As I think back over my life, some of my favorite memories are things that I observed or experienced for the first time. At 72 years of age, one might think that new experiences would be rare. And I suppose they are, making them feel precious, if only for me. The wonders of the world are not mine to see in person. Nonetheless, my limited domain of exploration fulfills me. It is my little world. Like everyone else, my view of the world is based upon my experience in it.
The experience I will document today is not of any particular importance to other folks, beyond being a bit of entertainment; and, although I did attempt to document it photographically, I failed in that attempt at the crucial moment, frustrated by the limitations of my old Nikon D610 camera, and its too-shallow buffer.
I was at one of my favorite spots in one of my favorite parks when it occurred. It was a cool fall morning. The sun was up but still below the tree line, just beginning to peek out at the forest on the other side of the beaver ponds. There I stood, on the West Bay observation platform in Lake Conestee Nature Preserve. And what I saw pleased me. A beautiful white egret was at the edge of the pond that the observation platform jutted out over, a rare sight for me, especially this close, 40 or 50 feet away.
To make it even more interesting, in the adjacent beaver pond, approximately 100 feet away, was a heron. Both egret and heron were hard focused on stalking prey, looking for some breakfast in the cold water of the beaver ponds. Although they were both too far away for my camera and lens, for several minutes I watch them and occasionally took a photo of one or the other, switching back and forth, hoping not to miss some interesting thing one of them might do.
The sun rose high enough over the trees to light up the heron in the distance. I took advantage of that with my camera. The egret, on the other hand, was still in the shade. Then I noticed a little spot where the sun had broken through and was lighting up a portion of the pond that the egret was standing in. I stood there on the platform, wishing and hoping that the egret would step into the sunlight, so that I might capture those beautiful white feathers in the morning sun.
On that morning there were probably 15 or 20 Canada geese close by. Neither the egret nor the heron seemed to notice them, no matter how close they might be.
The egret used its massive, beautiful wings to lift itself up a few feet and move closer toward the sunlit area. I did not immediately notice that the heron had given up on the prey it was stalking and was now wading through the water toward the egret. Some of the geese seemed anxious, like maybe they were getting ready to fly away. Then an odd thing happened, since geese tend to fly away in mass: three of them silently lifted off, one of them letting out a few honks as they flew by the heron.
Moments earlier, all the geese that I could see were just floating around, occasionally nibbling at something in the water, barely moving at all. Now they were moving around, quietly honking to one another. I don’t know if they sensed what was about to happen; I certainly did not.
The egret finally did step into the sunlight, its pillowy white feathers glowing. Then, as though in celebration, it lifted up into the air a couple of feet, landed, and did a little dance, wings flapping. I snapped a few shots, cursing under my breath about how far away this beautiful bird was. I could not get the shot I wanted, the shot that would have been possible if I could have zoomed in a little closer to that beautiful bird. But in situations like these you take what you can get.
Suddenly, the geese became very agitated and seem to be trying to move away from the egret, which was making no threatening moves toward them at all. Then I saw what was happening. The egret and the heron had noticed one another. The wading heron spread its wings, lifted out of the water, and flew directly toward the egret, which rose up to greet him just a few feet above the pond.
I was totally unprepared. I clicked off several shots, but the action was too fast for me and all I captured was blurred objects. One shot was okay, although it did not tell the story at all. It did show some of the geese trying to get out of the way. From where I stood, it appeared as though their claws touched, or connected, as they swung around wildly. I pressed the shutter button, trying to get a shot of the action. Nothing happened. My camera buffer was full, my frustration pulling my attention away from the action.
The last part of this encounter did not get caught by my camera, nor by my eyes. I missed the intimate details of the air battle between the egret and the heron. The only thing I know for certain is that the egret quickly left the scene and flew out of sight. Then the heron landed in the pond, and as though nothing had happened, it began searching that dark pond water for food. A close look at the heron’s ruffled feathers suggested something quite exciting had occurred.
I stood there on that observation deck, heart racing, as though I had been involved.
My primary interest in photography evolves around landscapes. But scenes like these, seeing something I have not seen before, or getting close up to a wild animal in its environment and being able to photograph what I see … that is why I find myself conflicted between capturing the dance of sun and shadow across the landscape and capturing wild creatures in nature. It is a conflict sometimes frustrating, but the potential for an interesting photo is too great to limit myself to one or the other of my photography interests.
That is one great thing about having the freedom to make your own choices. When I am out there, out there in nature, with the sun coming up, with my camera hanging at my side, my right hand lightly grasping the camera grip, and my eyes searching for something interesting … a feeling comes over me that is hard to describe.
But I can tell you this: I like it.