The drive through the Everglades got us talking about the times we didn’t stop at the edge…
Back when my mobile phone was just that. To a time when long lenses rode in the back seat,Tri beside me, map folded on her lap, eyes scanning the light. Those years, somewhere between 2008 and 2013, were bird photography years. But they were more than that. They were the beginning of something we didn't know we needed.
It wasn't just about the birds. Or the photos. It was about finding something together — just the two of us — out there in the wild. Discovering new places. Rediscovering each other. The girls were grown, off chasing their own adventures. And us? We were chasing ours.
We drifted on and off the Florida Birding Trail. Never the whole thing. Just parts. Just enough. I hooked up with locals — some birders, some photographers, fishermen with binoculars, others who just knew a thing or two.
"Viera's good this time of year."
"Bald eagle nest in the local cemetery."
Some I paid. Some I bought a drink. Some just liked to share.
"Viera's good this time of year."
"Bald eagle nest in the local cemetery."
Some I paid. Some I bought a drink. Some just liked to share.
Every day was different, but the rhythm stayed the same. Up early. hotel lobby coffee cooling in the cup holders. A rhythm had settled into our trips. Early starts. Quiet drives. New ground to explore. Slow walks. Sudden surprises. It was about being out there together—heads tilted to the sky, hearts open to whatever came next. Bug-deep in the Everglades or standing on a boardwalk at first light, watching a bunch of spoonies lift off in slow, pink waves. Herons building nests. Egrets preening in the haze. Birds in the lens, sun on our backs.
Sometimes you nailed the shot. Sometimes you didn't.
Didn't matter.
You were out there.
You felt it.
Didn't matter.
You were out there.
You felt it.
That rhythm held for about ten years. A decade of rookery mornings and bird counts, slow rolls along levee roads and wildlife drives. Long lens, tripod, gear bag biting into my shoulder. Every outing felt like a mission. Every bird a potential frame. Tri offfering encouragement when I missed a shot or couldn’t get an angle. That’s the way we work—always has been.
She’s always had my back. If a passerby wandered over—curious, kind, unintentionally in the way — What are you shooting? What kind of camera is that?—Tri would step in, smooth as ever. Small talk is her superpower, not mine. A few easy lines about the weather, the kids, the cold back home—whatever gently moved things along so I could stay locked in.
It’s the same when we’re on the road for talks. I’m setting up the cables, connections, and last checks. Tri’s out front, chatting, building rapport. After the talk, I’m in deep conversation, and she’s already packing up, making sure nothing’s left behind. A quiet system. Seamless. Telepathic. Trusted.
But somewhere along the line, the wildlife chase began to fade. Not all at once — just gradually, like the tide slipping away from the shoreline. We both felt it.
The thrill of bird photography softened. The urgency dulled. I wasn’t chasing the moment anymore. I’d seen it. Shot it. Brought it home a hundred different ways. The birds kept showing up—but my need to frame them started to drift.
Around the same time, something else crept in quietly. I’d started using the iPhone more — at first, just for reference shots or wide angles. But slowly, it began to lead. The camera gear stayed in the bag more often. The iPhone was enough. The shift was subtle but total.
The weight came off my shoulders—literally and creatively. I wasn’t tracking birds anymore. I was watching the light. Shadow. Mood. Texture. I was photographing a place, not just the subject. The moments between, not the action itself. And something about that felt right.
There's more to photography than catching moments — sometimes it's about letting moments find you.
The early starts are still there. Tri often comes out, too, riding shotgun like always. But we’re not looking for birds now—we’re looking for atmosphere. Mood. The shape of the light.
Our old friends are still around—spoonies, pelicans, egrets—familiar faces, but they’ve slipped into the background. Supporting roles now, not the stars.
And in our quiet way, we’re still working. Just differently.
Still in step.
Still showing up.
And we still end the day with coastlines and diners, bug spray and laughter. Finding a bar, the kind with cold drinks and jukebox songs from when we were young. Looking at the day’s shots, planning tomorrow’s adventure.
The shots below are not mobile phone images, back from a time before.
