The One I Didn’t See

There are mornings when photography is about light.

There are mornings when it is about patience.

And then there are mornings that remind you, without the slightest warning, that you are not at the top of the food chain.

Before sunrise I headed for Circle B Bar Reserve, one of Florida’s premier wildlife preserves. I arrived while the world was still wrapped in darkness. No streetlights. Just the sounds of insects, frogs, and things moving somewhere beyond the reach of my headlights.

I sat in the car a little longer than I probably needed to. With wild boar, alligators, and the occasional bobcat calling this place home, wandering into the swamp in total darkness suddenly seemed like a terrible idea.

Soon my patience was wearing thin and I decided there was enough light to start making my way. The mosquitos were bad and the insects loud. Walking down the trail with barely enough light was a little freaky because of all the lubbers rushing away which was seen out of the corner of my eyes.

I made it to the end of the trail where it intersects with Lake Hancock and Alligator Alley just in time to catch the sun as it crested over the trees. I did not have my wide angle lens to do this photo justice, but my wildlife lens did okay.

I started walking down the trail. I noticed that alligators were abundant this morning. Over all I think I saw over 100 of them in my 3 mile hike.

Walking slowly and scanning both sides of the trail I spotted what one would call a lifer in the birding world. I spotted this Barred Owl hiding in the trees.

Finding a barred owl in the wild is one of those moments every wildlife photographer hopes for. For me it was a lifer—the first time I’d ever photographed one. At that point I honestly didn’t care if I took another picture all morning.

The sun was rising and the forest was coming alive. All kinds of birds were calling out as I was walking along. This is when I stumbled across my next subject.

This Osprey took a break to look at me, making sure I was not going to try to steal his breakfast. No thanks I thought, I do not enjoy sushi.

After a few photos of this subject, which happened to show the whole story from eating to checking on me and deciding I was not a threat I moved on.

One thing I have learned about walking out in the wilds like this is you need to be aware of your surroundings at all times. For this reason I never wear headphones when I do these photo hikes. As I’m moving along, this walked across my path.

A baby gator, also known as a swamp puppy. He looked at me and decided I was not a threat and walked off into the marsh on the other side of the trail. I started counting, 1 mississippi, 2 mississippi, wait, how many mississippis does one count to wait until it is safe? I gave it a good 30 to 45 seconds before moving. I wasn’t sure if mama gator would be following. Luckily I did not run into her.

I’m moving right along and the light was amazing. I spotted two more osprey at the top of a cypress tree and I was walking to get near enough to compose an image.

I had my eye pressed against the viewfinder, completely focused on composing the shot.

For just a moment, I forgot about everything behind me.

Then it happened.

A deep, guttural bellow erupted somewhere behind me.

Not through my headphones. Not from a distant recording. From the marsh.

I didn’t just hear it—I felt it. The sound rolled through my chest and seemed to vibrate in the ground beneath my feet. In an instant, every sense sharpened. Every rustle in the grass suddenly mattered. Every splash in the water demanded my attention.

Slowly, I lowered the camera and turned. Nothing could be seen through the thick brush, yet the deep warning was still vibrating through the air. It was time to go. In all the time I spend out in the wilds, I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve ever felt true fear.

By the end of the morning I had seen well over one hundred alligators.

Ironically, it wasn’t any of those that stayed with me.

It was the one I hadn’t seen.

That is the lesson nature has a way of teaching. The wild isn’t a zoo. It isn’t staged. It asks for your attention, your respect, and occasionally reminds you that you are only a guest.

Thankfully, the morning ended with far more than a racing heartbeat. A barred owl watched from the trees, a tiny alligator crossed the trail in front of me, and several ospreys hunted successfully in the early light. The photographs will remind me of a beautiful Florida morning.

But the memory I’ll never forget is the moment the marsh itself seemed to speak.

Sometimes the best part of being a wildlife photographer isn’t the photograph you bring home.

It’s the story that comes home with it.