.
The weather had shifted. The sun that had lit the morning was now ceding to a cold front. It was December 23, 2023—a date I won’t forget. As the fox meandered toward a rock, sniffing the ground, I kept the lens trained, silently hoping for something more.
Then it happened.
He leapt onto the rock and paused—squarely, majestically—and looked straight at me. Not a glance, but a gaze. It was as if he knew exactly where I was. Maybe he was still puzzling over the whistle, or maybe he was simply enjoying the warmth of a sun-drenched stone. But in that stillness, something passed between us.
That was the real money shot.
It wasn’t just about timing or luck. It was about being present, being patient, and never walking away from a moment until it’s truly over. Nature, like life, rewards those who stay curious just a little longer.
And none of it would have happened without Trish—the traveler turned wildlife spotter, the love of my life, and the reason I had the shot at all.
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