Behind the Shot: Three Days I'll Never Forget
Behind the Shot
Three Days I'll Never Forget
Bonavista Peninsula | July 1–3, 2026
Every now and then, a tour comes along that reminds you exactly why you became a photographer.
This was one of those tours.
Over three unforgettable days, one client and I explored the Bonavista Peninsula in search of wildlife, dramatic landscapes, and those fleeting moments that can never be planned, only experienced. By the time I sat down to sort through the images, I realized I had well over a hundred photographs that deserved to be shared.
There was another reason this tour will stay with me for a long time.
Although there was a bit of a language barrier between us, it never really seemed to matter. We spoke the shared language of photography and a genuine appreciation for the natural world. You don't need many words when two people stop in their tracks for the same patch of light, wait patiently for the same wildlife encounter, or quietly celebrate a photograph that turned out exactly as you'd hoped.
Over three days we stood among thousands of puffins, discovered Razorbills in places I'd never seen them before, spent time with a fox family I've had the privilege of photographing for several seasons, wandered some of Newfoundland's most spectacular coastlines, and witnessed an annual capelin roll that reminded us just how connected every part of this ecosystem truly is.
And somewhere out beyond the cliffs, humpback whales were writing the final chapter.
We'll get to them.
But this story isn't just about whales.
It's about a place where the wildlife, the landscape, and the people are woven together by the North Atlantic. It's about slowing down long enough to notice the details, appreciating the moments between the spectacular ones, and remembering that the best photographs are often the result of patience rather than luck.
So grab a coffee, settle in, and join me for what was quite possibly the most exciting and rewarding wildlife photography tour of my career.
Welcome to the Bonavista Peninsula.
Where the Puffins Rule
For many visitors, puffins are the reason they come to Newfoundland.
It's easy to understand why.
The "Human Side" in Elliston is one of those rare places where wildlife and people have learned to coexist. Generations of Atlantic Puffins have become accustomed to respectful visitors observing them from designated viewing areas, allowing photographers an opportunity that's almost impossible to find elsewhere. There's no blind to hide in, no long trek into the wilderness, and no need to photograph from hundreds of metres away.
Instead, you find yourself sharing the space with one of the North Atlantic's most charismatic seabirds.
No photograph can truly prepare you for your first visit.
The first thing you notice isn't the number of puffins. It's how easy it is to become completely overwhelmed by where to point your camera. Every few feet another bird lands. One disappears into a burrow. Another stretches its wings. A third suddenly flies past at eye level. Before long you stop looking for photographs and simply start reacting to them.
For my guest, it was an unforgettable introduction to one of Newfoundland's most iconic birds.
For me, despite being here multiple times every summer, that first glimpse of the colony still fills me with the same excitement it did years ago.
There were simply puffins everywhere.
Spend more than a few minutes watching puffins and you quickly realize they each seem to have their own personality.
Some stand confidently outside their burrows, appearing to survey the colony like tiny sentries. Others tilt their heads with genuine curiosity, studying the photographers watching them. Pairs greet each other with gentle touches of their colourful bills, strengthening bonds that often last for many breeding seasons.
It's easy to see why so many people fall in love with them.
At first glance, the colony feels wonderfully chaotic.
Puffins seem to be everywhere at once. Birds arrive from the ocean, others disappear into their burrows, while neighbours constantly keep an eye on one another from just a few feet away.
Spend a little time watching, however, and the apparent chaos begins to reveal a rhythm.
One bird stands quietly outside a burrow, pausing only occasionally to stretch or preen. Another lands awkwardly before disappearing underground for a few minutes. Pairs spend time together, touching bills or simply standing side by side as another breeding season unfolds.
It's a quieter side of puffin behaviour than many visitors expect, but I find it every bit as fascinating.
Wildlife photography isn't always about dramatic action.
Sometimes it's simply about slowing down long enough to appreciate everyday moments in a wild place.
Photographing a perched puffin is one thing.
Photographing one in flight is something entirely different.
