If you’ve been following my ongoing saga—let’s call it Days of Our Eagles—you know I’ve been trying to capture a decent in-flight shot of the bald eagles on the Narrow River. Not Pulitzer stuff. Just something where the bird doesn’t look like a blurry Thanksgiving turkey launched from a catapult.
I’ve been out there almost every day for three weeks.
Three. Weeks.
No luck.
I decided the brutal cold must have changed their routine. Of course, this assumes I ever understood their routine to begin with, which I absolutely did not. But it sounded scientific, and when you’re standing alone on a frozen riverbank talking to yourself, “scientific” is a comforting word.
Here’s what I do know: eagles prefer water that isn’t wearing a lid. They are magnificent fishing machines—talons like grappling hooks, eyesight like military satellites—but even they draw the line at diving into solid ice. Tough on the beak. Also bad for self-esteem.
So I kept looking.
Then, the breakthrough came in the least cinematic way possible—after a perfectly civilized lunch at the Coast Guard House. We were driving home, full of chowder and optimism, when I did what I always do crossing the Sprague Bridge: glanced at the old osprey nest.
Force of habit. The ospreys are long gone, sunning themselves in some Florida timeshare while we shiver up here like unpaid extras in a documentary about suffering.
But there—perched like it had been waiting for its close-up—was The Eagle.
My eagle.
Majestic. Unbothered. Surveying the Narrow River like it owned the place and was thinking about raising the rent.
I slowed the car so everyone could admire it. Then I did what any rational person would do:
I drove home, abandoned my family, grabbed enough camera gear to outfit a small nature channel, and raced back to the bridge like a man chasing a lottery ticket blowing down the street.
For three glorious hours I stood there, hoping for the holy trinity: in-flight, wings out, maybe a dramatic fishing plunge.
And then it happened.
Not only did I get the in-flight shot—I got something rare. The photos were taken from above the eagle. Thanks to the height of the bridge and the fact that the bird was recovering from a missed fishing attempt, I was looking down on royalty.
Most eagle images are shot from the ground, the bird towering over the lens like a feathered skyscraper. Not this time. This time I had the balcony seat.
Word spread quickly. Dozens of cars slowed. People pulled over. Because when a guy is pointing a lens the size of a bazooka at the sky, humans assume one of three things:
- Alien invasion
- Royal wedding
- Something worth seeing
Phones came out. Necks craned. Strangers became instant birdwatchers.
And just like that, an ordinary winter afternoon turned into a shared moment—proof that beauty can still stop traffic, even on a frozen Rhode Island bridge.
It was a special day for everyone.
But especially for me.
I’d love to share my posts with you. If you subscribe, they’ll come straight to your inbox—most days, like a little note from me to you. It means a lot to know you’re reading along.
Browse my complete art portfolio and shop for prints at imagesbygacioe.shop
Leave a Reply