international assignment leads to face-off with Nat Geo.

All - It's been a mere two-and-a-half years since my last post, but as I always say, "thinking about something is more important than actually doing something."

So, like a wise person, I've been heeding my own advice and thinking a lot more and doing a lot less.

Sadly, very few people show as much appreciation for my wisdom as I do. I'll just be straight with you: the big checks aren't coming in. On top of that, my readership is starting to get pushy and disloyal.

Alas, I'll post another picture.

Unfortunately, when I got to the top of this mountain to snap a great pic of the bird, there was this massive hole in the top. (In the top of the mountain - not the bird. I can't take the time to explain every detail.) Anyway, there was an obnoxious bunch of adults messing around taking pics of red stuff at the bottom of the hole talking about how amazing this volcano is and saying, "wow, look at the National Geographic team rappelling into the crater!" Rude. But in their defense, I was wearing sunglasses and they didn't realize who I was.

Anyway, despite the less-interesting stuff and the big hole between the bird and me, I was able to get a pic.

***WARNING*** graphic hawk photo and the use of the words, "dog poop".

Recently, my wife returned home from church and saw a hawk, in our neighbor's front yard, devouring a pigeon like it had just avenged its family's honor after a century of wrongful birdcage imprisonment. There was something very personal about this meal because the hawk didn't even move when my girl walked up to it and took several photos and a video. (Come to think of it, it was rather personal for the pigeon as well, you know, given that it was dead and in pieces.) But anywho, you're probably asking yourself, What church does a bird photog attend? First of all, that's none of your business. Second of all, curiosity is a terrible thing to have (as I tell my kids when I talk with them every other weekend during our scheduled visit). You're probably also asking yourself, Why weren't you with your wife if she was returning from church? First of all, I don't appreciate the suspicious tone. Second of all, I was at a meeting at the church, if you must know.

And now, if it's okay with you, my dear reader, I'd like to get back to my bird blog.

If you've been following my infrequent posts, then you know that my wife seems to think that she's the bird photographer in this family. I mean, I thought we had a clear agreement that she wouldn't encroach on my hobbies, and I'd stop wearing yoga pants in public with her. But apparently neither of us is interested in upholding that agreement.

Nevertheless, in any other typical week, my hubris could have weathered another "in-your-face", stellar bird photo from my "wife". But you see, America, I don't find birds of prey in my front yard. I find other treats.

The same week my lady friend witnessed a hawk maintain the food chain from 10 feet away, something less exciting happened to me. I was backing out of my driveway to head off to my other job that pays real money. That's when I noticed it. "It" wasn't a hawk eating a pigeon. "It" was dog poop. "It" was a trail of dog poop across my driveway, with one piece smashed into the pavement, courtesy of one of my tires. As I struggled to balance all of the pieces of non-bird-of-prey treats on my shovel as I walked toward (or is it, "towards"?) the trash can, reality set in: the world is conspiring against my bird photography career. Well, guess what world? Challenge accepted.

*Notice the uncooked piece of pigeon hanging from the hawk's mouth. Also, the pigeon is not happy.

guard your dreams, my friends.

If you're someone who has (a) made public your dream job; (b) ever told another person about something you'd like to start; or (c) serious trust issues (whether genetic or learned), then you must read this post. I don't trust the rest of you.

Let me cut to the takeaway, my good reader: hold fast to your dreams. And by "hold fast", I mean guard your dreams. Don't talk about them publicly, don't write about them, and - for the love of all that is good and private - do not share them with your significant other. Dreams belong in the back of your mind.

As many of you know, I've long advocated for a healthy helping of distrust. It's like carrying around an invisible shield. I've been known to look over my shoulder with my back against the wall. And on that note, I've always benefited from thoroughly reading into every word someone speaks to me. It's another defense mechanism. Just today I crossed paths (but had no eye contact) with a new guy at work (my other job):
Him: How are you today? 
Me: (Yep, Bilderbergs are after me again. Knew I couldn't trust that dude. Typical. He's an NSA implant. Just walk away...act like you're answering your phone and can't hear him...)

But in the spirit of transparency, I admit to you that even I slip up now and again. And that's where this post makes a turn for the worse.

You see, about a year-and-a-half ago, I started a career journey down the path of mediocre bird photography. From the start I looked at it as a way to give back to people (in return for money). As if starting weren't a large enough accomplishment to dwarf anything most of you have done, I pressed on for the next key performance indicator. As my readership aspirations skyrocketed, I, perhaps, became a bit "too big for my corduroy pants" as they say. In other words, I started getting loose lips and sharing my goals with my "wife".

Fast forward 15 months. In the midst of a much-needed 15-month stress leave, I received a pristine photo via iMessage from Wisconsin of a bald eagle circling above a beautiful lake. It was amazing. I could make out the colors of the bird, the various shades of greens in the trees (which is really overkill - one shade is plenty), and the gorgeous sky. Had I not already been crying from watching a Family Matters rerun where Eddie concedes the class president election to the smarter girl, I would have started crying when I saw said photo.

You see, my so-called "best friend" had just snapped the photo and sent me a caption that read, "Grandpa Fred literally just saw this bald eagle swoop down and grab a fish about 20 yards away."

And just like that, my dream had been stolen. I thought I was the mediocre bird photog. I already knew I couldn't trust Grandpa - I mean, no real human can possibly whistle that beautifully. So I didn't fault him. But my own wife? (Actually, I kind of knew something was up. She was constantly rushing off in the mornings to "take the kids to school". But the GPS tracker showed that sometimes she went to Starbucks.)

Anywho, there isn't much more to say. There is no happy ending here. GUARD YOUR DREAMS. No, forget that. Don't dream. It's too risky.

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.