The past few weeks, I’ve been diving deep into learning videography in preparation for my Urban Wildlife Chronicles YouTube channel. There’s so much to absorb—camera settings, stabilization techniques, panning, tilting, storytelling. It can be overwhelming. But as with photography, I knew the only way to really improve was to get out into the field and start filming.
So, I headed out to the migration estuary, hoping to practice capturing the movement of dunlins and black oystercatchers. The weather was cold but manageable—until it wasn’t. Just as I got my setup in place, the sky shifted, and the air filled with hail and snow.
Now, a year ago, I might have packed up and called it a day. But this time, I embraced the challenge. I set up my camera with my new gimbal, eager to test it out. My initial setup using a video head wasn’t as smooth as I wanted, so I switched to the K&F gimbal, and instantly, things felt much more natural. I still have a lot to learn—panning and tilting are definitely skills that require practice—but I could already feel the difference in control and fluidity.
Despite my focus on video, I couldn’t resist snapping a few photos along the way. And when I later reviewed them, I spotted something unexpected—a killdeer. I hadn’t even realized he was there, but he certainly knew I was. The coy look he gave me made me laugh. These little surprises are what make wildlife photography and videography so magical.
As the snow fell around us, the dunlins remained completely unbothered—by the weather, by me, by anything other than their search for dinner. They moved so quickly, darting back and forth with precision, their tiny legs working double-time across the wet sand. I even caught one coming in from the side like a little bumper car, nudging another out of a prime feeding spot. It was a tiny but fierce competition, a reminder that even in the smallest moments, nature is full of energy and personality.
Amidst the flurry of snow and movement, a familiar call cut through the cold air—Kenny the Kingfisher. I knew that rattling chatter anywhere. Scanning the shoreline, I finally spotted him, a small but bold silhouette against the grey sky. He landed on a distant rock cliff, surveying the waters below. I barely had a moment, but I managed to snap a quick shot before he took off again, always on the move, always just out of reach. Seeing him felt like running into an old friend in the wild—one who never stays long but always leaves an impression.
After spending some time with Kenny, I moved over to the other side of the lagoon and spotted a small group of black oystercatchers. Their stark black feathers contrasted beautifully with their vivid orange beaks and strikingly similar eyes—like little embers glowing against the dark. They moved in and out of the rocky shoreline, expertly searching for their next meal, while nearby, seagulls rummaged through the shallows, hunting for clams. Despite sharing the same space, each species had its own rhythm, its own way of navigating the tides. Watching them side by side was like witnessing two different stories unfolding in the same chapter of the shoreline.
Black oystercatchers may share the shore with seagulls, but their diets are quite different. While gulls scavenge for clams and other shellfish, oystercatchers specialize in prying open mussels, limpets, and other small marine creatures from the rocky intertidal zone. With their strong, chisel-like beaks, they expertly stab, slice, or hammer their prey open, showcasing just how perfectly adapted they are to their rugged coastal habitat.
Eventually, I turned off my camera and just sat there, watching the snow fall. The birds continued about their lives, unbothered by the storm, thriving in the elements they were built for. I took a deep breath—cold air in, cold air out. Lately, I’ve been consuming so much content on how to do this and do that—how to grow a YouTube channel, how to film better, how to structure a story—and on top of it all, watching the state of the world has made my mind restless.
But being out there, in the quiet, with the birds, everything settled. The estuary has always been my sanctuary. No matter how chaotic my thoughts get, it’s a place I can always return to, where nature reminds me to just be.
I’m grateful for this place. Grateful for the animals that inhabit it. Grateful that they let me witness their world. And even though my videos didn’t quite turn out this time, I’ll be back—learning, practicing, and sharing more soon.
Stay tuned.
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