Angelically white, with golden-yellow eyes that seem to glow against the snow, the snowy owl is one of the most majestic creatures to grace this Earth. Many first come to know it through the Harry Potter films - but seeing one in real life is something entirely different. At first glance, it almost feels otherworldly, as if such a creature couldn’t possibly exist outside imagination or fictional moves. Yet, the Snowy Owl is very real and it’s mysterious, resilient, and breathtaking to comes across. 

Snowy owls are native to the Arctic tundra, where they thrive under the endless daylight of the northern summer. Their thick, insulating feathers protect them from the brutal cold and also make them the heaviest owl in North America, typically weighing around four pounds - about a pound more than the Great Horned Owl. Unlike most owls, Snowy Owls are diurnal, meaning they’ll hunt at all hours during the continuous daylight of their Arctic home. Their preferred meal is the lemming, and a single Snowy Owl can consume more than 1,600 of them in a year. When lemmings are scarce, they’ll turn to other prey such as rodents, waterfowl, and small birds. As the long, dark Arctic winter sets in and prey becomes harder to find, some Snowy Owls migrate south - occasionally reaching the eastern shores of New York in search of food.

When I first began wildlife photography, I could hardly believe that this seemingly mystical bird visited the shorelines near me some winters. The thought that such an Arctic wanderer might appear on familiar sands felt almost unreal. Once I learned of this, my intention that winter became clear: to find and photograph the Snowy Owl. Of course, finding one would be no simple task. With miles of windswept beach to cover, I figured I had better odds of finding a hundred-dollar bill on the beach ground than spotting a Snowy Owl.

My search began with the help of the popular birding app eBird, which allows birders to share their sightings in real time. It’s an incredible tool —but, as I would come to learn many times on my journeys, a sighting report doesn’t guarantee the bird will still be there when you arrive. My first destination was Nickerson Beach, where several people had reported spotting a Snowy Owl just two days earlier. When I arrived, though, I felt a strange mix of excitement and unease. The beach stretched endlessly before me. In theory, the sand should have made it easy to spot an owl, if it were there. But in reality, the sheer expanse of space was overwhelming. The more I looked out across the dunes and shoreline, the more I realized just how small I was in this vast landscape and how difficult my search might be. So I began searching the dunes, only to be met with nothing but the sharp sting of thorn bushes along the way. I moved on to the shoreline—miles one direction, then miles the other—again and again. My only discoveries were a few shorebirds and a couple of photographers who, like me, were scanning the horizon for the Snowy Owl. After hours without success, I finally called it quits for the day. Over the next three mornings, I returned to Nickerson Beach, each time greeted by the same outcome - empty sands and no owl in sight.

I went back to the drawing board and checked eBird again. This time, there was a new sighting—Jones Beach, just a short drive from Nickerson. But there was a new challenge waiting: a blanket of snow still covered the sand from the storm a few days earlier. Finding a Snowy Owl was already difficult enough, but now, with the ground as white as the bird itself, it would be like searching for a ghost in daylight. I’ve learned throughout my wildlife chases that the universe has a way of adding small obstacles along the path, as if to test our patience or deepen the story. Upon arriving at Jones Beach, the situation felt familiar: endless dunes and shoreline, the vast silence of winter. Only this time, the snow-slicked sand slowed my every step. My boots sank deep, my legs burned, and eventually I let myself collapse into the snow - half exhaustion, half surrendering. Lying there, I let the world settle around me. The sound of the waves breaking, the sun warm on my face, the cool weight of snow against my back. For the first time all day, I stopped searching and simply existed. There wasn’t another person in sight - just me and the endless snowy beach. In those still moments, my mind drifted north, to the Arctic, a place I’ve long dreamed of visiting. I imagined the lives of its inhabitants: the wolf, the polar bear, the owl I was chasing. Did they find beauty in this frozen world? Or had they simply learned to endure it? There was something haunting about that thought. This kind of solitude wasn’t like the quiet of a forest. Instead this type of solitude made me feel insignificant, yet at the same time, strangely at peace, as though I were part of something much larger than myself. I returned to Jones Beach several more times over the following days, each visit ending without success. And yet, somewhere in that stretch of failed searches, I found something else - a quiet appreciation for the solitude of a snow-covered shore.

