Colombia — Work, Birds & Grace

I went to Colombia knowing exactly what kind of trip this would be—and what kind it wouldn’t.

This wasn’t a birding expedition. It was a humanitarian trip with my son: twenty 16–18 year olds, two young adult leaders, one other parent leader (Mama Jill), and me—trip dad. Hard work, a packed schedule, and almost zero control over where we went or how long we stayed.

Still, I brought my camera. Not because I expected perfection, but because I knew I’d have one reliable window: breakfast. A small slice of quiet each morning, wherever we happened to be staying.

My son and I flew to Miami a day early. We didn’t arrive at the hotel until 2:50 a.m., and I still set an alarm.

By 9:30 a.m. I was at A. D. Barnes Park, walking into the kind of summer heat that turns your whole day into humidity math. My lens fogged hard for the first hour. Geckos were everywhere. Orb weavers had roped off sections of sky.

A few birds made it worth it anyway: a Black-and-white Warbler (lifer), a distant Fish Crow (lifer), and then—right at the end—an Egyptian Goose I only noticed because I was already halfway into my exit plan.

My Uber was already on the way. I rushed the photos and jumped in the car. The moment was imperfect—and that felt like an honest introduction to the trip ahead.

We met up with the others and flew into Medellín and spent the weekend in Peñol—hiking El Peñón de Guatapé, doing lake activities, shopping in colorful streets, bonding as a group.

But the early mornings belonged to the lake. Our house overlooked the water, and I didn’t have to go far to feel like I was in the middle of something wild.

The kids were slow to get up. A few started asking questions. Birding didn’t separate me from the group—it became part of how they started seeing the place.

One morning, during our devotional on the deck overlooking the lake, everything went quiet for a moment. I noticed a Roadside Hawk perched below us—still, watching. I lifted my camera slowly, took the shot, and then lowered it again, careful not to break the moment. It felt less like birding and more like paying attention.

A Common Gallinule fight snapped the calm one morning. Chachalacas called from a distance with a Jurassic kind of voice—present, loud, and never quite close enough.

The best mornings aren’t always the ones with the most birds. Sometimes it’s just the feeling that the world is awake before you are—and you get to witness it.

Bucaramanga is where the trip became what it was meant to be.

We were the last HXP group on-site, which meant our job was concrete: mixing, hauling, pouring, finishing floors and paths for a newly erected school auditorium. The days were draining. The schedule was relentless. 6:30 a.m. wakeups, 10:30 “bedtime” that turned into midnight.

Birding didn’t compete with that—it balanced it. I was always one of the first up, dressed, outside. One girl was usually already on the patio journaling while I hunted the yard.

Because I speak Spanish, I became the translator between our foreman and the team. I organized jobs, kept kids motivated, and stepped into the heavy work whenever it needed doing.

The camera mostly stayed in my room. That was intentional. I was there for the work. But the mornings still mattered—especially because I birded the same spot every day.

Over two weeks, the house birds stopped being random. I learned their patterns. I started anticipating behavior. Black Phoebes nested on the house. Great Kiskadees stayed loud and busy. Vermilion Flycatchers blinked red across the grass like tiny alarms.

Even the local chefs got invested—asking about the birds, sharing what they’d seen in their country, and enjoying the photos when I showed them. Passion lowers walls.

I only brought the big camera to the worksite once or twice—and only made one real photo there. Most days it stayed put.

Trip dad meant being present. It meant documenting the kids with my iPhone. It meant translating, helping sick kids, keeping the group moving.

I don’t regret any of that. I’d love to return someday on a pure birding trip—but this one wasn’t meant to be that.

Our return flights were booked wrong. That mistake gave us an extra day with no house to return to and nothing scheduled.

When the leaders suggested the Jardín Botánico Eloy Valenzuela, I felt it immediately: a tender mercy. It was the one place I’d hoped might be possible before coming on the trip.

We split into small groups of three and roamed. No clock. No urgency. Just space to notice.

One of the girls mentioned how much she loved ducklings and asked me to photograph one for her. It felt like the same kind of noticing—just pointed at a different subject.

In a new place where everything is new, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed and miss shots. But this hummingbird stayed. Peaceful. Unrushed. It felt like a gentle closing to a trip that rarely slowed down.

This story isn’t about how many birds I saw in Colombia.

It’s about learning when to look, when to work, and when to let the moment be enough.

Some days that meant putting the camera down. Other days it meant stepping outside five minutes earlier than everyone else and noticing what was already there.

I came home tired, grateful, and changed in small ways that are hard to explain—but easy to feel.