Why The Best Travel Photos Rarely Happen At Peak Action
- Jennie Brand
- May 22
- 6 min read
Chasing The Sandhill Crane
For the past eight weeks or so, I’ve been chasing one animal: the Sandhill crane.
Earlier this year, I upgraded my wildlife setup. I added a second Sony camera body, purchased Sony’s 400 to 800mm G OSS lens (check out my Sony Alpha gear locker here), bought a monopod, studied crane movement patterns through live webcams, listened to their calls on YouTube, and even booked a private overnight blind on the Platte River in Nebraska so I could witness one of North America’s largest bird migrations firsthand while sleeping on a wooden floor of a shed.
I arrived three days before my overnight blind reservation. Every morning began in the dark as I drove to locations I had scouted the night before. I photographed both sunrise and sunset sessions, trying to understand the rhythm of the birds before stepping into the blind itself.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I experienced. The week I arrived, the Crane Trust counted just over 400,000 cranes in the region. By the time I left, the number had dropped to roughly 60,000. Nature does not wait for us to arrive.
The winds shifted. Thermals changed. Warmer temperatures and limited snowmelt pushed the cranes north as they continued their migration. In my mind, I thought I was chasing the climax. Massive flocks. Tight portraits. The chaos and fury within the moment. But what I walked away with carried far more value than any “hero shot” I imagined beforehand. If you haven't already I highly recommend you check out my journal entry, How I Decide What’s Worth Photographing While Traveling. This may add value to what you think you already know.
Nature Does Not Care About Your Expectations
The experience forced me to become more patient and flexible because nature does not care if you want foggy mornings, dramatic sunsets, or perfect cinematic conditions.
After leaving Nebraska, I decided to continue photographing cranes back home in Colorado. I knew they were here. There’s even a Sandhill crane crossing sign in my neighborhood.
The moment I found where they roosted, timing became everything. Some mornings I arrived too early. Other mornings I arrived too late. But eventually I started dialing it in, and that’s when the magic happened.
What surprised me most was realizing that peak action rarely happened when I expected it to. In Nebraska, the cranes lifted almost immediately at first light. Back home in Steamboat Springs, the conditions were completely different. The mornings were colder with heavier moisture, dense fog, frozen dew, frost covered feathers, and low hanging clouds trapped deep in the valley.
I found myself pulling electric hand warmers back out after packing them away for the season just to keep my batteries functioning in the cold. As an environmental storyteller, I’ve always loved atmosphere and landscape. But part of me still believed this massive telephoto lens would finally give me the textured feathers and intimate wildlife portraits I had been chasing. Ironically, my most beautiful moments still came from the environment itself.
The fog.
The frost.
The silence.
The way cold mountain mornings softened the entire landscape. The birds were teaching me timing long before they were teaching me photography.
The Quiet Moments Became The Story
As the weeks continued, I started noticing other wildlife around me. An osprey nest slowly being built. White American pelicans drifting across the water. Great Blue Herons standing motionless along the shoreline. Red tailed hawks circling overhead.
Within eight or nine weeks, I sat motionless inside a blind on the Platte River getting eaten alive by mosquitos. I sat on frozen marsh banks while my nose ran and my fingers went numb in below freezing temperatures. Then slowly, the seasons shifted.
Two weeks earlier I had been cursing another freezing morning. Suddenly spring temperatures arrived, and the entire rhythm of the birds changed.
Less movement.
Earlier flights.
Different feeding behavior.
Some of it I’m still learning.
As we moved closer to the summer solstice, I trained myself to arrive earlier while also allowing myself the patience to stay longer. Some mornings rewarded me simply because I arrived twenty minutes earlier than the day before. Other mornings gave me absolutely nothing.
Learning To Sit Still
What surprised me most was how much my mindset changed. Last year, while learning wildlife photography, I often fell into the trap of overshooting. Continuous burst mode. Spray and pray. Hoping one frame would eventually work. This time felt different.
I waited for separation between the cranes and the reeds they hid within. I became more intentional. I stopped reacting to movement and started paying attention to moments.
And in the quiet stretches, when nothing seemed to be happening, I constantly wanted to leave. Instead, I learned to sit still.
To listen.
To observe.
To study light.
I started studying clouds. What makes them burn at sunrise and what causes them to fall flat. What conditions create low hanging fog. What causes steam to rise from lakes and ponds during cold mornings. All of these conditions affect more than just wildlife behavior. They shape the emotional weight of the environment itself. Instead of asking, “How do I photograph another beautiful bird?” I started asking a different question: Why does this animal choose this environment to live, feed, sleep, and move through?
That question changed everything for me. Some of my favorite crane photographs now place the bird secondary to the environment itself, and I’ve learned to love those images equally, if not more. Interested to learn more about when to press the shutter button or when to wait read this journal next.
The Environment Is Part Of The Story
Discomfort comes and goes. Cold mornings fade. Mosquitos disappear. Frozen fingers warm back up.
But wildlife is fleeting too. The cranes move north.The elk disappear into the mountains.The moose vanish into dense willow patches.
The moments never stay for long. So choose to be there. Wake up earlier than you think you need to. Stay longer than feels comfortable. Allow yourself to experience the transition periods instead of only chasing the climax.
I walked away from this season feeling more empty handed than expected, and I photograph professionally for a living. I thought I would return home with obvious “banger” images ready to edit. Instead, I walked away with something more important.
Patience.
Observation.
Awareness.
Growth.
This is what slowly sculpts you from a beginner wildlife photographer into something more experienced. I’m by no means an advanced wildlife photographer, but after dedicating a full year to consistently being in the field, I can feel myself evolving from a beginner into an intermediate wildlife photographer. That growth did not happen through YouTube videos or wildlife livestreams. It happened through uncomfortable mornings.
Failed outings.
Missed moments.
Trial and error.
Observation.
Repetition.
I can study technique endlessly online, but without putting myself into the field, learning conditions firsthand, and failing repeatedly, I’ll only ever be as good as I allow myself to become. Hey but listen the field work paid off because after the blind for five consecutive weeks I had Natgeoyourshot comment and like my crane and Vietnam work on Instagram. Check it out for yourself here on one of my crane videos. And if you made it this far and want to advance your skills by learning why to wait for light, what placement does when scultping heirarchy in your photos, and how it drives emotion I highly recommend checking out my beginner friendly e-guides here. They are meant not only for beginners but, to reinforce even what you may already know. They're easy to follow guides with my personal field notes and examples.
Until next time...
Love and light,
Jen
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