Nemesis Bird Down! (Well… Photographed

Almost every bird photographer has that bird. The one that dances just out of reach. The one that mocks you from the shadows. The one that clearly read your camera manual and knows exactly how to avoid the focus point.

For me? I’ve got two.

Let’s start with the Belted Kingfisher. Sure, I’ve managed a few okay shots of them over the years. But great shots? Nope. Not once. These little fish-flinging maniacs seem to take personal joy in taunting me. You’ve heard their rattling call, right? Imagine that, but pointed, smug, and broadcast at full volume the second I step outside without my camera. I swear I’ve heard one laughing. I mean it—laughing. Right over my head. Low pass. No mercy.

Now, I probably should take them off my nemesis list. But the sheer gall of these birds has earned them a permanent grudge slot in my heart.

The real white whale of my bird photography, though? The elusive, the ridiculous, the dazzling… male Painted Bunting.

I’ve barely seen one. The few I’ve spotted were either a hundred yards away or behind seven layers of thorny brush. I’ve dreamed of the day I’d photograph one properly—and every spring I tell myself this is the year.

Well, this evening, I got my shot.

Let me set the scene.

I was at my desk, which faces the bay window overlooking my feeders. For the past couple of days, Indigo Buntings have been dropping in like VIPs at a birdseed buffet. Knowing that sometimes Painted Buntings travel in bunting buddy packs, I’ve been keeping my camera (with my telephoto lens) locked and loaded on the desk, just in case.

Late this afternoon, three Indigo Buntings dropped in again, perching on the feeder and fence. I slowly raised my camera—and then something colorful caught my eye.

Something very colorful.

At first, I didn’t even register what I was seeing. And then it hit me: male Painted Bunting. In the feathers. Right there. On my feeder.

I shoved my eye into the viewfinder and immediately noticed that my settings were all wrong—the feeders were in shadow, and I was way underexposed. In a frenzy of button-clicking and finger acrobatics, I bumped the ISO, widened the aperture, and dropped the shutter to 1/400. Then I started clicking away like a caffeinated sports photographer.

I expected him to vanish in a flash. That’s what Indigo Buntings always do. But this guy? This glorious, multicolored marvel? He didn’t care at all. I stood up—still clicking—and edged closer to the window. Nothing. Still chomping on white millet like a champion.

Incredibly, I grabbed my 105mm macro lens from above the window and swapped it in. He watched, maybe slightly curious, but otherwise unfazed. The Indigos had already bailed, no doubt horrified by the paparazzi scene, but Mr. Painted Bunting? He was living his best life.

I took a couple dozen shots with the macro. Then I got bold.

I quietly switched back to the 200–500mm lens, opened the door, and slipped outside like a nature ninja. I moved stealthily—about ten feet from the door, still out of sight—and peeked around the corner.

There he was. Still sitting in the tray feeder. Still eating white millet like it was gourmet bird sushi.

I started snapping again. He glanced my way—once—then went right back to feeding. I could hear violins playing in my head.

Now, I’ll admit: the lighting wasn’t perfect, and the shots aren’t gallery-worthy. But they are mine. I finally photographed my nemesis bird, up close and personal, and he looked every bit as radiant as I hoped he would.

If there’s any justice in this world, he’ll come back tomorrow. Maybe he’ll bring a few more friends. Maybe he’ll pose in better light. Maybe the Belted Kingfisher will see him and feel ashamed.

But today? Today, I got the shot. Not the best shot, maybe. But a meaningful, magical, bucket-list one.

And for that, I’m thrilled.