08 Feb Bird Gambling: The Highs and Lows of Wildlife Photography
“I’ve figured it out,” announced my AirBNB hostess just outside Ocala National Forest.
“Figured what out?” I asked.
“This wildlife photography thing you do,” she said.
She and her partner had become embroiled in my quest to photograph bears for my upcoming Wild Florida coffee table book. They’d driven me along sandy trails to hidden lake-side coves where they’d seen bears in the past. Her partner had guided me deep into the woods to a bend notorious with hunters for being a bear hot spot. He’d left me there with a camo chair, “no-scent” bear spray, and instructions to call him if anything went wrong. The only thing wrong was that the bears never showed. Daily I’d reported failure on the bear front since arriving several days before.
She nodded her head knowingly, “It’s like gambling.”
“Gambling?” I asked, slightly confused.
“Yeah, you’re losing at the moment but what a win it’ll be when you finally get that bear photo. I imagine you’ll be on top of the world.”
She was right. I was on a high for days after finally snapping my first images of a Florida bear nearly two years after having begun the quest.
I recently found myself reconsidering her gambling analogy after yet another emotional roller coaster induced by my attempts to photograph the last few species I need for my Birds of Florida photographic field guide – the remaining, of course, are birds that are rare, secretive, or both. The low had come on a particularly trying day two weeks before. I’d hiked several miles without so much as a glimpse of the target species eBird claimed were there. And later that day, I found myself in an abandoned field with an empty gas tank and no access to the national wildlife refuge I’d intended to visit, thanks to faulty GPS instructions. I finally arrived at the refuge gate as it was being locked closed. My reward? Zero photos and an additional five-hour drive home in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
I wasn’t feeling particularly confident as I headed north a week later to photograph wary wintering ducks during hunting season. My spirits lifted as a pair of Northern Pintails foraged alongside the wildlife drive at the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge. A Horned Grebe emerged from early morning mist, then a pair of Hooded Mergansers dabbled through the nearby marsh. Moving to the Lake Apopka Wildlife Drive, I began to think my luck was changing as I encountered a trio of Fulvous Whistling Ducks separated from the far away flock napping within easy range of my camera. And then a true sign that my fortune might be changing – multiple records of elusive American Woodcock at the Wekiwa Springs State Park mere minutes from my hotel.
Optimistically, I pulled into the allegedly woodcock-blessed parking lot. But where to begin? These were birds famous for camouflaging within impenetrable thickets during the day, emerging only at night for elaborate song and dance displays that I thought were limited to springtime breeding. Why would they hang out in this parking lot? Was there any chance of finding one during the day? If so, where to start? There were thousands of acres of habitat and many miles of trail connected to this parking lot. It was worse than searching for a needle in the haystack – this needle moved, and would no doubt actively evade me. I began to hike anyway.
The forest was lovely, Sand Lake and Mill Creek were serene. Ruby-crowned Kinglets pirouetted above, and a bobcat snuck across the trail ahead, but no woodcock. I returned to the parking lot and waited. The golden hour faded into dingy dusk. The Blue-gray Gnatcatchers ceased twirling through the trees. The last of the evening walkers departed. There were no woodcocks. Dejected, I got into my jeep and began to drive. Then I spotted a group of women with binoculars heading not toward their cars but down a trail.
“Are you looking for the woodcocks?” I asked.
It turns out they were from Orange County Audubon Society and they were indeed there to watch for woodcock. Hope reignited as I parked and followed. They’d been observing these birds for months. They knew their calls, their routine, and exactly where to watch for shadows across the sky as the birds moved from the forest to nearby fields after dark. Unfortunately, the birds took an alternate route that night so we saw no shadows but I heard their call and was pleased to have my first encounter with the species. Plus, I’d made new friends who invited me to join them the following morning on their monthly bird survey of the park. My spirits were once again high.
The bird count the following morning didn’t yield any species on my target list, but it was an inspiring walk through pristine pine and scrub with kindred spirits. Plus I photographed a Sherman’s fox squirrel and learned about other birding locations in the area. Sparrows and Vermillion Flycatchers were on my mind as I sat in the parking lot afterwards plotting my next move. I pored over eBird lists and while there were several sightings of Vermillion Flycatchers in the area, they all seemed to be adult males and what I needed were photos of females and juveniles. The eBird list for Clay Island offered little hope, but it was a spot my new friends had recommended for sparrows and even the occasional vermillion. What did I have to lose?
Dozens of Palm Warblers and Savannah Sparrows later, my afternoon hike was yielding little in the way of target species. My shoulders ached as I trudged up the steps of an observation tower. I was about to place my pack on the bench for a break when I noticed a flycatcher-like speck on the electric wire on the opposite canal bank. Even through my 800mm lens, it was little more than a dark spot. Obligingly, the bird moved closer. It was still too far away for a decent picture, but there was a definite hint of female Vermillion Flycatcher. I needed to get closer and in the better lighting on the other side of the water. I headed down the steps and, to my amazement, was greeted at the bottom by a female vermillion. Could this possibly be the one from the wire? I glanced at the now empty wire, then back at the beauty perched before me. A slot machine ka-chinged in my head. I took several images, moved closer for more, then more at new angles. The bird continued to pose until I lowered my camera. It went to a bush on the other side of the water where I suspected I could get as good a pose in even better lighting. I hedged my bet and headed in that direction.
The bird was back on the line when I arrived, too far to photograph. I began to move in that direction and the bird moved closer, then closer again. Exactly how lucky was I? I planted myself in front of the bush I wanted her to perch in and voila – there she posed. And a few meters later, after I’d taken every picture of her I could possibly want, there appeared a young male Vermillion Flycatcher in all its orange and red teenage awkwardness. I’d hit a bird gambling jackpot.
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