Weeks passed, and eBird stopped showing any new sightings. I began to feel discouraged, realizing there was a real chance I might not photograph the snowy owl that winter. Eventually, I decided to reach out to another photographer I knew to see if he had heard anything. I hesitated at first - I’ve never liked the feeling of asking without offering something in return. I always try to give value, not just take. And honestly, I didn’t expect him to tell me anything I didn’t already know. But to my surprise, he shared a tip: a Snowy Owl had recently been spotted near Fire Island, just a couple of days ago. The catch? It was about three miles down the shoreline and nearly a two-hour drive from where I was. And, to top it off, a snowstorm had just swept through the area days before. I thought about it carefully. After my past experiences at Nickerson and Jones Beach, I knew there were no guarantees. Driving nearly two hours, then walking three miles along a snow-covered beach for just the possibility of seeing the owl—really tested how badly I truly wanted it. Yet, despite the odds, I couldn’t shake a strange sense of confidence. Deep down, I had a feeling this time would be different.

I left as early as I could that morning - after feeding and walking my dog - pulling out around 8:00 AM. After an hour and fifty minutes on the road, I arrived at the beach just after 10:00. That would give me several good hours to explore before sunset at around 4:30. Stepping onto the snow-covered sand, I turned left, then right, scanning the horizon. I recalled what the photographer had told me: the owl had been seen about three miles west. Doubting my own sense of direction - and knowing that three miles the wrong way could turn this trip into a disaster - I double-checked my compass before setting out.

The air was crisp, but the sun shone bright, and because of my many layers, I soon started to sweat. After about thirty minutes of walking, I spotted a small group of photographers in the distance. Great, I thought. I’m heading the right way. When I caught up to them, we chatted briefly. They said they’d walked roughly two miles earlier that morning and had seen the owl near the dunes, but it had flown off. “Two miles?” I asked, making sure I’d heard correctly. They nodded and told me to look for a pole with a hat on top - that would mark the area where the owl was last seen. I thanked them for the tip and pressed on. Only then did I realize something: my lens hood was missing. While it wasn’t catastrophic, I hate losing gear. Panic set in as I began retracing my steps, scanning the snow for the faint circle of black that might stand out against the white. Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty. I followed my own footprints all the way back and finally, there it was, lying exactly where I had started, half-buried in the snow. Relieved, I brushed it off and looked at the time. It was already 11:00 AM. I had just lost an hour of sunlight, and with two miles of snow still to cross before reaching the owl’s last known location, I couldn’t help but feel the first hint of pressure creeping in.

I pressed on a little quicker through the snow, each step heavier than the last, sweat trickling down my back. My eyes scanned the horizon, searching for the hat on the pole the photographers had mentioned. Along the way, I passed a few fishermen casting lines into the surf. I realize,  this beach wasn’t the same kind of solitude I’d experienced at Jones Beach, but it was peaceful and quiet enough to let my thoughts wander. I found myself thinking about how odd it would sound trying to explain to my loved ones what I was doing on a random Tuesday morning while everyone else was at work. At the time, I didn’t have a full-time job, which gave me the freedom to pursue moments like this. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder how much life happens out here —beyond office walls and daily routines - during those traditional nine-to-five hours. Days like this made me grateful for the freedom I had, even if they were rare and fleeting.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sudden roar of an engine overhead. I looked up to see what appeared to be an old fighter jet slicing through the sky - perhaps a vintage aircraft out for a test flight. I watched it circle above me for a moment before it disappeared into the distance. Looking back, I wish I’d taken a photograph of it. It’s not often you see a plane like this.  After about a half hour or so of continuing on, I finally spotted the hat on the pole in the distance. My heart lifted. As my eyes swept across the landscape, I noticed a person with a tripod standing about a football field away, aimed toward something. I lifted my camera, trying to see what it was focused on but I couldn’t quite make out what it was. Without another thought, I started moving quickly toward it, my pulse rising with every step. 

