Sometimes the Best Birding Happens from the Driver's Seat - July 3, 2026

After weeks of recovering from surgery, I was craving fresh air, wildlife, and a little bit of normal.

I wasn't ready for a long hike or scrambling over rocky shorelines with my camera, but that didn't mean I couldn't go birding. Sometimes, the safest adventure is the one you take from behind the wheel.

So this evening, with Finn riding shotgun and my Aunt along for the adventure, we headed out for a slow drive along our beautiful coastline. No destination. No expectations. Just curiosity.

Our first stop was an Osprey nest at a local university. Unfortunately, there wasn't much excitement waiting for us. One Osprey sat quietly on the nest, keeping watch over the evening. Not every wildlife outing comes with dramatic action, and that's perfectly okay. Sometimes simply witnessing an animal carrying on with its daily life is enough.

A little farther down the road, we spotted a wild rabbit grazing peacefully beside the roadside. Finn was absolutely fascinated.

The bunny noticed us too, but instead of running away, she simply carried on nibbling clover, occasionally glancing in our direction. We sat there for several minutes, saying very little, simply watching her exist.

I couldn't stop admiring her beautiful coat, a perfect blend of greys, warm browns, golden highlights, and rich chocolate-brown eyes.

Moments like this remind me that slowing down changes everything.

When we actually stop and notice, life is incredible.

Our next stop was a local marina where a female Bufflehead had claimed a rock all to herself. She looked wonderfully content, tucked into a fluffy little ball of black and white feathers, enjoying a peaceful evening nap before occasionally opening an eye to pose for a photograph.

There was something comforting about all of these solitary animals going about their evening. No rush. No performance. Just life unfolding exactly as it should.

As we started making our way home, I casually said to Finn and my Aunt, "It would be nice to see some fawns tonight."

Almost as if nature had been listening, around the next bend stood a doe with a tiny fawn. And then another baby. Twins!

They couldn't have been more than a week or two old, their tiny bodies still wonderfully awkward as they explored the shoreline with cautious curiosity. Their white spots glowed in the soft evening light as they wobbled after their mother.

I parked the car and photographed them from a respectful distance—one of those moments when a good zoom lens allows you to witness something intimate without becoming part of the story.

What struck me most wasn't just the deer.

It was everyone else.

People walking along the pathway noticed the family and instinctively gave them space. No one crowded them. No one chased after a better photo. The doe remained relaxed, and her babies continued exploring without fear.

It was a beautiful reminder that people and wildlife can share the same spaces when respect comes first.

For several quiet minutes, the four of us simply watched. The babies stumbled through the grass, investigated everything around them, and stayed close to their mother.

Then one of the little fawns stopped. It turned its head and looked directly at me. For just a moment, nothing else existed. Not the recovery. Not the worries that had been filling my mind. Not the weeks spent feeling cooped up.

Just me...and this brand-new life looking back with the same quiet curiosity.

It was one of those fleeting wildlife moments that can't really be measured by the photographs you bring home.

You simply carry it with you.

Tonight reminded me that healing doesn't always happen inside hospitals or through medicine.

Sometimes it happens on a quiet coastal drive.

Sometimes it happens while watching a rabbit eat clover.

Sometimes it happens while an Osprey keeps watch over its nest.

And sometimes, if you're incredibly lucky, it happens when a tiny fawn looks back at you and reminds you that the world is still full of wonder.

These are the evenings I'll remember long after I've fully recovered.