I received a comment on one of my winter bird photos a while back, just a smiley face and the words, “another bird nerd.”

And I get it. On the surface, that’s the easy box to put it in, like I’m out here chasing checkmarks, keeping a list, updating an eBird account, collecting species like trophies.

But that isn’t me.

In plain terms, I’m a fisherman first and a hunter second, and honestly, for me, that’s what photography is. Not “birding.” Not listing. It’s the continued practice of field craft with a lens.

In the depth of winter, there are only a few that stay here anyway. Chickadees. Junkos. House finches and goldfinches. White-crowned sparrows. A variety of woodpeckers. Doves. The occasional blue jay, and a pair of cardinals that feels like someone dropped color into a black-and-white world. Most of these photos are taken from my feeding station, an area I set aside to attract and watch them.

To some people, that’s just a backyard setup.

To me, it’s a winter seam, a spot where life funnels in, a place I can sit and read patterns the way I read water, who shows up first, who hangs back, who bullies the perch, who slips in quietly and disappears just as fast. Wind changes the whole scene. Light changes the whole story. Some mornings it’s steady action; other times it’s dead calm and then, all at once, everything happens.

Fishing taught me how to be present like that, active present. The kind where you’re not forcing the moment, you’re earning it. You prepare, you pay attention, and you let the world tell you what it’s going to give.

Winter isn’t only about filling the time when the water is absent and the marshes and fields are frozen. It’s the dormant season where survival shows. The camera becomes what my hands reach for when the rod and gun are absent, not because I need something to do, but because I need something that keeps me honest. Something that keeps me listening.

There is a quote by Ted Hughes that begins, “Fishing provides that connection with the whole living world.” I don’t just believe that line, I live it. The winter birds give me more than a chance at art; they give me proximity, and proximity gives me information. Numbers. Timing. Weather. Subtle shifts in behavior that most people miss because they aren’t watching long enough to notice.

I see the days build up in feeding before a storm. I watch, is it one day, two? Does a pressure system change the dynamics around the station? If it shifts things here, close enough to study, maybe it hints at what will happen during a high-sky day on the water in June. Maybe there’s a clue in it that helps anticipate a waterfowl feed before a November cold front. It’s not all written down, but it’s all registered. It becomes insight.

So if “bird nerd” means I’m looking closely, I’ll wear it, but not because I’m chasing names.

I’m chasing that same thing I’ve chased my whole life outdoors, a steadier mind, a more respectful attention, and the kind of healing and growth that only comes when you stop trying to control the moment and start letting it teach you.

The reward isn’t the “catch,” or the “kill,” or even the image.” It’s who you become while you’re paying attention.

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