The plan was simple: Sachuest National Wildlife Refuge, snowy owl, cinematic masterpiece, coffee by noon.
The universe, as usual, had other ideas.
I hiked just under four miles along the coast, gear slung over my shoulders like a traveling camera store. The ocean was cooperative, the eiders were handsome, the brants posed like they’d been briefed, and the great black-backed gulls looked as if they were contemplating a hostile takeover of Rhode Island. But the snowy owl? Nowhere. Not on the rocks, not on the dunes, not even on a courtesy branch where she might have been waiting for my dramatic entrance.
So, I called it. Four miles in six inches of snow is roughly equivalent to fourteen miles on a couch, and my knees were filing a formal complaint.
On a whim—because photographers survive on whims—I swung by Third Beach. Still no owl. But that’s when the morning changed its tone.
A young doe was walking the edge of Gardiner Pond, that big, glassy reservoir tucked into Middletown like a secret the Newport Water Department would rather you didn’t picnic in. She was beautiful in that alert, nervous way deer have when they know something you don’t. Her tail—her little white semaphore flag—was up more than down, and she kept looking back over her shoulder like she was expecting an overdue text from trouble.
I had a hunch.
Predators write their presence in the margins long before you see them.
Instead of heading home, I turned toward Hanging Rock Road. The tires hummed. The snow glittered like a field of broken mirrors. And then—movement on the ridge.
I snapped a shot, zoomed in, and felt that electric jolt every wildlife photographer knows.
Ears. Rump. Posture. Just above the ridge. Nature’s teaser.
Coyote.
And not a small one either. This was a Rhode Island coyote that had clearly not skipped leg day.
He just stood there watching me, calm as a toll booth operator. Snap. Another frame. He looked back down the road. That’s when I saw them—four more coyotes just beyond him, shifting in the snow like a committee meeting that had gone feral.
Something was definitely afoot. Or apaw.
One coyote—full-grown, nervous, clearly not on the holiday card list—was trying to join the group. The rest of the pack had opinions about that. Loud, toothy opinions. Suddenly, there was a blur of motion, fur flying, jaws snapping, the kind of wildlife documentary scene that normally requires David Attenborough whispering in the background.
The would-be joiner backed down and skulked off with his tail tucked so tight it looked like an accessory he’d misplaced.
What fascinated me was their eyes. The sun was high, the snow blinding, and the coyotes squinted just like we do—half-closed slits until they turned away from the glare. Even apex opportunists need sunglasses.
Then the plot thickened.
The transient—the rejected applicant—wandered down the embankment and came straight toward my car. Not timid. Not cautious. He stopped a few feet away and looked directly at me through the driver’s window. Which was down with a camera protruding like a canon on a galleon.
I looked right back.
There was no way I was going to be the first to break eye contact. That’s just the kind of iron-spined courage you’ll find me summon in the face of a wild carnivore.
Did I mention I was safely inside my SUV, surrounded by several tons of Korean engineering and a half-eaten granola bar?
Details.
For a long second it was just the two of us—man and coyote—engaged in a staring contest neither had formally agreed to. Then he blinked, decided I wasn’t worth the paperwork, and trotted off like he had somewhere important to be. Maybe another job interview with a different pack.
And just like that, the morning I thought was over turned into one of the most thrilling wildlife encounters I’ve had in years.
No snowy owl.
Five coyotes.
One brawl.
One personal audience with a golden-eyed outlaw.
You just never know what—or how many—things are waiting on any given day.
And I’m just loving it.
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