TRUE STORY · Biddeford Pool, Maine

The Owl Charlie Almost Missed

A True Story by Lloyd W. Alexander

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There are some moments in life that stay with you. Not because something extraordinary happened to you, but because you got to watch something extraordinary happen to someone else.

This is one of those stories.

Charlie had seen my photographs of snowy owls before. I'd spent enough time photographing wildlife to know some of the places these magnificent birds liked to spend their winters along the Maine coast.

And Charlie wanted to see one.

He'd never seen a snowy owl in the wild.

He'd tried, though. More than once, he'd gone looking in the places I'd told him about. He'd driven down, searched the fields and shoreline, and come home without seeing a thing.

Eventually, I told him, "Why don't we meet down there? I'll show you one."

I suppose that was a pretty confident thing to say about a wild animal that could fly wherever it pleased.

But I knew those owls were around.

And I knew where to look.

We met down at Biddeford Pool, one of my favorite places for wildlife photography. There were plenty of other people out searching that day. Birdwatchers, photographers, people hoping to catch a glimpse of one of those beautiful white visitors from the Arctic.

We checked a couple of the usual spots.

Nothing.

Not a snowy owl in sight.

I could tell Charlie was getting disappointed.

But I wasn't ready to give up.

"No, no, no," I told him. "They're here. They don't just go away. They're still here. I'll find one."

So we moved on.

I knew a few quieter places, spots where there weren't so many people walking around. Sometimes finding wildlife isn't about knowing where everybody else is looking.

It's about knowing where they aren't.

We parked and started walking along some brush near the water.

And that's when I saw it.

Just a little patch of white.

Nothing dramatic. No great white bird perched out in the open, waiting for someone to admire it.

Just something white where white didn't belong.

I'd spent enough years looking for wildlife to recognize that sort of thing. Sometimes your eyes catch something before your mind has even figured out what you're seeing.

There, tucked down beyond the bushes near the water's edge, was a snowy owl.

And Charlie had walked right past it.

I didn't say anything.

Not yet.

You see, I wanted Charlie to find it himself.

I wanted him to have that moment of discovery, that sudden realization that the bird he'd been searching for was right there in front of him.

So I kept walking.

The owl was well hidden, low enough that you couldn't see it from the road. Unless you were really paying attention, you'd never know it was there.

We walked far enough beyond it that I felt comfortable turning around without disturbing the bird.

Then I stopped.

"Hey, Charlie. Why don't you look behind us?"

He turned around.

He looked.

And looked some more.

"What?"

"Do you see anything white?"

He studied the brush.

"Well, there's some white stuff out there."

I smiled.

"Charlie, I'm going to point."

I raised my hand and showed him where to look.

And then he saw it.

"Oh my God!"

He stared.

"That's not even that far away! How did you see that?"

"I saw it when we walked by it."

He looked at me.

"We walked by it?"

"Yeah, Charlie. We walked right by it."

"No, we didn't!"

"Charlie, did we not just walk here?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then we walked right by it."

He shook his head.

"How did I miss that?"

"Because it's hidden. You really can't see it from the road."

But I don't think Charlie was listening much anymore.

He was looking at his first snowy owl.

And I'll never forget the expression on his face.

He looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

All that searching. All those trips when he'd come home disappointed. All those photographs he'd seen and wished he'd taken himself.

And now there it was.

A real snowy owl.

Right in front of him.

He raised his camera.

And started shooting.

I swear he must have taken a thousand pictures.

"I can't believe this," he kept saying.

Then he'd look through his camera again.

"They're so pretty. They're so pretty."

I was enjoying watching Charlie almost as much as he was enjoying watching the owl.

After a while, I started studying the area around us.

"Let's see if we can get a little different angle," I told him.

I wanted him to get some better photographs, but I wasn't about to risk frightening the bird just to get them.

Years of wildlife photography had taught me to pay attention to an animal's behavior. You learn to recognize when something is comfortable and when it's beginning to feel threatened.

I moved slowly, watching the owl.

I found another position, a little closer, where I thought we could photograph it without making it uncomfortable.

Then I turned to Charlie.

"Come over here. Very slowly."

He started toward me.

"And Charlie? Don't look at the owl. Look at me."

"But I want to look at the owl!"

"Don't look at the owl. Look at me. When you get here, you can look at the owl."

To his credit, he listened.

Charlie had a calmness about him that made him a good companion for something like this. Even though he was practically bursting with excitement, he could settle himself down when it mattered.

And with wildlife, that matters a great deal.

He walked over slowly.

The owl stayed.

Charlie raised his camera again.

And this time, he got some wonderful photographs.

I don't know how many pictures he took that day, but I know he was proud of them. He posted them everywhere, showing people the snowy owl he'd finally gotten to see.

And he made sure everybody knew I had helped him find it.

But the pictures weren't the best part.

Not for me.

For probably half an hour, it was just the two of us and that owl.

Nobody else knew it was there.

Cars drove past. People searched the usual places. Some probably drove right by us several times without realizing what we were looking at.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of a few people.

Why were those two guys standing there with their cameras?

What were they photographing?

There were plenty of possibilities. You could see ducks from that spot. Sometimes seals. There was always something interesting along the water.

But this time, it was something special.

Eventually, other people began stopping.

Our little secret wasn't much of a secret anymore.

And that was fine.

We'd already had our moment.

Charlie had seen his first snowy owl.

He'd photographed it.

And I'd gotten to watch the whole thing happen.

I've photographed a lot of wildlife over the years. I've spent countless hours looking through a camera lens, waiting for the right light, the right movement, the right opportunity.

Some of those photographs have meant a great deal to me.

But when I think back on that day at Biddeford Pool, I don't remember what camera settings I used.

I don't remember how many pictures I took.

I remember Charlie.

I remember him looking around, trying to find something that was practically right under his nose.

I remember the disbelief when I pointed it out.

And I remember that big, childlike excitement when he finally saw the bird he'd been searching for.

Sometimes the greatest reward in wildlife photography isn't the photograph you bring home.

Sometimes it's getting to share something you love with somebody else.

And sometimes, if you're lucky, you get to give a friend a memory he'll carry for the rest of his life.

That day, I found a snowy owl.

But watching Charlie find his first one?

That was the real gift.

Author's Note

This is a true story from one of my wildlife photography outings with Charlie at Biddeford Pool, Maine.

I've spent much of my life photographing wildlife, and I've always believed that the experience matters more than the photograph.

That afternoon reminded me why.

The owl was beautiful, of course. Snowy owls always are.

But what made that day unforgettable was Charlie's excitement and the opportunity to share something special with a friend.

Sometimes the best memories aren't the ones we make for ourselves.

They're the ones we help someone else make.

— Lloyd W. Alexander

© 2026 Lloyd W. Alexander. All rights reserved.