There are moments in life when nature gently taps you on the shoulder.
And then there are moments when it grabs you by the collar, shakes you like a soda can, and screams directly into your soul.
This was not a shoulder tap.
This was a full-blown, surround-sound, Dolby Atmos, feathered assault.
We’re in San Antonio, New Mexico.
Pre-dawn.
Bosque del Apache.
Mission briefing:
Sit quietly.
Be patient.
Whisper about ISO like it’s a sacred ritual.
You know the drill.
Photographers in their natural habitat:
- “What are you at?”
- “1/1250.”
- “Nice.”
- (Everyone nods like we just solved cold fusion.)
Then…
It begins.
At first, it’s faint.
A low hum.
Like distant bees.
Very distant bees.
Bees with anger issues.
I tilt my head.
“Do you hear that?”
Don doesn’t even look at me.
Just… that smile.
Not a smile, really.
A you’re-about-to-find-out-the-hard-way smirk.
And now it’s louder.
Not louder like “oh, that’s interesting.”
Louder like—
“Should we be evacuating?”
The sound builds.
And builds.
And BUILDS.
Like a freight train…
…being chased by another freight train…
…that’s on fire…
…full of geese.
And then—
You see them.
Not birds.
No.
This is not a flock.
This is a weather system with wings.
An avalanche.
A blizzard.
A sky full of white, moving like it has a single mind and absolutely no plan.
Thousands.
Tens of thousands.
Maybe more.
At this point, math has left the building.
And here’s the thing no one tells you.
Snow Geese don’t just make noise.
They manufacture sound.
This isn’t honking.
This is a continuous, unbroken, unapologetic wall of chaos.
Imagine:
- A stadium full of vuvuzelas
- A kindergarten drum circle
- Your smoke detector at 2 AM
Now multiply that by 10,000…
…and give it wings.
They descend.
And this…
This is where the elegance ends.
Forget swans.
Forget egrets.
Forget anything that has ever been described as “graceful.”
These birds land like:
- Grocery bags falling out of a trunk
- Toddlers in snowsuits
- Me trying to ice skate
There is no order.
No spacing.
No “after you.”
It’s:
- Cut off
- Slide in
- Bump
- Flap
- Apologize (maybe?)
- Repeat
Splash.
Plop.
Skid.
Wing in the face.
Another bird lands on that bird.
No one files a complaint.
And somehow…
It works.
Every single time.
Then comes the takeoff.
And just when you think the chaos is over…
They lift.
All of them.
At once.
The ground exhales.
The sky fills again.
And now you’re not watching birds anymore.
You’re watching a living, breathing organism made of motion and instinct.
They twist.
Turn.
Shift direction like someone whispered a secret from a mile away.
No signals.
No collisions.
Just…
collective genius.
And you stand there.
Frozen.
Camera in hand.
Completely irrelevant.
Because in that moment…
You’re not the photographer.
You’re the witness.
And here’s the part that stays with you.
It’s not just what you saw.
It’s what you felt.
The sound.
The scale.
The absurdity of it all.
I’m sitting here now…
quiet office…
no wind…
no wings…
no chaos…
And I swear—
I can still hear them.
That Hunt’s Photo Adventure gave me a lot.
But this?
This was different.
This was nature saying:
“You think you’ve seen something?”
“Let me show you what something actually looks like.”
And tomorrow?
We meet the other bird.
(Which, I’m fairly certain…
has a personality disorder of its own.)
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