Behind the Lens: Waiting for the Splash

There are a lot of beautiful birds at Manito Park.

Great blue herons stand motionless along the shoreline, as if time itself has stopped.

Wood ducks flash brilliant colors across the water.

I've watched Cooper's hawks weave effortlessly through the trees and red-tailed hawks circle high above the park.

And everywhere you look, smaller birds fill the air with songs that somehow make the whole place feel alive.

But for some reason...

I always find myself looking for the osprey.

It didn't happen overnight.

At first, it was just another bird to photograph.

I remember the first time I watched one circling above the water. It hardly seemed to flap its wings. It simply glided, letting the wind carry it while its eyes searched the surface below.

Then, without warning...

It folded its wings.

Dropped from the sky.

And disappeared beneath the water.

A second later, it burst back into the air with a fish clutched tightly in its talons.

I don't know why that moment fascinated me so much.

Maybe it was the speed.

Maybe it was the precision.

Maybe it was because everything about that dive felt so intentional.

Whatever it was...

I wanted to see it again.

So I came back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

If you've ever tried photographing an osprey catching a fish, you'll learn something pretty quickly.

Most of the time...

You miss.

Sometimes the bird dives before you're ready.

Sometimes it catches a fish behind the trees.

Sometimes it disappears before you can even lift the camera.

Sometimes it spends an hour circling without diving at all.

Photography has a funny way of teaching patience.

Every time I packed up my camera, I knew I'd be back.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn't chasing a photograph anymore.

I was chasing a feeling.

The anticipation.

The silence before the dive.

The splash.

The impossible moment when a bird and the water collide.

The osprey slowly became more than a subject in front of my lens.

It became something I genuinely admired.

I've watched adults glide effortlessly through the sky, their bright yellow eyes scanning the water with incredible focus.

I've watched juveniles with their striking orange eyes, still learning what it means to hunt, slowly becoming the birds they'll one day be.

I've watched parents return to the nest carrying fish, feeding their young before themselves.

I've watched them fiercely defend that nest, announcing their presence with a call that's become one of my favorite sounds in the park.

Now, whenever I hear that familiar cry, I instinctively stop whatever I'm doing and look toward the sky.

Because I know something worth watching might be about to happen.

The more time I spent with them, the more I noticed.

How they trust the wind instead of fighting it.

How they can sit perfectly still for what feels like forever.

How every movement seems purposeful.

And when the moment comes...

They don't hesitate.

They commit.

I've watched them miss.

Not every dive ends with a fish.

Sometimes they come out of the water empty-taloned.

They shake the water from their feathers.

Circle back into the sky.

And begin searching again.

No frustration.

No hesitation.

Just another opportunity.

Watching that over and over began to change the way I looked at my own life.

There have been seasons where I felt like I'd missed more than I'd succeeded.

Seasons filled with grief.

Starting over.

Self-doubt.

Trying to figure out what came next.

The osprey never fixed any of those things.

But it quietly reminded me of something.

Missing isn't the end.

It's simply part of the process.

Maybe that's why I became so captivated by them.

Not because they're the biggest bird.

Not because they're the rarest.

But because every time I watched one fly, I was reminded what perseverance looks like.

Today, before I even unpack my camera, I find myself scanning the sky.

Looking for that familiar silhouette.

Sometimes I leave with hundreds of photographs.

Sometimes I leave with nothing at all.

I've learned that neither one determines whether the day was successful.

The photograph was never the only reason I kept coming back.

The real reward was everything the osprey taught me while I was waiting.

Patience.

Focus.

Commitment.

Resilience.

The courage to try again.

I still hope that one day I'll capture the perfect photograph of an osprey diving into the water.

Maybe I will.

Maybe I won't.

But I think I've already found something even more valuable.

Because every time I watch one circle back for another attempt, I'm reminded that success isn't measured by how many fish it catches.

It's measured by its willingness to keep searching.

To keep diving.

To keep trusting that the next opportunity is out there.

Maybe that's why I keep coming back to Manito.

Maybe I was never chasing the perfect photograph.

Maybe I was chasing the lesson the osprey had been trying to teach me all along.