I never thought it could happen to me, a middle aged white guy in the suburbs. Sure I smoked a little pot in college, but I didn’t inhale. But all it took was one heron shot, and I was hooked. A Leica with a 12X zoom it was, for my first shot.
I did heron pictures, every chance I got. When the Leica broke down, I hocked my grandparent’s silverware to buy a Canon, d--— it, I wasn’t going a weekend without a shot. /s/
In the early days, the heron(s) came by my backyard ponds quite often. The fat and slow goldfish were an easy meal.
I built my life around the moments when the heron would land in my backyard. I established several viewing/picture taking spots from within my house; windows open partway, blinds barely parted, and window screens removed.
If the heron could see me moving around in the house it would get angry and glare at me, often cussing with a “G-A-A-C-K!,” followed by dropping a generous white splash, and then the heron would flew away, rising rapidly with smooth powerful strokes of its gigantic wings.
So whenever the heron was in the back yard, I would dodge around the house, sometimes on my hands and knees, peering from corners of windows, looking for that good shot. I learned to watch a couple of spots where the heron liked to rest while planning its attack; here, the neighbor’s roof.
The dining room window is another prime observation point, however you have to keep the glass clean.
After a successful stab to nail a fish underwater, the wet heron may shake off the water on its feathers, while gulping down the prey.
Here’s a look over the heron’s shoulder as it peruses the lily pads for hiding fishies.
Here’s a freshly arrived heron, strolling over to my larger pond.
When I see this classic coil, I try and get the camera ready for an action picture.
No one can capture a heron’s soul, with a camera or otherwise. However, at one point, the heron passes within 6 feet as I’m peering out a barely opened window. I try to at least glance at it, but there’s no window open to the heron’s soul.
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