There’s something magical that happens when you get a bunch of wildlife people in the same place. Doesn’t matter if it’s at a bar, on a boat between dives, or sitting on folding chairs next to a camp fire — the stories start flowing.

We talk about animals, always.

The ones we’ve seen. The ones that got away. The ones we dream of seeing.

Someone brings up narwhals. Someone else chimes in about jaguars in the Pantanal. Suddenly we’re deep in a conversation about baitball dives in Baja, snow leopards in Mongolia, or the best way to photograph a crocodile without getting bit.

These are my favorite moments.

It’s not just about the animals — it’s about the people who love them.

People who think nothing of hiking for days, diving into cold water, or sitting still for hours just for the chance to be near wildlife. These are my people. And when we trade stories, ideas, and plans — it lights something up in me.

Then the camera talk starts.
What lens did you use for that shot?
Regular wide angle or fisheye?
“Do you go all-in for that curved look — or keep it classic and clean"

We geek out, no shame. Settings, sensors, shutters, sun angles. This is our language.

We swap gear tips. Locations. Talk about permits, timing, behavior, ethics, and instinct.
But more than anything, we remind each other why we do this.

It’s about connection. Not just to the animals, but to each other.

So here’s to the campfire chats.
The late-night idea swaps.
The “what if we went here?” and the “you’ve gotta see this place.”

If you’ve ever shared stories like that with me — thank you.
And if you haven’t yet… I hope we get to sit around and talk about wild things someday soon.

In wildlife photography, we’re taught to chase the shot—to anticipate, to prepare, to capture the moment when everything aligns.

But every once in a while, the moment comes… and the shot doesn’t.

And that’s okay.

I’ve missed more shots than I’ve taken. I’ve been in the perfect position to take the picture when the animal moves into perfect light, while I was still fumbling with my settings, and I didn’t get the shot.

Some of those missed shots still sting… probably always will.

But others have become the ones I cherish most.

Because being there—fully there—was more powerful than any photo I could have taken.

There’s a kind of magic in the moment that doesn’t let itself be captured.

You experience it with your whole body: the light, the movement, the presence of something wild that is also curious about you. And when you lift your camera and miss the focus, or the animal moves away, or the settings are wrong, it doesn’t erase the magic.

It just reminds you… you’re not in control.

That’s the truth of this work. We can train, study behavior, know our gear, scout the light—but in the end, nature decides.

And that’s what makes the shot—when it comes—so meaningful.

Because the ones you don’t get?
They shape you.
They sharpen your eye.
They teach you what the camera can’t.

Sometimes, those moments—the ones no one else sees, the ones only you were present for—become the ones that stay with you the longest.

And maybe that’s the real image you came for.

Wild Stories, Campfire Conversations, and the People Who Get It

The Shot You’ll Never Get... And Why It Still Matters.