You know how sometimes you go out with your camera, ready for a quiet day, and instead you become the unwilling extra in a National Geographic blooper reel? Yeah. That was me in Estes Park, Colorado.
The conference had ended, I had my cameras slung over me like Rambo, and I figured I’d stroll around. Yesterday I’d seen a bull elk the size of a small Buick casually stopping traffic on Main Street. So naturally, today I aimed for the golf course where the locals said elk like to hang out—because nothing screams “relaxing day” like 700 pounds of antlers strutting across the putting green.
At first, nothing. A couple of golfers on the tee, a fall breeze, me looking important behind my camera. Then I noticed crows—lots of crows—circling like they were waiting for someone to drop a hot dog.
And then it happened. A lady golfer fumbled something—probably a cracker—and suddenly the air exploded. Wings, caws, black feathers everywhere, like Hitchcock had called “action!” The flock zeroed in on one crow who’d snagged the prize. He was flying like a fighter jet with a rival locked on his tail, every roll and dive matched perfectly, Thunderbirds-style.
I’m watching this unfold, thinking: “Wow, what a spectacle.” Then the whole squadron of winged maniacs banked HARD. Right. At. Me.
Now, you’d think I’d panic. Nope. I froze. Because that’s what photographers do—we become really dumb wildlife statues holding expensive gear. Out of self-preservation, I dropped the camera from my eye just to see how close death was about to come. The answer? Close enough that I could smell crow breath.
And then—magic. They hit their mark like stunt doubles. Perfect angle. Perfect light.
Click.
The shot of a lifetime landed right in front of me, and all I had to do was stand there like a guy waiting for a bus.
So yeah, sometimes “all good things come to he who waits.” But in my case, all hysterical things come to the poor schmuck with a camera standing in exactly the wrong spot at exactly the right time.
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