Sometimes you find the wildlife. Sometimes the wildlife finds you. And sometimes, if you’re really lucky, it practically makes an appointment for a portrait.
I thought I had some pretty spectacular photographs of a Merlin.
I really did.
And then.
This morning happened.
Holy cow!
There is an old saying that luck favors the prepared.
I have another version.
Luck favors the prepared photographer who hasn’t scared the living daylights out of his subject.
And believe me, that’s harder than it sounds.
Especially when you’re lugging around enough photographic equipment to make a NASA engineer envious.
My morning began like so many others at Sachuest Point National Wildlife Refuge.
Dark.
Quiet.
And full of possibilities.
The eastern sky was just beginning to surrender its darkness to the approaching sunrise.
I was hiking along the trails, looking for whatever Mother Nature might have on her morning agenda.
And as usual, she hadn’t bothered to send me a copy.
I photographed some American Black Ducks in the distance.
Nice.
But hardly the stuff of a National Geographic cover.
Then I wandered along a ridge to investigate some deer activity.
Fresh rubs.
Fresh scrapes.
Excellent!
The bucks were advertising their availability.
Apparently, the whitetail dating season was in full swing.
I made a mental note to return.
Then I headed toward the water.
And that’s when it happened.
You know that feeling?
The one that makes the little hairs on the back of your neck stand up?
The inexplicable sensation that something is happening just beyond your awareness?
I stopped.
Turned around.
And blinked.
Twice.
Because sometimes my imagination is considerably more productive than my photography.
But this time?
BINGO!
There he was.
A Merlin.
No.
Wait.
Not a Merlin.
MR. MERLIN!
And he was sitting on a wooden trail post.
About forty feet away.
Forty feet!
For those of you unfamiliar with wildlife photography, that’s practically an invitation to dinner.
I had just walked past that very post on my way toward the water.
And somehow, this magnificent little raptor had appeared behind me.
No announcement.
No dramatic entrance.
No trumpet fanfare.
Just a beautifully feathered predator sitting there as though he’d been waiting for his photographer to show up.
I can only imagine what he was thinking.
“Well, there you are. I’ve been waiting. Do you have any idea how cold this post is?”
Now, here’s where preparation becomes important.
Because opportunities like this don’t come with a warning.
There is no little voice announcing:
“Attention, wildlife photographer. An extraordinarily cooperative bird of prey will be arriving in approximately thirty seconds. Please prepare your equipment.”
Nope.
You get what you get.
And you’d better be ready.
Fortunately, I was.
My camera was already out.
My long lens was mounted.
My settings were close to where they needed to be.
And most importantly, I didn’t have to fumble around changing lenses while muttering words unsuitable for a family publication.
I simply rotated 180 degrees.
Raised the camera.
Found him in the viewfinder.
Focused.
And began photographing.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Oh, my goodness!
Look at those eyes!
That beautiful slate-blue plumage!
The warm rusty barring across his chest!
And those magnificent yellow feet, equipped with talons that would make a professional fishhook manufacturer jealous.
He was breathtaking.
And he wasn’t the least bit interested in me.
Well, perhaps mildly interested.
He occasionally turned his head and looked directly at me.
With those extraordinary eyes.
Merlins have the sort of stare that makes you feel as though they’re evaluating your entire life’s accomplishments.
And finding them somewhat disappointing.
But most of the time, he was looking elsewhere.
Scanning.
Watching.
Waiting.
Because while I was thinking about photographs, he was thinking about breakfast.
And breakfast, in the Merlin’s world, often comes with feathers.
These small falcons are astonishing aerial hunters.
They specialize in pursuing small birds, sometimes overtaking them in fast, twisting flights that would make a fighter pilot reconsider his career.
They can accelerate with extraordinary speed, maneuver through the air with remarkable precision, and capture prey on the wing.
Unlike the Peregrine Falcon, famous for its spectacular high-altitude dives, the Merlin often relies on swift, direct pursuit.
Think of it as the difference between a guided missile and a fighter jet in a dogfight.
Either way, you wouldn’t want to be a sparrow.
And here’s something else I find fascinating.
Merlins are increasingly familiar winter visitors along the New England coast, where open fields, shorelines, and abundant small birds provide excellent hunting opportunities.
Sachuest Point is just the sort of place where one might encounter them.
But knowing where a bird might be and having one materialize forty feet away are two entirely different experiences.
That’s the magic of wildlife photography.
You can study the species.
Learn its habits.
Understand its habitat.
Spend countless hours searching.
Invest in extraordinary equipment.
Practice until operating your camera becomes second nature.
And still come home with nothing more exciting than photographs of a particularly cooperative rock.
Believe me.
I’ve done it.
But then comes a morning like this.
When everything aligns.
The light.
The location.
The equipment.
The opportunity.
And, perhaps most importantly, the willingness of a wild creature to tolerate your presence.
I kept photographing.
Changing compositions.
Moving from tight portraits that revealed the remarkable detail in his feathers to wider images that placed him in the beautiful, muted colors of a November morning.
The grasses were heavy with moisture.
The landscape was dressed in the subdued blues, greens, and browns of late autumn.
And there, perched above it all, was this extraordinary little falcon.
Perfectly at home.
Perfectly wild.
And perfectly indifferent to the fact that he was making my day.
I found myself smiling behind the camera.
Because this is what gets me out of bed before sunrise.
Not the promise of a spectacular photograph.
There are no promises in wildlife photography.
It’s the possibility.
The knowledge that somewhere out there, something extraordinary may be happening.
And that if I get up early enough, walk far enough, pay attention, and have a little luck on my side, I might be there to witness it.
There is something deeply humbling about these encounters.
We spend so much of our lives arranging things.
Scheduling.
Planning.
Controlling.
Trying to make the world conform to our expectations.
But nature doesn’t work that way.
She operates on her own schedule.
And when she decides to share something extraordinary, the invitation rarely arrives in advance.
You simply have to be there.
Ready.
Aware.
And grateful.
Because the difference between an ordinary morning and an unforgettable one can be as simple as turning around.
One hundred and eighty degrees.
Forty feet.
One magnificent Merlin.
And a photographer who nearly walked away from the best opportunity of his morning.
I thought I already had some wonderful photographs of these remarkable birds.
Now?
I think these are my best Merlin portraits yet.
So far.
Because tomorrow morning?
Well.
Who knows?
That’s the wonderful thing about nature.
She always has another surprise waiting.
And I intend to be ready.
Smiles.
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