Sometimes there’s a plan. You wake up before dawn, lace up your boots, pack your gear, and head out with a very specific idea in mind: a green heron. At precisely 6:42 a.m. With wind out of the northwest, sun at 30 degrees above the horizon, and the light filtering through just enough fog to make it look cinematic—but not like your lens is crying.
And sometimes… you’ve got absolutely nothing but hope, a granola bar, and the belief that “I’ll know it when I see it.” That’s when the real magic—or mischief—happens.
So on this particular morning, I’m just out for a walk. Casual. A little too casual, to be honest. I’m moving like molasses in January. Like molasses that really doesn’t want to be anywhere. I’m scanning the trees, doing my best impression of a National Geographic cameraman—but with the grace of someone who left their coffee on the roof of the car.
It’s quiet. Suspiciously quiet. No birds. No breeze. No bubbling fish farts in the pond to keep things lively. Just me and a whole lot of potential disappointment.
Then… I spot them.
Lined up like synchronized swimmers on break: turtles. About five of them, sunning on a half-submerged tree like they rented it for the morning. I stop in my tracks. Because here’s the thing about turtles: they’re wired like cheap Christmas lights. Startle one, and poof, the whole set dives into the drink like a Vegas act gone wrong. One wrong move, and I’m snapping pictures of ripples and regret.
So, I go full ninja. Camera up slowly. Check for lens reflection on the water—none. Breathe. Adjust settings. First shot—meh. Too much background clutter. I dial in the depth of field and… bingo. Clean. Crisp. Calm. Like I planned it. (Which I did not.)
And just like that, my bird hunt turned into a turtle triumph. No heron in sight. No feathers at all, unless you count the one stuck to my boot.
But this is what I love. You don’t always get what you’re looking for, but you always get something—and if you’re lucky, something even better.
How lucky am I?
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