Christmas morning didn’t start with a trailhead or a long drive—it started in the kitchen. The house was already alive with kids and Christmas energy, and I found myself at the window with a brand-new camera, sipping hot chocolate between bites of cinnamon rolls, shooting anything that moved. It felt instinctive—and familiar—like rewinding to the moment when birding first clicked.

Years ago, standing in this same spot, a Woodhouse’s Scrub-Jay became the first bird I ever consciously logged—after my wife casually said, “We should figure out what kinds of birds are in our backyard.” That single moment changed everything.

One of the best surprises wasn’t a bird at all—it was sharing the moment. My mom stood beside me with her new point-and-shoot, both of us aiming through the same kitchen window. She had her heart set on a chickadee, and for a brief flash it appeared, gone almost as quickly as it arrived.

Then the yard exploded with motion. A massive covey of California Quail—forty or more—appeared from every direction, roaming up and down the yard on one of their daily patrols. It’s something I’ve grown used to, but watching my parents react—stunned, laughing, frozen in place—was a reminder that what feels ordinary to us can be extraordinary to someone else.

I love seeing birds in large groups because it feels surreal, almost unreal—but I still haven’t found a way to truly capture that feeling in a photograph. Some moments are bigger than the frame.

A Downy Woodpecker followed not long after, working the feeder with that familiar mix of precision and chaos that never gets old. These weren’t rare birds—but they were perfect.