I Went Looking for Baby Coots and Found a Hawk Family Drama Instead - June 18, 2026

After being cooped up for almost two weeks recovering from surgery, my brain had officially started doing that thing where it rearranges all your thoughts, overthinks every life choice, and then files them under “Absolutely Not Helpful.”

So today, I decided I needed out.

Not a huge adventure. Not some grand expedition. Just a gentle walk. A “please let me remember I am a human being who exists outside of four walls” kind of walk.

I headed to a local sanctuary with one very specific goal in mind: baby coots.

That was the plan.

Baby coots have been on my photo list for a while, and I was determined. Tiny awkward marsh fluff? Yes, please. Give me the weird little wetland babies. I was ready.

But nature, as usual, had other plans.

And honestly? Nature nailed it.

Instead of baby coots, I found a Red-tailed Hawk nest.

One adult parent, who I immediately named Mama because she was giving off very strong “I have had enough of everyone’s nonsense today” energy, and two young hawks up in the trees at the branching stage that awkward, noisy, not-quite-flying-but-definitely-feeling-opinionated phase just before fledging.

And oh my goodness.

The noise.

The babies were squawking and fussing nonstop. Not a little peep here and there. Not a polite “Mother, when you have a moment, I require nourishment.”

No.

This was full raptor toddler chaos.

Squawk. Squawk. SQUAWK.

I don’t know how they do it. I truly don’t. At some point you would think even a baby hawk would stop and think, “You know what? My throat hurts. I should hydrate.”

But apparently not.

They just kept going, and I stood there looking up at them thinking, “Mama, I see you. I respect you. You are doing amazing.”

Did you know?

Young Red-tailed Hawks can spend over six weeks in the nest before fledging? That means weeks of feeding, guarding, watching, and listening to your children scream from the treetops like they have personally been wronged by every living thing in the forest.

Parenthood, but make it talons.

At one point, I saw Mama fly up and tuck herself underneath some high branches. I moved slowly — very slowly, into a shaded area to get a better look without crowding her. And then, in one of those moments that makes your whole body go quiet, she flew directly toward me.

Directly. Toward. Me.

My brain, very professionally, went: “Oh. Hello. Large bird with knives for feet.”

She landed on a nearby branch and peeked at me.

Not panicked. Not bothered. Just aware. Completely aware.

There is something deeply humbling about being looked at by a hawk. They don’t glance at you the way a chickadee does. A hawk looks at you like it has read the footnotes of your soul and found several errors.

She stayed there for a few moments, then moved to another branch where I could get a few incredible shots. She was so close. Literally just a few feet away.

I could hardly believe it.

Here I was, barely ten steps from the parking lot, still moving carefully because my body is in “please don’t make sudden decisions” recovery mode, and this beautiful Red-tailed Hawk was right there in front of me.

Not across a field.

Not on a distant snag.

Not some blurry “trust me, it’s a bird” situation.

Red Tailed Hawk booty

Right there.

She seemed focused on the base of the tree, possibly hunting or watching for movement below, while the two noisy teenagers continued their dramatic production above her.

And I just stood there.

Camera at my side.

Watching.

A few other people gathered nearby, but no one seemed quite as excited as I was. Which, frankly, is fine. I had enough excitement for the entire sanctuary.

Sometimes I think people expect big wildlife moments to happen after hours of searching, hiking, sweating, and earning it somehow. And sometimes they do. But sometimes nature gives you the gift right next to the parking lot because apparently the universe knows you are recovering from surgery and your battery is at 12%.

This was one of those moments.

I had gone out hoping for baby coots, and instead I got a front-row seat to Red-tailed Hawk family life: the exhausted parent, the screaming youngsters, the wing-flapping chaos, the beautiful patience of an adult bird doing exactly what she needed to do.

Did you know Red-tailed Hawks are one of the most common hawks in North America? You often see them perched along roadsides, watching open areas for prey like mice, voles, rabbits, and other small animals. They are familiar birds, but familiar does not mean ordinary.

Not even close.

There is nothing ordinary about standing beneath a tree while a wild hawk lands near you.

There is nothing ordinary about watching young raptors practice becoming sky.

There is nothing ordinary about being reminded, at exactly the right time, that the world is still out there, still moving, still wild, still offering small miracles to people who manage to put on their shoes and leave the house.

After almost two weeks inside, my mind had gotten loud. Medical recovery does that. It slows your body down, but somehow speeds your thoughts up. Too much time inside can make every worry echo.

I needed fresh air. I needed a tree. I needed something bigger than my own thoughts.

Apparently, I also needed a very loud hawk family with zero indoor voices.

And I am so glad I pushed myself to go.

It wasn’t the walk I planned. It wasn’t the photo subject I expected. The baby coots will have to wait for another day.

But maybe that was the point.

Sometimes you head out looking for one thing and nature hands you what you actually need.

Today, I needed a reminder that wonder doesn’t always require a long hike, perfect timing, or a fully healed body. Sometimes wonder is ten steps from the parking lot, screaming from the branches, while a magnificent hawk mother looks you dead in the eye as if to say:

“Welcome back. Now please admire my ridiculous children.”