I’m Bad at Waiting
What a cold morning in Montana taught me about staying still
I was definitely not dressed appropriately for how long this would take. I had been sitting in the exact same location since 4:30 a.m., and the sky was finally starting to show a hint of soft blue. My fingers were cold, and I was thankful my rear was numb as I was essentially posted up in a pile of branches. I sat behind a huge maple tree, hidden from the unforgiving Montana wind, hoping to mask my scent from the fox mama and kits I was so determined to photograph.
I watched the aging red barn, intent on noticing the first sign of movement. Nothing moved. I waited. Hours passed. Still no fox mama. Still no kits.
I am not a patient wildlife photographer. I know this about myself. I suspect it has something to do with the anxiety that comes with the possibility of what I might be missing out on. You know…the rarely seen lynx, the elusive cougar, or the just-passing-through mountain bluebird that is probably sitting a half mile down the road while I’m here freezing my tush off. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
I do know what is expected of me, though. While I would consider myself fairly new to the whole wildlife photography gig, I’ve read plenty of articles, watched tons of YouTube videos, and followed enough influencers to understand this important point: wildlife photography requires stillness. I remind myself of it every time I am in the field. Sit quietly. Be patient. Move like a ninja.
I am getting much better at moving slowly, but sitting quietly and being patient? I fail almost every time.
Why is it so hard for me to wait for the perfect opportunity or subject? Let me play amateur psychologist for a second. I am a busy girl. I work a big job and put in long hours, and when I am squeezing in time to shoot in the wee hours of the weekend, I want to make the most of it. As I sit and watch the light shift from blue to golden, my FOMO kicks in. The urge to get up and go find anything is overwhelming. And if I’m being honest, I may be trying to avoid the disappointment of coming home empty-handed.
Usually, impatience wins, and I move on, rarely finding those greener pastures. But on this cold Montana morning, I wanted it badly enough to sit and be patient.
My husband, Trevor, and I love camping in Montana. The sunsets, the wildlife, the sheer vastness…we love it all. We spend a lot of time exploring backcountry roads together, me with my camera and him, my willing and enthusiastic co-birder.
It was on one of those drives the day before that we came across her.
We rounded the corner on a dusty gravel road, and there she stood in the middle of a field, not too far from the kind of barn you would expect to see in Montana. A beautiful red fox. She just stood there, looking straight at us.
Trevor pulled to a stop, and my heart started racing as I grabbed my camera. Even though I knew she was too far away for a great shot, I had to take it. I had never even seen a fox in real life, much less photographed one.
She gave me about 20 seconds, and then she headed off into the woods.
I was over the moon with the experience. I couldn’t help but do some chimping as Trevor slowly moved on to our next destination, wherever that might be. I could tell right away that this little beauty was a mama, and I started to wonder if there was a chance she had her kits tucked away somewhere near that old red barn. I wasn’t completely convinced, though, since the barn sat fairly close to the road.
As we continued driving away from the field, I made a decision that would eventually have me sitting in a pile of branches, freezing before dawn. I asked Trevor to turn around. I wanted to go talk to the rancher.
I wasn’t nervous about walking up and knocking on the door, but I was a little nervous about what he might say. I was hoping it wouldn't be a “no.” When he answered, I explained what we had seen and asked if he would mind if I came back before dawn the next morning to look for the fox den.
He kind of laughed and told me I wouldn’t have to look very hard. The den was right underneath the barn, and they saw the kits there all the time. Just like that, he gave me permission to be on his property. I let him know I’d be settled in by the big tree in the field long before sunrise.
I was jacked. I already had all of these shots planned in my mind. Mama fox heading out at dawn to find food for her brood, trotting right toward me while I sat perfectly hidden, grabbing the shot. The adorable kits waking in the early light, golden tones amplifying their big, curious eyes.
This was going to be epic. I just had to get there early, stay hidden, and everything would fall perfectly into place.
How could it not?
And this is how I found myself sitting in a pile of branches behind a huge maple tree, barely able to feel my fingers.
I had decided, without a second thought, that stillness and patience would be worth it for a chance to capture this beautiful little family. I was committed to the wait and was excited. Admittedly, though, I didn’t think I would have to flex my very small patience muscles for too long…because animals get up at dawn, right?
