Shooting Ducks in the Magic Hour
“The Magic Hour” is a term used by landscape photographers to describe the period of rapidly changing light that begins with the setting sun and continues through early evening dusk. Depending on the weather, the countryside can be illuminated in varying hues, casting long, shadowy silhouettes. Photographing during this time provides an opportunity to capture images that are uniquely different from those taken at other times of the day. I wanted to utilize the “magic hour” lighting to enhance a video short focused on Long Island ducks, which I was creating for a cable TV station. The episode’s theme centers around wild ducks that migrate south from the Canadian tundra during the fall, making stopovers in suburban parks. These migrating ducks have likely not encountered humans for some time, making them quite shy. Therefore, I knew it would be challenging to approach these skittish birds, so I brought along a large telephoto lens. However, this meant I had to carry a heavy load, including the weight of the lens and the substantial tripod needed for support. Additionally, I had to bring batteries, a stool, and other gear, so I needed a location with easy access to the water close to my car. Working alone, I had to carry everything myself on one trip, and I was also concerned about potential theft in suburban parks to leave equipment alone during the time needed for a second trip. I decided on Twin Ponds Preserve in Wantagh, Long Island, New York, as it met all my requirements. This small park features large ponds with water reaching the park’s edges and roadways at several points. More urban than suburban, the park’s habitat is enclosed by busy roads and a six-foot chain-link fence. In many places, one could almost roll from the road into the water if not for the surrounding fence. The park is unimproved, with entrances marked by simple gaps in the fencing and no designated sidewalks or parking areas. The north-facing entrance to the park was ideal for both lighting and access. The light from the setting sun would be at my back, which is important since video handles shadows poorly. Additionally, this entrance is situated less than three feet from the road, making it extremely convenient. The steeply sloping bank between the roadway and the pond is reinforced with railroad ties to prevent erosion from undercutting the roadbed. These railroad ties also serve as makeshift steps down to the water’s edge. Although parking is not allowed on this side of the street, it is only a short distance to carry the equipment from my car to the pond. I positioned the tripod with its two furthest legs in the pond water, while the third leg rested on the lowest railroad tie. I pulled a folding stool up to the tripod, ensuring that the stool’s legs were on the outside of mine, which were on either side of the tripod’s land-based leg. Although getting up from this position would require some effort to untangle myself, it was comfortable and stable. I settled in with the equipment, prepared to wait for a few hours. The wild ducks—ring-necked, lesser scaup, and hooded merganser—were far off, but the shadowless glow of the fading sunset encouraged my patience. I sat and waited, hoping the ducks would come closer as the light gradually faded into the night.
After the Magic Hour Comes the Bewitching Hour
A car stopped on the road by the opening in the fence behind me. I couldn’t turn to look because I was entangled between the legs of the stool and the tripod. The engine continued to run, and I didn’t hear a car door open. Sitting still, I focused my attention on the distant ducks. Suddenly, someone threw a large bag containing loaves of bread from the car. It was flung in such a way that its contents scattered about the area; most of it reached the pond, while some landed short on the bank, bouncing off me and my equipment. A second bag of bagels followed, and then the car sped off. A group of resident mallards began moving in for the meal before the last slice of bread splashed down. I suspected they had seen this happen before. Watching the ducks converge on the floating buffet, I mused about the bizarre event. Had the bread thrower noticed my crouching figure below? The incident happened so quickly that my guess is it was done with little thought, like a mechanical act from repetitive performances every evening on the way home from work. I figured the bread, bagels, and rolls were probably from a diner or bakery and intended for the ducks rather than being discarded at day’s end. Whoever the bread-flinger was, it seemed their satisfaction came from the act of giving, not from watching the ducks eat the food. Or, perhaps they saw me, and embarrassment is why the car sped off while their second delivery was still airborne. I didn’t need pictures of mallards eating, and the distant wild ducks showed little interest in the food handout, so they remained too far away for me to shoot. Turning back to the camera, I heard the sound of scampering. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what was making the noise—there were rats! They emerged from under bushes, grabbing pieces of bread and scurrying back to the shrubbery. They seemed unaware of my presence, but I doubted that. Rats are clever animals with keen senses. I’m large and not too quiet, and since it was late in the workday, I probably didn’t smell too fresh either. The rats knew I was sitting there, but they didn’t seem to care. These were bold rats that seemed to possess “people smarts.” Without hesitation, one ran down my pant leg to the tip of my sneaker and dove into the pond. It swam to the floating bread, grabbed a slice with its mouth, and then, much like a retriever, brought the hunk back to shore, disappearing beneath the bushes. Other rats appeared to my right and left and also began jumping into the water, swimming for bread. Both the mallards and the rats fed together on a floating mélange of sliced bread, whole rolls, and bagels. The ease with which the two competed for the same resource gave me the impression of a respectful familiarity between them. The ducks were aggressive toward other ducks but avoided the rats. In fact, I didn’t witness any interactions between the ducks and rats, which is quite different from the aggressive free-for-all that typically breaks out between ducks and gulls when they both rush to claim a bread drop at a pond.
Video of ducks and rats competing for an unnatural food source would have made my day. Unfortunately, I was set up with a 600mm super telephoto lens, which not only weighs about thirty pounds but also doesn’t focus closer than twenty feet. This was the equipment I chose in order to photograph the wild ducks I knew wouldn’t come close. If they had been twenty yards away, I would have been ready. But they weren’t—one rat was using my foot as a diving platform, rendering my camera equipment useless. Being understanding of the rats, I sat motionless, watching their feeding antics. But suddenly, the game changed. In the quickly dimming light, I saw a large, dark, submerged outline swim toward me. The outline was rat-like, but much bigger—about the size of a basketball. My rat tolerance suddenly faded. Local lore about giant New York City subway rats suddenly gained credibility. My heart started beating like I was about to discover a sasquatch, and again, I cursed not having brought a second camera to record the approaching beast. The animal’s head broke the pond’s surface, and with mouth agape, slurped up a slice of bread. Immediately, I recognized what it was, and my rapid breathing turned into chuckles. What surfaced within arm’s reach was a muskrat.
How to footnote this page: Reiser, Frank W. (2025). Photographing Park Ducks. When the Waters Turn Red, the Rats Come. Available at: https://antiqueslides.net/photographing-ducks-at-sunset-brings-out-rats/