With wings beating nearly 400 times a minute, puffins seem to defy their own appearance. On land they often appear awkward, almost comical. In the air they're fast, agile, and remarkably precise, banking effortlessly along the cliffs before disappearing out over the Atlantic in search of another meal.
Like so much in wildlife photography, success isn't about having the fastest camera.
It's about patience.
You watch the birds.
You learn their habits.
You begin to anticipate where they'll land, where they'll lift off, and how they'll use the wind.
Eventually, everything comes together for a fraction of a second.
That's the photograph you remember.
At Home on the Water
As much as we associate puffins with rocky cliffs and grassy burrows, the truth is they're only visitors here.
The ocean is where they truly belong.
For most of the year Atlantic Puffins live entirely at sea, returning to land for only a few short months to raise a single chick before disappearing once again into the North Atlantic.
Watching them float effortlessly between the swells is a reminder that these birds are perfectly adapted to a life most of us never get to witness.
Every so often one would simply vanish.
No warning.
No splash.
One moment it floated quietly on the surface. The next it had folded its wings and disappeared beneath the water, using those same wings to "fly" through the sea in pursuit of fish before resurfacing many metres away.
It's one of my favourite behaviours to watch.
On land they may appear almost clumsy.
In the water, they're transformed.
Graceful.
Powerful.
Completely at home.
There were quieter moments too.
Birds carefully preening their feathers after a dive.
Stretching their wings in the morning light.
Drifting peacefully on the gentle swell as though the rest of the world didn't exist.
These aren't the images that usually end up on postcards.
They don't demand attention in the way an action photograph does.
But I think they reveal something far more important.
Sometimes wildlife photography isn't about waiting for something spectacular to happen.
Sometimes it's about slowing down long enough to realize you're already witnessing something extraordinary.
The Gothic Cousins
One of the greatest joys of returning to the same places year after year is that nature always seems to have another surprise waiting.
This trip's surprise arrived dressed almost entirely in black and white.
I've photographed the Bonavista Peninsula for years. Razorbills are certainly no rarity around these waters, and seeing them offshore has always been part of the experience. But what I wasn't expecting was to find them mingling among the puffins on the "Human Side."
In all my years visiting this colony, I'd never witnessed anything quite like it.
Standing among the puffins, they almost looked out of place.
Where puffins seem cheerful and almost cartoonish, Razorbills have a completely different personality. Their sleek black backs, crisp white underparts and deep, laterally compressed bills give them an elegance that feels almost gothic. They don't possess the bright colours that make puffins so instantly recognizable, yet they have a quiet beauty all their own.
They carry themselves differently too.
Taller.
More deliberate.
Almost regal.
Before long, I found myself giving them as much attention as the puffins.
One of my favourite moments came when one of them opened wide.
For only a brief moment, the dark bill parted to reveal the vivid orange-yellow interior of its mouth, one of those tiny details that's easy to miss unless you're fortunate enough to be watching at exactly the right time.
It's one of those photographs I probably wouldn't have set out to make.
Instead, it found me.
Moments like that remind me why I always encourage people to slow down. The best photographs aren't always the ones you're chasing. Quite often they're the ones that quietly present themselves while you're busy looking at something else.
Eventually a few birds took to the air, slicing low across the Atlantic with rapid wingbeats that somehow looked both powerful and effortless.
Unlike the colourful puffins, Razorbills seem to fly with a purpose. There's very little wasted movement, just a direct line between the cliffs and the open ocean.
Photographing them in flight was an unexpected bonus to what had already become an unforgettable morning.
Looking back, the Razorbills perfectly captured what I love most about guiding photography tours.
No matter how many times I return to a location...
No matter how familiar I think I am with it...
Nature always finds a way to remind me that I still have plenty left to discover.
A Symphony of Wings
One of the easiest mistakes to make when visiting a place like Elliston or Cape Bonavista is to become so focused on the puffins that you miss everything else happening around you.
