Let's face it, one of the charms of bird photography is the challenge of getting close enough to capture a pleasing image.  They're wild creatures, tending to wariness when one gets too close -- and they can fly.  Which means they have an always available method of quick escape.  After all, to a bird these strange upright creatures with one gigantic protruding eye where a face should be must seem a dangerous apparition.  If one wants to succeed one must develop a certain skill for approaching without alarming the critter.

While I'm a bit too impatient to go in for camo gear, hides and such, I still try to move slowly, always conscious of the subject's reaction.  Doesn't always work, but if practiced when the bird is otherwise occupied it can pay dividends.  Indeed, in recent years I've sometimes been unable to keep the bird from falling asleep in my presence.  But lately, there's been an even more interesting phenomenon.  Beginning a few years ago, I had a piping plover play peek-a-boo for half an hour before flying in for a close look -- one of the most memorable experiences in all my travels.

Although there wasn't much going on at the refuge this June, even less than last year, nevertheless a new duo of close encounters added to the success of the visit.  The first was a pair of nesting  oystercatchers, probably the same pair that nested behind the beach parking lot last year.  According to refuge staff, this pair makes a habit of nesting on the beach -- and this year was no different.  On the last day, there was a roped off area where the female was sitting on eggs.  But the unusual close encounter took place a day before.

I was trying to photograph the pair on the beach -- and got more than I bargained for.  After pursuing these two for quite a while, suddenly the smaller of the two, undoubtedly the female, walked toward me, getting so close that her head and bill filled the entire frame.  Thankfully, she stayed just outside the minimum focusing distance of my lens.  The result was a succession of remarkably intimate images of the lady looking me over.

The second incident involved a pair of mated killdeer.  There's an overwash area between the north beach parking lot and Swan Cove.  Filled with broken shells and scrubby vegetation, it is a barren flat in which the killdeer pair forages for bugs and other fodder.  Beyond, there is a dense thicket of much taller vegetation bordering the approach to Swan Cove. On the morning in question I parked and scanned the area with binoculars, to no avail initially. The area is roped off so one can only appoach to the barrier. 

Then, in the distance, up against that Swan Cove vegetation and far outside the range of even my 600mm lens, I caught sight of a killdeer searching for food.  I stood watching and lamenting my bad luck when suddenly the killdeer looked my way and took took to wing, flying directly toward me.  It landed perhaps twenty or thirty feet away and stood watching.  Remarkably,  it remained in place while I fetched my tripod mounted  big lens.  My luck soon got ever better.  The female joined the male, and right there in front of me they -- well, they did what birds do in the story of the birds and the bees.  Afterwards the male stood watching me as if to say, did you enjoy the show!

These new encounters with curious birds made the trip a most memorable one -- proving once again the wildlife photographer adage that when all else fails give patience a try.