I move quietly through the forest, cautious and alert, hoping to see them before they see me. It rarely happens.
This morning, as I walked and searched – like I so often do – I suddenly noticed the deer. It stood in the middle of a clearing, watching me with a curious gaze. I was spotted. Again.
Every snapped twig, every sound beneath my shoes betrays me long before I even sense their presence. Once I’m spotted, it’s all about keeping my pace – calm, without sudden movements. I know that if I stop and abruptly raise the camera, the chance is lost and the deer will vanish. But if I just keep walking, pretending nothing has changed, it hesitates a moment longer. It’s as if it can’t quite decide whether I’m a threat. Most of the time, I stop anyway, even knowing I’ll get only three or four shots before it leaps back into the thicket.
These brief encounters with such graceful creatures bring me joy every time – perhaps because these large animals give me the comforting illusion that a little wild, undisturbed nature still remains.