I used to do exactly that.
Now I find myself constantly looking away from the obvious subject, because experience has taught me that Newfoundland always has another surprise waiting just outside the frame.
This trip was no exception.
High above the shoreline, a trio of Great Cormorants stood motionless against the Atlantic.
There's something almost prehistoric about them. Unlike the colourful puffins or the elegant Razorbills, cormorants don't rely on bright colours or playful personalities to capture your attention. They command it through presence alone.
Perched on the rugged cliffs, they looked like ancient guardians of the coastline, patiently watching the ocean as generations of seabirds have done long before any of us arrived with cameras.
Sometimes a photograph isn't about action.
Sometimes it's about quiet strength.
Then, almost as if nature wanted to remind us that size has nothing to do with significance, a tiny Savanah Sparrow landed nearby.
Surrounded by towering cliffs, crashing waves, and thousands of seabirds, it would have been easy to overlook.
Instead, it became one of my favourite photographs of the morning.
I've always believed that photography trains us to notice the things we might otherwise walk past. A sparrow is an everyday bird for many people, yet here, against the backdrop of Newfoundland's dramatic coastline, it somehow felt perfectly at home.
Moments like that encourage me to slow down.
Not every memorable photograph has to involve a rare species.
Out on the water, rafts of Common Murres drifted quietly between the swells.
Compared to puffins, they're often overlooked.
There's no colourful bill.
No expressive face.
No comical landing.
Yet spend a few minutes watching them and you begin to appreciate just how perfectly adapted they are to this environment.
Calm on the surface.
Effortless in the swell.
Always seeming exactly where they belong.
Like so much of Newfoundland's wildlife, they don't demand your attention.
They simply reward it.
Further offshore, the pace changed completely.
Shearwaters appeared almost out of nowhere, skimming effortlessly across the surface of the Atlantic, barely touching the water as they rode the wind with astonishing precision.
Watching them is mesmerizing.
Rather than fighting the wind, they seem to borrow its energy, weaving gracefully between the waves with hardly a wingbeat.
They're birds built for an ocean that rarely sits still.
Photographing them isn't easy.
Watching them is reward enough.
Then came one final reminder that you should never stop looking up.
A Bald Eagle appeared quietly above the coastline, completely unbothered by everything unfolding below.
It wasn't hunting.
It wasn't soaring dramatically against the sky.
It simply perched.
Watching.
Its calm confidence was striking.
There was no need for theatrics.
It knew exactly where it belonged.
One of the things I love most about guiding photography tours is that they constantly remind me to stay curious.
It's easy to arrive hoping for one particular photograph.
The puffin.
The fox.
The whale.
But if that's all we ever look for, we miss so much of the story.
Every species has its place.
Every encounter adds another layer.
And together, they create something far greater than any single photograph ever could.
A Family I've Come to Know
There are wildlife encounters you hope for.
Then there are those that feel like catching up with old friends.
The foxes of the Bonavista Peninsula have become exactly that for me.
Every spring, I find myself wondering if they'll return. I hope the den is active. I hope the kits have done well through another Newfoundland winter. Mostly, I hope I'll be fortunate enough to spend a little more time observing a family that has quietly become one of my favourite reasons to visit this part of the province.
For a wildlife photographer, there are few gifts greater than time.
Not a single afternoon.
Not one lucky encounter.
Years.
Years of watching the same family grow, change, and write new chapters in a story that's still unfolding.
The first time I photographed this family, the kits were little more than awkward fuzzballs.
They seemed to have oversized ears, oversized feet, and absolutely no idea what to do with either of them. Every stick was worth investigating. Every blade of grass was a toy. Every sibling was an invitation to wrestle.
They stumbled through the meadow with the kind of fearless curiosity that only young animals seem to possess.
Those photographs remain some of my favourites.
Not because they were technically perfect.
Because they captured the beginning of a story.
Coming back this year was almost like meeting old friends after months apart.
Those tiny kits have grown.
Their legs are longer.
