January 2025 — Short Bursts of Magic

January is a hard month.

The holidays are over. The calendar fills back up. The weather turns gray. And in the middle of all that, something new had just sparked for me — FeatherQuest came into focus on January 4th, and I moved fast.

That urgency bled into everything. I was creating, designing, writing, and still trying to live a normal January: work deadlines, family events, an anniversary hike, time with my wife’s family as her brother’s health declined.

Birding didn’t look like long walks or planned outings. It looked like pulling over. Parking. Stepping out into the cold for five minutes. Then getting back in the car and moving on.

Looking back, January wasn’t messy. It was compressed. A lot of small moments stacked together — and somehow, they added up.

The year really started on December 31st, even if the calendar hadn’t caught up yet.

I’d heard about Barn Owls in Saratoga Springs through an online group and asked for directions. My wife and I went out together — not knowing what to expect, and honestly not even sure we’d find them.

We weren’t alone. Someone nearby had already spotted them and helped point them out. Once you see one, you start to see more — until suddenly there were five, tucked high in the trees, nearly invisible unless the angle was just right.

The next day we came back. My wife ran a New Year’s Day 5K. Her brother joined us. We found the owls again — and this time, he noticed the pellets scattered below the trees. Evidence we’d walked past the day before without seeing.

On the drive home, someone mentioned eagles on the far side of the lake. We took the long way. It added time. It tested patience. But we saw two Bald Eagles — and a version of Utah Lake that felt open, quiet, and full of potential.

One Sunday I got a call from a coworker: the Mandarin Duck was back at Spring Lake.

I’d missed it earlier in the season while out of town. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I drove out, met him there, and stood for a moment just taking it in.

The Mandarin Duck is unreal — a bird so striking it almost feels fictional. Not native to Utah, but undeniably real, and undeniably a bird someone once loved enough to bring here.

On the drive back, I spotted a Cooper’s Hawk in the trees — my target bird that week. I pulled over again. January rewarded effort.

Most of January lived between destinations.

A Great Egret at the Flowserve ponds. A Gadwall glowing in perfect light at a local reservoir. Black-crowned Night Herons on a later return. None of these were planned — all of them required stopping anyway.

One day a Merlin showed up at work. It stayed all day. Morning, lunch, afternoon — preening in the same tree. I still don’t know why. Maybe resting. Maybe preparing. Maybe just existing.

Not everything needs meaning to be meaningful.

January 25th was different. This one was intentional.

I drove the Bear River Auto Loop for the first time. I underestimated it — how long it would take, how much ground it covered, how quickly the day would slip away.

The heater was on. The car became a blind. I could watch without being seen.

By the end, I felt the pressure to get home. Family was waiting. Time was gone. But the birds didn’t care — and neither did the experience.

January wasn’t about maximizing output.

It was about maximizing opportunity — stopping when I could, noticing when it mattered, and letting small moments be enough.

You couldn’t recreate this month even if you tried. Same roads. Same dates. Same birds. It wouldn’t matter.

You’d still see something different. And that’s the point.