The Scots have a saying: “There’s no such thing as bad weather—only inappropriate clothing.”
Which is comforting wisdom when you’re schlepping a tripod and a long lens through Sachuest Point at dawn, into a 29-mph wind, at 24 degrees… with a wind chill that politely suggests 8. That kind of cold doesn’t ask permission. It simply reminds you that you are, in fact, alive. And if you dressed properly, grateful.
That was me the other morning—early, determined, and wrapped like an Arctic explorer with a Rhode Island zip code. The refuge was awake before the sun. I crossed paths with deer (including a few bucks), a northern harrier hunting breakfast with purpose, a committee meeting of geese, the ever-present herring gulls, and a handful of fellow overachievers who arrived after sunrise and still looked proud of themselves.
I’ll admit it: white-tailed deer don’t usually raise my pulse. They’re everywhere. Including my yard in Narragansett, where they treat landscaping as a suggestion. Still, when someone whispers, “There are deer over there,” I respond with appropriate enthusiasm. It’s a courtesy. A social contract.
But then—there she was.
A solitary yearling. Alone in a sea of tall grass gone fully to seed. And I stopped. She stopped chewing. We acknowledged one another’s presence. Two solitary beings, briefly aligned, eyes locked like contestants in a staring contest where dignity is always the first casualty.
I lost, of course. I lifted the camera.
What caught my eye first were her ears—lit by the low morning sun like twin signal fires. That’s how she gave herself away. This wasn’t a challenging Where’s Waldo? moment. More like Where’s Waldo, But He’s Wearing Reflective Gear.
And yet, she was perfectly framed—suspended in an amber ocean of grass. For a moment, Sachuest Point transformed. It wasn’t Rhode Island anymore. It was the Serengeti. Endless plains. Tall grasses. A lone figure rising just above the horizon. Granted, the predators here are mostly coyotes and photographers with caffeine deficits, but still—the feeling landed.
Scale is a funny thing. Sometimes it’s not about distance or geography. Sometimes it’s about light, timing, and one deer deciding to lift her head just long enough to be seen.
Worth losing the staring contest for.
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