Their faces more refined.
The playful curiosity is still there, but it's now mixed with confidence. They're beginning to look less like curious youngsters and more like the foxes they'll eventually become.
Watching that transformation has been an incredible privilege.
Photography often celebrates a single decisive moment.
I think there's something even more meaningful about witnessing the passage of time.
Much of our time with the foxes was wonderfully uneventful.
And I mean that in the very best way.
There were no dramatic hunts.
No frantic chases.
No moments designed for a television documentary.
Instead, there was simply life.
Young foxes exploring their world.
Siblings playing together.
A quiet moment in the grass.
A curious glance toward the strange creatures sitting patiently behind cameras.
Sometimes that's enough.
Actually...
Most of the time, it's more than enough.
If the kits were the heart of the story, their mother was its quiet strength.
I've lost count of how many times I've photographed her over the years.
She always seems aware of everything happening around her.
Never nervous.
Never careless.
Always watching.
She allows the youngsters room to explore, yet never seems more than a few seconds away if they're needed.
It's impossible not to admire her.
Every season she reminds me that raising a family in the wild is no small achievement.
Then came my favourite photograph of the entire encounter.
At first glance, it's simply another portrait.
Look a little closer, though, and you'll notice something that made me smile the moment I saw it on the back of the camera.
One tiny tooth.
That's it.
Just enough to transform a beautiful portrait into one with real personality.
It's such a small detail.
The sort of thing many people might never notice.
But once you see it, you can't unsee it.
I think that's one of the reasons I love wildlife photography so much.
The smallest details often become the most memorable ones.
Every year I leave hoping I'll see them again.
Every year I'm reminded that there's no guarantee.
Wild animals owe us nothing.
Their lives continue whether we're there to witness them or not.
That's exactly as it should be.
Perhaps that's why these encounters feel so special.
They're never expected.
They're never staged.
They're simply moments we're fortunate enough to be invited into.
As photographers, I think that's all we can ever ask for.
The Land Between the Encounters
It's easy to think of a wildlife photography tour as a collection of animal encounters.
The puffins.
The foxes.
The whales.
But between those unforgettable moments lies another story, one that's just as important.
It's the story of the landscape itself.
The Bonavista Peninsula isn't simply a place where wildlife exists. It's the reason that wildlife exists here in the first place.
Towering cliffs provide nesting sites for thousands of seabirds. Hidden coves shelter seals from the open Atlantic. Wildflower-covered meadows become nurseries for foxes. Offshore currents carry the nutrients that support an entire food web stretching from tiny fish to the largest animals on Earth.
Everything is connected.
Sometimes the landscape tells that story better than any wildlife photograph ever could.
One of my favourite things about photographing Newfoundland is that the landscape never asks for your attention.
It simply waits.
A patch of lupins catches the morning light.
A weathered fishing stage stands quietly against the sea.
Fog drifts across the cliffs, revealing and concealing the coastline with every passing minute.
I've photographed these places countless times, yet they never seem to offer me the same photograph twice.
The weather changes.
The tide changes.
The light changes.
And with every change, the peninsula quietly reinvents itself.
Photography has taught me that not every stop needs to be planned around wildlife.
Some of my favourite memories from this trip came while simply standing beside the road, cameras in hand, appreciating the remarkable landscape we'd travelled so far to experience.
Sometimes we'd spend twenty minutes photographing a coastline before moving on.
Other times we'd simply stop, look, and continue driving.
Not every beautiful place needs to become a photograph.
Sometimes it's enough just to remember how it felt to stand there.
The Little Fish That Feeds an Ocean
Few places demonstrate Newfoundland's relationship with the Atlantic better than the Dungeon.
Standing at the edge of this collapsed sea cave, it's almost impossible not to pause for a moment.
The Atlantic surges through the opening below with incredible force, sculpting the coastline one wave at a time.
It's dramatic.
It's powerful.
It's unmistakably Newfoundland.
Yet on this visit, it wasn't the cliffs that held our attention.
