My Story: the Goshawk

The hide was small but well concealed, its wooden frame camouflaged by the thick undergrowth and the towering Scots pines around it. I settled into the corner, adjusting the camouflage netting that draped across the viewing slit. The air was crisp and still, a cool bite to it, but I barely noticed. All my focus was on the clearing ahead—where I hoped to see the goshawk. 

The morning light filtered through the dense canopy, casting long, soft beams on the forest floor. There was something ancient about this part of the world. The towering pines, their bark thick and weathered, seemed to whisper of centuries past. I had been here before, many times, but every visit felt like the first—full of anticipation, never knowing what the forest might reveal.

Goshawk with its wings open
Taken: A6600 - 200:600mm f/6.3

My camera was set, ready. I'd been waiting for a while now, my senses attuned to every rustle and distant call. Photographing wildlife was as much about patience as it was about skill, and in this forest, the wait was always part of the experience. The goshawk was elusive, a true master of the woods, and to capture it on camera meant getting a rare glimpse into its world.

Suddenly, the soft call of a small bird echoed nearby, sharp and alarmed. I straightened, my heart skipping a beat. That call was often the sign of a predator nearby. Slowly, I adjusted the camera's focus, my eyes scanning the tree line. There—something moved. A flicker of grey, barely noticeable against the dappled light. I held my breath.

The goshawk emerged from the shadows, gliding low through the pines, its movement almost imperceptible until it landed on a branch in the clearing. It was everything I’d imagined—sleek, powerful, with piercing eyes that seemed to scan the surroundings with deadly precision. Its feathers were a perfect blend of gray and white, a living embodiment of the forest’s muted tones.

Goshawk perched on tree stump

Taken: Nikon Z9: 400mm f/4.5

This was the moment I’d been waiting for. Through the lens, I could see every detail—the curve of its talons gripping the branch, the subtle pattern of its feathers, the intensity in its gaze. The goshawk flicks its head toward the hide.

For a few seconds, it seemed to look right at me. I froze, holding my breath, unwilling to break the connection. There was a rawness in those eyes, a sharp, primal awareness that made my pulse quicken. It knew I was there, but it didn’t flee. Not yet.

Goshawk looking down the lens right at me
Taken: Nikon Z9: 400mm f/4.5

I pressed the silent shutter on the camera, capturing that gaze, that stillness. Then, in an explosion of movement, the goshawk launched itself from the branch. It was faster than I’d expected, a blur of wings and claws, disappearing into the trees before I could react. But I had the shot—I could feel it.

I leaned back in my seat, exhaling slowly. Remembering to finally breath. The forest was quiet again, the excitement of the encounter fading into the steady hum of nature. I glanced at the camera, eager to see the images I’d captured, but there was no rush. The moment was still fresh in my mind, and I wanted to savor it a little longer.

Sitting there in the silence, surrounded by ancient pines, I felt that familiar connection to the wild—a sense of being part of something vast and untamed. The photograph would be a reminder, but the real prize was the experience itself, the fleeting, intimate moment shared with a creature that rarely showed itself.