Sometimes I amaze myself.
Not in a good way.
More in a “What just happened?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You have been standing here with a 500mm lens for HOW LONG, and THAT is when you put the camera down?”
kind of way.
It had been raining for a period of time normally reserved for biblical references.
I was beginning to wonder whether I should be photographing birds or building an ark.
Then came a pause.
And by pause, I mean it was only sprinkling.
In Rhode Island, apparently that now qualifies as partly cloudy.
So I headed for the Narrow River.
I pulled into the parking lot at Middlebridge Marina and immediately spotted an Osprey hovering over the water.
GAME ON.
I got out of the car so quickly that anyone watching might reasonably have assumed the Nikon was insured but the vehicle wasn’t.
Seconds later I was kneeling at the shoreline, camera up, lens pointed, adrenaline flowing.
Nothing.
The Osprey apparently had reviewed my photographic ambitions and decided not to participate.
It headed back toward the Sprague Bridge.
So did I.
Because wildlife photography is essentially stalking animals while pretending you are a patient and emotionally balanced human being.
When I arrived, one of the juvenile Ospreys was still occupying the nest.
I settled in.
A Yellowlegs was working the shoreline, so I took a few photographs.
Very nice.
Very peaceful.
Very civilized.
I looked back at the Osprey.
The Osprey looked back at me.
I get that a lot.
There is a particular expression wildlife gives photographers that seems to say:
“You paid HOW MUCH for that lens?”
Then a birder came paddling along in a kayak.
Well, that’s interesting.
I took a couple of photographs.
And this is where my carefully developed decades of photographic experience, anticipation, preparation and lightning-fast reflexes all came together.
I lowered the camera.
The Osprey dove.
RIGHT FROM THE NEST.
Wait.
WHAT?
There was no hovering.
No circling.
No dramatic aerial reconnaissance.
No customary warning to the photographer.
The kid apparently looked down from the nest and thought:
FISH.
And left.
Straight toward the river.
I turned.
SPLASH!
I had captured precisely none of it.
Not the launch.
Not the descent.
Not the talons coming forward.
Not the impact.
Nothing.
I got the after-splash.
Yes.
I made that term up.
Wildlife photographers need specialized vocabulary to describe photographs taken immediately after the photograph we actually wanted.
But then something wonderful happened.
The juvenile surfaced.
And I was ready.
Well…
NOW I was ready.
There he was in the water, wings spread, looking considerably more composed about the situation than I was.
He began the enormously difficult process of lifting himself, his soaked feathers, and his prize from the river.
Ospreys are extraordinary fishing machines. Their feet are built for this—their toes and sharply curved talons are wonderfully adapted for gripping slippery prey. But catching the fish is only half the job.
Now you have to get airborne while carrying lunch.
The youngster beat those enormous wings against the air.
Water exploded around him.
Up.
Down.
Pull.
Flap.
Spray.
Flap harder.
For a few moments it looked less like aviation and more like someone trying to take off while wearing a wet bathrobe and carrying a bowling ball.
And then—
AIRBORNE.
There was the fish.
There were the talons.
There was the magnificent wingspan.
And there was one photographer hammering the shutter button as though Nikon awarded bonus points for enthusiasm.
CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK.
The juvenile climbed away from the river carrying his prize.
Victory.
His.
And, eventually, mine.
Because he flew to a nearby tree.
There, safely perched among the leaves, he began eating the fish he’d just caught.
I watched him tear into his meal.
A juvenile.
Fishing successfully.
From a dive initiated directly from the nest.
And suddenly the humor of my photographic incompetence gave way to something much better.
I had learned something.
Again.
After all the hours I’ve spent watching Ospreys, I had never personally witnessed one hunt quite like this.
That’s one of nature’s greatest gifts.
Just when you think you’ve learned the rhythm…
nature changes the music.
There is always another behavior.
Another adaptation.
Another surprise.
Another moment when an animal does something you didn’t expect and reminds you that we’re the students out there.
Always.
The Osprey caught a fish.
I caught the aftermath.
And somehow, we both went home with something.
Although I suspect he was considerably more satisfied with his catch.
When will I ever stop learning?
Hopefully…
never.
And next time, kid?
A little warning before you jump out of the nest would be appreciated.
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