It was the water below.
At first, all you notice is movement.
Then you realize what you're looking at.
Thousands upon thousands of capelin.
The water seemed alive.
Watching them move together in shimmering schools was mesmerizing, but it was also a powerful reminder that some of nature's biggest stories begin with its smallest characters.
Capelin rarely receive much attention from visitors.
They're not colourful.
They don't soar above the cliffs.
They don't breach dramatically from the ocean.
To many people, they're simply little silver fish.
To Newfoundland...
They're everything.
Every summer, these remarkable little fish return to Newfoundland's shores in astonishing numbers.
Their arrival fuels an explosion of life.
Puffins.
Razorbills.
Murres.
Shearwaters.
Seals.
Cod.
Humpback whales.
Each one depends, in some way, on this annual pulse of life.
It's easy to become captivated by the predator.
The breaching whale.
The hunting fox.
The soaring eagle.
But none of those moments exist without the countless smaller lives supporting them beneath the surface.
Nature isn't built from the top down.
It's built from the bottom up.
Watching those schools of capelin moving through the clear water beneath the Dungeon reminded me that the greatest wildlife spectacles on Earth often begin with something no bigger than your hand.
A Curious Encounter
As if to reinforce that lesson, one final resident of the coastline decided to pay us a visit.
While exploring John Cable Cove, a Harbour Seal surfaced nearby and began watching us with as much curiosity as we were watching it.
There was no dramatic behaviour.
No frantic escape.
No search for fish.
Just two species quietly observing one another from opposite sides of the water.
I've always enjoyed encounters like this.
They're understated.
Unscripted.
And completely unforgettable.
The seal stayed just long enough to satisfy its curiosity before slipping silently beneath the surface and disappearing into the Atlantic.
It was over in moments.
But somehow, it felt like the perfect ending to a day spent appreciating everything this coastline has to offer.
Looking back, it's remarkable how much of this story was connected by the ocean.
The cliffs shaped the seabird colonies.
The meadows sheltered the foxes.
The capelin sustained the ecosystem.
The seal reminded us we were visitors.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, humpback whales were following the same schools of fish that had drawn so much life to these shores.
We just didn't know it yet.
When the Ocean Came Alive
There are moments in wildlife photography that become milestones.
Not because of the photograph.
Because of how they make you feel.
This was one of those moments.
I've spent a lot of time photographing humpback whales over the years, and if there's one thing they've taught me, it's patience.
When I first started spending time on the water, I assumed breaches were something that simply happened if you waited long enough. Spend enough days on a zodiac, keep your camera ready, and eventually a whale would launch itself skyward.
Reality had other plans.
Over my first three seasons photographing whales, and after dozens of trips on the water, I managed to photograph only a couple of breaches.
That's how unpredictable they are.
You can spend hundreds of hours watching whales and never witness one completely clear the surface.
That's exactly what makes those moments so extraordinary.
Then came this tour.
At first, it felt like any other morning on the water.
A distant blow.
A slow, graceful surfacing.
The arch of a back disappearing beneath the waves.
A fluke lifted into the air before slipping silently beneath the surface.
Every encounter was beautiful.
Every encounter was enough.
Had the day ended there, I would have gone home happy.
But the ocean had other ideas.
The whales became more active.
A pectoral fin slapped the surface.
Moments later another.
A tail rose high above the water before crashing back into the Atlantic.
Everyone on board instinctively raised their cameras.
Something was changing.
You could feel it.
No one said much.
They didn't need to.
Sometimes anticipation is louder than words.
And Then...
Without warning...
The ocean exploded.
Several tonnes of humpback whale launched completely clear of the water before crashing back into the Atlantic in a wall of white spray.
For a split second, nobody moved.
Not because we weren't ready.
Because we couldn't quite believe what we'd just witnessed.
Then every camera on the zodiac came alive.
The remarkable thing wasn't that we witnessed a breach.