As I drew closer to the man with the tripod, I made sure to give him plenty of space, not wanting to disturb whatever he was photographing. I circled around carefully, keeping my distance, until I finally saw what he was looking at—about two hundred feet away. There, resting beside a weathered plastic container box, in the shade,  was what I had been searching for months: the Snowy Owl. I froze. For a few seconds, I just stood there, taking it in. The owl was larger than I’d imagined, its white feathers glowing softly against the snow, its golden eyes half open. I was mesmerized. The man noticed me and walked over quietly. “It was over by the shoreline,” he said. “But that plane scared it off - it flew here to rest.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. History had, in a strange way, repeated itself. That old fighter plane - once built to scatter people and animals alike in wartime skies - had now done the same, startling this owl from the shoreline and sending it inland. Seeking safety, it had landed beside the plastic box, the only shelter in sight. 

As I continue to stare at the owl I soon realized then that I hadn’t even taken a photograph yet. I was still in awe, caught between disbelief and gratitude. The man and I spoke a bit more - he told me he’d first spotted the owl three days earlier and had been trying to keep the location quiet. He mentioned there was another Snowy Owl somewhere nearby. I told him about my own search, how I’d been trying for months to find just one. After a couple of minutes of us just staring at the owl, I saw he was packing up his camera equipment. He then turned to me, smiled faintly, “I’m going to look for the other one. Enjoy.” I watched him climb into his Jeep and drive away. When the sound of the engine faded, I looked around and there wasn’t a single person in sight. Just me, and the owl. It felt as though he was deliberately leaving me alone to have this moment and to finally share space with the creature I’d been chasing for so long. So I embraced this moment. 

Through my viewfinder, I watched the owl resting. My mind drifted north, to the Arctic, imagining the owl’s long journey from that frozen world - miles flown through storms and endless nights. I wondered if it preferred this place, far from its native home - away from foxes, wolves, and the brutal cold. Then, the owl’s yellow, cat-like eyes opened wide and began scanning the environment. It hopped a few feet away from the plastic box and stepped into the sunlight. The moment was perfect. I raised my camera and began to shoot. For the next fifteen minutes, I photographed it all sorts of different poses. The owl didn’t seem to mind my presence. It showed no sign of fear or irritation - only calm awareness. Maybe it sensed I meant no harm. Or maybe it was simply too tired to care. Either way, I knew it was time to leave. I didn’t want to disturb it further, nor risk attracting attention from others with my camera. I lowered my camera, took one last look, and whispered a quiet thank you to the owl. 

As I began my trek back to the car, I noticed a Jeep approaching from behind. It slowed beside me, and the man from earlier rolled down his window. “Need a ride back to the lot?” he asked.

Normally, I wouldn’t recommend accepting rides from strangers, but I didn’t think much of it—and truthfully, I wasn’t looking forward to the long walk back. So I accepted. As we drove, he asked how it went. I told him the owl had moved into the sunlight, and he smiled. He hadn’t had any luck finding the other Snowy Owl, but he didn’t seem bothered. For the next ten minutes, we talked about wildlife, photography, and life in general. He told me he was retired, that he’d lost his wife a few years back, and that he spent as much time as he could with his grown sons. He was actually on his way to meet one of them to go fishing. When we reached the parking lot, I thanked him and wished him good luck. Just like with the Snowy Owl, I had shared a brief, meaningful moment with a stranger - one I would likely never see again. As I walked toward my car, I caught sight of a deer grazing quietly by the grass. I smiled, and climbed into my car. 

The chase always makes the story better - especially in wildlife photography. If you’re fortunate, you capture what you’re searching for. If not, you still walk away with lessons, reflections, and a deeper sense of yourself. My experience with the Snowy Owl became one of solitude, resilience, and humility. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of standing completely alone on a snow-covered beach - the quiet vastness of it - unless you’ve been there yourself. 

Along your chase, if you’re lucky, you might also encounter what I call sages along the way. These are the people who appear at just the right moments, offering guidance or perspective that helps you on your path. Sometimes, as with the man I met that day, the lesson goes deeper than photography. For me,  that lesson was gratitude - gratitude for the Snowy owl, for the experience, for this stranger, for my loved ones, and the greater hand that made it all possible. Gratitude for life itself.