failing is just a sign of a breakthrough.

March was a month of fail after fail.  And we're talking serious fails: at one point during the month, I wore black shoes and a brown belt.  If that isn't a total deal-breaker, I don't know what is.

As the stresses of my fails enveloped me into a deep, dark hole, I had no place to go but up.  And as I always say, "When life punches you in the kidney area (lower back-ish), grab your camera and start looking for birds that eat meat."

Let me tell you something friend, I became more determined than ever to get a photo that ranked up there in the high C+ range.  No more hanging out with the C- bottom feeders.

My pursuit of a strong-but-average photo led me to a familiar place: a power pole.  As most of you know, I spend a lot of time around power poles, which, if not for my amazing hobby, would be rather awkward.  

Let's not mince words, people: We have a serious breakthrough on our hands.  (Well, really on my hands.  You've done nothing.  No offense.)  I was practically feeding this hawk mouse bon-bons out of my hand getting this photo, and that means one thing: the hawks are getting used to me.  And that means one thing: more decent bird photos for you to see.  And that means one thing: solid gold profits for me.

First, the hawk looks left, and then (cha-ching), he poses for my camera.

 

The eyes, the feathers, the talons...man, it feels good to be a gangster.

the top of a telephone pole is a good place for kids.

Like me, most of you probably dreamed of making a fort on top of a power pole, but also like me, you probably had an overprotective mother who was paranoid about electrocution and falling to one's death.

I'm not one for proving myself right, but if power poles were that dangerous, birds of prey would not be raising their young there.

Sidenote: The other evening, while driving home listening to my Learn Spanish CD and learning how to ask someone if he or she would like to go dancing, I killed a bird.  This erratic flock of birds recklessly flew straight into my path.  Given our mutual high rates of speed, one of the birds transformed into a puff of tiny feathers upon impact with the Toyota emblem on my car's grill.

After a few sleepless nights and 14 expensive phone calls with an animal therapist, I'm moving on.

STAREDOWN: pigeon vs. hawk.

I rarely get frightened more than three or four times in a day, but sometimes there's an exception. On my five-minute lunch loop last week, I caught a glimpse of two hawks on a telephone pole.   Naturally, I slammed on my brakes and nearly spun out in a nearby cotton field irrigation ditch.  One doesn't come across this two-for-one deal (BOGO, if you will) very often.

I walked down a dirt road toward the birds, and that's when the proverbial cr@p hit the proverbial fan.  (Excuse the language; I was terrified.)  One of the hawks flew off, scared away by an oncoming pigeon.  The pigeon landed on a wire next to the hawk.  This pigeon completely ignored two (2) clearly marked "HIGH VOLTAGE" warning signs, mind you.  Something told me he wasn't there to hang out and chat about Pinterest; he meant business.

I was frozen in my tracks.  In the distance I could faintly hear Old West music and the sounds of people locking their doors.  Something was about to go down.

The pigeon just stared at the hawk, looking deep into his soul.  Those 15 seconds seemed like 20 or 25 seconds.  Practically a lifetime.  Just when I thought there would be feathers, it was over.

The pigeon had made his point, and my camera caught everything.

(Attn: National Geographic - money talks.)

i'm not dead - i'm trying to be a bird photog

Many of my readers have been simply worried plum sick about my two-week perceived hiatus.  This post is for them.

After publishing a solid three posts, the pressures of delivering world-class content were starting to set in.  (Or is it "sit  in"?) But through hours of self-admiration and affirmation, I came to the conclusion that there was only one way to deal with the pressure: start traveling.

Over the past two weeks, my extensive travels have taken me off the beaten path nearly one-half to three-quarters of a mile from my typical commute.  There were days when I would scarf down my Fage yogurt* and spend a 5-minute lunch driving down the street looking for birds of prey (BOP). I know you can feel the intensity of my pursuit.

I wish I could tell you that my travels had yielded National Geographic-level photos, and as most of you know, I won't hesitate to lie if it benefits me financially.  But for now, this blog is about the truth, and the truth is, the birds have yet to learn to sit still whilst I safely park and ready the camera.  Nevertheless, a few snapshots from the past few weeks.

*Fage Greek Yogurt paid me $1 million for this post.  

how to get a photo of a neat red entrance gate with a solar-powered cattle branding chute in the background with a hawk perched atop.

First of all, I like the word "atop".  Second of all, if I told you how to get this photo, then that might hurt my monopoly on blogging about mediocre photography of birds of prey.

(BTW: notice the "No Trespassing" sign on the cattle chute.)

blown cover.

Apparently one of my three or four readers tipped off the birds of prey because they've disappeared.

For nearly two-straight morning commutes, not a single hawk.  Two years of hawks every day, and then they disappear just as I'm on the cusp of a HUGE book deal.  As I made the trek into Dinuba this morning, I found myself second-guessing nearly every life decision I've made, fighting back my emotions: Maybe I shouldn't have worn my wife's pink sweater today - was it scaring the birds away? And anyway, am I really cut out for taking mildly legible photos of a bird?  Why hasn't this blog overtaken Facebook, yet?  Needless to say, I was in a bad place.

As I contemplated my failure and early retirement, I was only a few blocks from my destination, and then I saw it...a hawk. Who cares that it was only the size of a large hummingbird?  It was a bird that eats meat. And it was perched on a light post facing the opposite way. As it turned toward me, I snapped a photo through my windshield.  I can't say for sure, but it looked like it had a defeated look on its face as it flew off.

Here's the proof.  

let the bird photography begin.

For two and a half years, I've made a daily roundtrip of 40 miles to and from Visalia to Dinuba through ag land (aka: Road 80).  Everyday, I've seen countless hawks (birds of prey, if you will).

Never one to pass up an opportunity, and always one to answer my natural instinct of recognizing needs in the marketplace, I obviously came to the conclusion that the world needs a birds of prey photography blog.  And one that is written by a third-grade spell champ, I might add.  I just did add.

And so it began.

Well, at least I tried to begin.  It turns out, birds of prey (hawks, if you will) don't like photography.  Either that or they don't like white Toyota Corollas.  My first attempt, and the 17 attempts thereafter, resulted in spotting a hawk, approaching a hawk, readying my Costco camera, and a hawk flying off.

Lucky for you, I didn't give up.  Just have a look at my first official "Photo of a Bird of Prey".  You see it?  It's right there atop the telephone pole.  You may need to zoom in 100x.  Once I secured this photo, I knew exactly where my niche would be in the marketplace of birds of prey photographers: mediocrity.

Needless to say, I am quite certain you will want to follow my progress.  I'll keep you posted.