The Blue Heron has been my white whale for a while now. Not the mythical kind, this one’s real, feathered, prehistoric-looking, and smart enough to know when a man with a camera is getting desperate.

Then the text came in from Robert like a flare shot into the sky:

There’s one down by the river at work.

No planning. No checklist. No careful consideration of lens choice. Just pure instinct. I grabbed the camera and bolted like a man late for his own epiphany. Of course, fate being the cruel comedian it is, I only had my prime lens on me. No zoom. No safety net. Just me, the river, and a bird that didn’t care about my photographic shortcomings.

The heron stood there—calm, statuesque, ancient. Like it had all the time in the world and knew damn well I didn’t. Every step closer felt like a negotiation. Every click of the shutter felt like a gamble. I knew I wasn’t getting the shot. Not the National Geographic, frame-filling, feather-detailed masterpiece. But I got a shot. Proof of life. Proof that the chase is real.

And honestly? That’s enough for now.

This photo is a marker on the trail. A first strike. A reminder that sometimes you run toward the moment unprepared and still come away with something worth keeping. Next time, though, I want the heron deeper in the wild—less concrete, more riverbank myth. I want the zoom lens mounted, the distance closed, the odds shifted just a little more in my favor.

This one got away… but not completely.

It’s a start.