It was that the performance kept going.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Every time we thought the show was over, another whale would erupt from the ocean somewhere nearby.
Some breached completely clear of the water.
Others twisted in mid-air before crashing back into the sea.
Some landed with an explosion that sent spray high into the air.
Others disappeared beneath the surface only to reappear moments later somewhere completely unexpected.
There comes a point where you stop counting.
You simply experience it.
As photographers, we're often guilty of thinking about shutter speeds, autofocus settings and memory cards.
Those thoughts disappeared surprisingly quickly.
More than once I found myself lowering the camera.
Not because I didn't want another photograph.
Because I needed to remind myself to actually watch.
Some moments deserve more than a memory card.
They deserve your full attention.
One thing I think is important to mention whenever I share photographs like these is that telephoto lenses can be deceptive.
Long lenses compress distance.
They make subjects appear much closer together than they really are.
Looking at these images, it would be easy to assume our zodiac was sitting directly beneath the whales.
That wasn't the case.
Safe viewing distances were maintained throughout every encounter.
If anything, these incredible animals often chose to approach us.
That's an important distinction.
The photographs exist because we respected the whales.
Not despite it.
That's one of the many reasons I enjoy working with Bob and Josh from Discovery Sea Adventure Tours.
Their priority has never been getting closer.
Their priority has always been understanding the animals.
Years of experience have taught them how to position the boat respectfully, read whale behaviour, and allow encounters to unfold naturally.
There is no chasing.
No crowding.
No pressure.
Just patience.
Experience.
And a genuine respect for the wildlife we're privileged to observe.
Ironically, I believe that's exactly why experiences like this happen.
Wild animals are far more likely to behave naturally when they're allowed to remain exactly that...
Wild.
The Sequence I'll Never Forget
I could spend pages trying to describe what happened next.
Honestly...
The photographs do a far better job than I ever could.
Looking back through these photographs now, it's still difficult to believe they were all made during the same three-day tour.
If someone had shown me this collection before the trip, I'm not sure I would have believed them.
That's the beauty of wildlife photography.
You can prepare.
You can plan.
You can understand animal behaviour.
You can spend years learning your craft.
But every now and then...
Nature decides to give you a gift.
This was one of those gifts.
One I'll never forget.
As extraordinary as the whales were, and as unforgettable as the photographs have become, they're only part of the story.
Because when I look back on these three days, the first things that come to mind aren't just breaching humpbacks or fox kits playing in the grass.
I remember a local fisherman proudly showing us his catch.
A quiet embrace overlooking the puffin colony.
A photographer carefully composing an image while completely lost in the moment.
The wildlife brought us here.
The people completed the story.
As I look back through these photographs, I'm reminded that experiences like this don't happen because someone has a good camera.
They happen because of the people you share them with.
I want to extend a heartfelt thank you to Bob and Josh of Discovery Sea Adventure Tours. Their knowledge of these waters, their professionalism, and above all, their respect for the wildlife made every moment on the ocean a privilege. At no point did it ever feel like we were chasing whales. We were simply sharing their world for a little while, allowing each encounter to unfold naturally and on the whales' terms.
I have no doubt that's one of the reasons the experience was as extraordinary as it was.
Three days.
Hundreds of kilometres.
Thousands of photographs.
More memories than I can count.
People often ask me why I keep returning to the Bonavista Peninsula.
The answer has never been just the puffins.
Or the foxes.
Or even the whales.
It's the feeling that every time I visit, this remarkable corner of Newfoundland has another story waiting to tell. Sometimes it's found in a dramatic wildlife encounter. Sometimes it's hidden in a quiet landscape. Sometimes it's a quiet human moment that reminds you photography is about much more than the images we create.
It's about slowing down.
It's about paying attention.
It's about feeling connected to a place and appreciating the privilege of experiencing it.
If these three days reminded me of anything, it's that the best photographs aren't simply captured.
They're lived.
I hope this little glimpse behind the camera has given you a sense of what made these three days so unforgettable.
Until next time...