I was up at 3:30 a.m. the next morning, knowing I wanted to be securely in place before dawn. My research showed that mama would likely leave the den to hunt about an hour before sunrise, and sunrise was just after 6:00 a.m. It felt like the perfect intersection of golden hour and the moment she might head out to find food for her babies.
I grabbed my coffee and left our camp spot at 4:00 a.m.
It felt a little odd climbing a fence onto someone’s property at 4:15 in the morning, but I quickly made my way across the field toward the maple tree, testing the wind along the way to make sure I positioned myself on the right side to push my scent away from the barn.
I got settled in and quickly realized I should have put on at least one more layer.
I remember thinking…this shouldn’t take too long.
Until it did.
I wish I could say the time went fast, but it did not. I watched the barn like an eagle, certain that at any moment, Mama Fox would come around the corner, heading out toward the forest behind me, or that a precious little kit would poke its head out from beneath the barn.
I waited and watched. And watched. Still nothing.
Disappointment started to sink in after about an hour, and the urge to move was strong.
And then, something unexpected happened.
I looked to my left, and there, about 12 feet away from me, stood a young white‑tailed deer. I have never been that close to one. Of course, we have them in Spokane, but I am usually watching their rear ends as they race away, their cute little white undertails up in the air. They are flighty creatures.
But this little girl just stood there, looking at me. Sniffing. I sensed she was confused. She had to be able to smell me; she was downwind, but I think I was hidden well enough that she couldn’t quite see me. She sniffed, and she stared.
And my heart swelled. I had been patient enough, and still enough, for a white‑tailed doe to get that close to me.
My growing disappointment started to fade. I slowly lifted my camera and took a few shots. She was a little scruffy, still hanging on to some of her winter coat, but she was beautiful.
And I’ll admit, I felt a little proud of myself.
I sat there for another hour while she grazed in the field, eventually hopping away to rejoin her herd. By then, I had been sitting there for over two hours. The sun was up, much brighter than I had hoped to be shooting in.
But still no fox mama. And still no kits.
I had put in an honest effort at being patient and decided it was time to head back to camp empty-handed, but with a little more confidence in knowing that waiting for something I wanted wasn’t going to kill me. Even if it meant no shots.
I stood up slowly, shaking my limbs in hopes of restoring circulation to my arms and legs, which had been gone for quite some time. I moved across the field as quietly as possible, holding onto the hope that the last few minutes might still produce a sighting.
But nothing.
I rounded the corner of the barn, which stood a mere 15 feet from the gravel road, climbed the wooden fence, and walked to my truck parked about 25 yards down the road. A few glances back confirmed…still no kits.
I climbed into the truck and drove until I found the first driveway to turn around, deciding I would make my way slowly back to camp. Even though it was getting bright, I still thought I might have a chance of capturing something on the way home.
I mean…it is Montana.
As I got closer to the barn that I had been watching from across the field for two hours, I saw the first little head pop out from underneath it. I rolled to a stop as slowly as possible and just watched. Like the moment I had seen the mama fox the evening before, my heart was racing.
I had been on the wrong side of the barn for two long, cold hours. It never even occurred to me that Mama might choose to put her den on the side of the barn so close to the road. And honestly, I didn’t think to ask the rancher which side of the barn they were on.
Lesson learned.
Make no assumptions about wildlife.
I spent the next 20 minutes moving very slowly, letting them get used to my presence, and another 20 minutes photographing the beautiful little kits in light that was far from ideal. But my heart was happy.
I keep coming back to that morning. The deer I never would have seen. The fox I sat two hours for and still almost missed anyway. And the realization that I was so sure I knew where to sit and how it was all going to play out.
When I’m out in the field, it feels like I am always chasing something. Better light. The perfect subject. If I am real with myself, moving around can feel productive, like I am giving myself a better chance at finding something.
But that morning reinforced that the thing I struggle with the most, just sitting still, is the thing I need to do more often.
Letting the world around me settle instead of constantly moving through it.
Finding things I didn’t even know I was looking for.
