Or: Why Nature Never Reads My Shot List
Every nature photographer has The Shot.
The one that keeps us awake at night.
For me?
The osprey dive.
Not the “flying with a fish it caught before I got there” shot.
Not the “sitting majestically on a branch pretending to be patriotic” shot.
No.
I want the missile launch.
Talons tucked.
Wings folded.
One hundred feet of gravity-assisted commitment followed by a spectacular explosion of water.
That’s the one.
So there I was.
Waist-deep in the Narrow River.
My trusty 800mm pointed at an osprey perched over the water.
Perfect light.
Perfect angle.
Perfect confidence.
“This could be the day.”
Nature heard me.
And laughed.
For an hour and a half I watched that bird.
He’d tilt his head.
Bob it from side to side.
Classic osprey behavior.
He’s triangulating.
Calculating.
Doing whatever avian calculus is required to determine that lunch is approximately 14.7 inches beneath the surface.
My pulse would quicken.
“This is it.”
Nothing.
He’d just… stand there.
Meanwhile, my arm had completely lost circulation.
You photographers know the drill.
Lower the camera for a few seconds.
Shake out the arm.
Pretend you’re stretching.
Then snap right back into position.
Because the cardinal rule of wildlife photography is this:
The instant you look away… the bird leaves.
Not flies.
Leaves.
As in…
Witness Protection Program.
One second he’s there.
The next second you’re looking through the viewfinder wondering if you’ve somehow pointed your lens at a different tree.
So I never took my eye off him.
Not once.
Apparently, he respected my dedication just enough to wait until I was emotionally invested.
Then…
Whoosh.
Gone.
No dive.
No fish.
No dramatic splash.
Just one feathery professional ghosting me.
Some days you’re the windshield.
Some days you’re the bug.
And some days…
You’re just a guy standing waist-deep in the river explaining to passing kayakers that, yes, this is exactly how he intended to spend his morning.
I packed up and headed home.
Or so I thought.
I made one last stop at Middlebridge.
As I climbed into the car, I started the engine…
…and something landed right in front of me.
A Killdeer.
Now there’s a bird with personality.
It got its name from its loud, piercing kill-deer! call, and if you’ve ever heard one, you’ll know subtlety was never part of the species’ mission statement.
Unlike most shorebirds, Killdeer seem perfectly happy living among us.
Lawns.
Parking lots.
Athletic fields.
Golf courses.
Apparently they looked at pristine beaches and thought,
“Too much sand. We prefer Home Depot parking lots.”
Then it struck a pose.
Then another.
Then it spread its wings.
Then it practically walked over and said,
“Listen, buddy… you look like you could use a win.”
As I photographed this little comedian, I started reading more about them.
When it’s time to choose a nesting site, the male performs what’s called a scrape ceremony. He scratches out a shallow nest in the gravel. The female inspects his work. If she approves, she steps into the scrape. The male puffs himself up, raises his tail, calls excitedly…
…and romance begins.
I tried imagining the human version.
Picture this.
A young man walks up to a woman.
Drops to one knee.
Scratches a hole in her driveway.
Puffs out his chest.
Raises his backside.
Starts yelling.
“Honey… behold my landscaping skills!”
Somehow…
I don’t think Hallmark is making that into a movie.
But it works for Killdeer.
Which brings me to relationships.
Whether it’s marriage…
Friendship…
Photography…
Or simply getting through life…
We all have days when our carefully planned expectations fly away without so much as a courtesy dive.
You invest your time.
You wait patiently.
You think success has to arrive wearing the outfit you picked out for it.
Then it disappears over the treeline.
But here’s the wonderful thing about nature.
She rarely sends you home empty-handed.
She simply hands you a different story.
The osprey didn’t cooperate.
Mr. Killdeer did.
And somewhere along the way, I was reminded that the happiest relationships—and perhaps the happiest photographers—aren’t the ones who insist life follow the plan.
They’re the ones who notice the unexpected gift that quietly lands right in front of them.
Not bad.
Not bad at all.
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