The Snowball with a Tail

We're in Kırklareli İğneada with the heavyweights of bird photography. We've set up camp at the entrance to Mert Lake from the forest road. It's a beautiful evening—some of us are relaxing at the campsite, while others are out chasing photos around Mert Lake.

I'm one of those who stayed at the camp. And I might have taken relaxation a little too far. A hammock is set up, a whiskey glass in my hand… I'm lying down without a care in the world. Alptekin Kutlu and Burak Doğansoysal are sitting comfortably in their chairs facing Mert Lake, chatting with the lake view in front of them.

Every now and then, I call the team out in the field.

"Anything interesting?"
"Nah, man, we're just shooting Marsh Harriers."

The more I hear that there's nothing exciting to photograph, the more I relax, sinking deeper into the hammock.

But something feels off… The light conditions aren't exactly ideal for photographing marsh harriers for this long. I keep calling occasionally, and every time, I get the same response:

"Nothing special, just shaking off the rust with marsh harriers."

When the team returns, we discover their memory cards are filled with stunning close-up shots of a rarely seen species—the Short-eared Owl!

"Why didn’t you let us know?"
"Dude, we told you to come."
"Yeah, but you said you were shooting Marsh Harriers!"
"Well, you should’ve come anyway…"

They're not wrong; after all, we had chosen to stay at the camp and enjoy ourselves. Plus, in the excitement of encountering the short-eared owl, it would have been difficult for them to notify us. Even if they had, our approach to the area might have startled the owl and caused it to fly away.

Interestingly, we later learned that even among themselves, they hadn’t immediately shared the news. The team in the car behind the first group to spot the owl only discovered it much later—out of curiosity fueled by their own suspicions—and as a result, they didn't get to photograph it for as long as the others did.

Was it pure excitement? Or was there some hesitation about sharing the moment? It’s hard to say. Even if the short-eared owl had somehow called out, "Hey guys, invite everyone from the camp! I'm here, ready to pose for them too!"—would they have actually called us? We'll never know.

Can those who captured every possible shot of the owl, those who only got a few, and those who missed out entirely still sit down together and enjoy a pleasant dinner?

Oh, absolutely! Alptekin Kutlu has turned the tailgate of his Isuzu D-Max pickup into a fully stocked kitchen. He and Burak Doğansoysal are working culinary magic, and the delicious aromas are impossible to resist. Soup, İzmir köfte…

Just like with the owl, the distribution of İzmir köfte follows a similar pattern of inequality. That day’s lucky ones—the ones who got their fill of the owl—are also the ones who get to indulge in the best portions of the köfte.

It's time to sleep now. We retreat to our tents and start getting ready for the night. Suddenly, we hear some harsh words coming from one of the tents—directed at a camping gear seller. Curious, we check it out.

It turns out to be our rather imposing friend, struggling to fit into a sleeping bag that only reaches up to his waist. While desperately trying to squeeze in, he's also cursing the person who sold him a bag far too small for his size. Who on earth jinxed this guy—the very one who first spotted the short-eared owl and took the best shots? Poor man is bound to freeze tonight.

We wake up to a freezing morning, greeted by yet another feast from Alptekin Kutlu’s makeshift kitchen. Today’s special: eggs with sucuk (spicy Turkish sausage).

As we’re finishing our delightful breakfast, heavy snowfall begins. And what a snowfall! Within minutes, everything is covered in white. Our tents and the canopy are buried under the snow, and the canopy eventually collapses under the weight.

Especially after spending the night crammed into a half-fitting sleeping bag, our unfortunate friend is now determined to pack up and leave. He knows the upcoming night will be even tougher. When some of us suggest, "Come on, camping in the snow could be fun too!" he treats them with the same hostility as the sleeping bag seller.

We start packing up... The once highly ambitious team, having arrived fully equipped and well-prepared for an outdoor adventure, now checks into a five-star hotel in İğneada, complete with jacuzzi suites.

Better late than never—it's finally time to explore the field.

İğneada Harbor is a prime spot for surprise bird sightings. At the time, we knew that one of the rarest species, the Velvet Scoter, was among the recent visitors. Our first mission is to check the area where it was last seen.

We manage to spot it, but only at binocular distance. The bird has no intention of coming any closer to the shore.

After a while, the team gives up and decides to head to Mert Lake.

I choose to stay behind a little longer, hoping for a better opportunity. But the Velvet Scoter remains distant. After an hour of waiting, the only photos I manage to capture are the kind that only true bird enthusiasts could identify.

After a while I give up as well and head toward Mert Lake. The drive from the harbor to İğneada town center takes about 5–6 minutes, and Mert Lake is just behind the center. However, reaching the road around the lake requires a detour through the forest, meaning I have about 30 minutes of driving ahead.

As I approach the town center, the beach and sea stretch out to my left, while houses line the right side of the road. Bird photographers are always scanning their surroundings with sharp eyes while out in the field. But at this moment, my location doesn’t seem to require such vigilance. Even if I were to search for birds near the center, the beach would be my best bet. But since I’m passing through a residential area, I assume there’s no reason to be on high alert.

With Dire Straits playing in the background, I focus on the road, wondering what I might be missing at Mert Lake.

Then suddenly, something stirs in the open lot between the houses to my right.

I can't believe my eyes.

Eight buzzards are kicking up snow, locked in a fierce battle. Since they’re on my right side, I drive past them, make a U-turn, and place my camera on a bean bag for stability. The buzzards are so engrossed in their fight that I can slowly approach the perfect distance without disturbing them.

At the center of the chaos, they’re struggling over what looks like a snowball. But then, I see a tail hanging from it.

It’s a mouse—caught after a freezing night and turned into a snow-covered prize in this frenzied tug-of-war, a desperate fight for food in the harsh winter conditions.

In this moment, I forget all about the long-lost Short-eared Owl, the İzmir meatballs, and the Velvet Scoter that refused to come close. The snowball constantly changes hands—or rather, talons. For a second, I consider getting out of the car and lying down on the road for a better angle, but it’s too risky. I could ruin everything. Scenes like this don’t come often, and I may never get another chance to capture something like this from such an ideal distance.

The snowball gradually shrinks and disappears. The tail, just as precious, is devoured with satisfaction. The buzzards, now full and energized, scatter in different directions, each seeking a new hunt, a new struggle for survival.

I head straight to the hotel. You never know—an accident could happen, or someone in the team might snap and do something reckless. I transfer all 32 gigabytes of photos to an external hard drive to ensure they’re safe.

Later, I meet up with the team.

"So, how did it go?"
"Oh, nothing special... Just some buzzards fighting over a mouse in the snow."
"Why didn’t you tell us?"
"Even if I had, you wouldn’t have made it in time."

Even if the buzzards had said, “Call them over, we’ll wait and put on another show,” would I have done it? We’ll never know.

Note: After much debate between "Snowball with a Tail" and "Big Fat Lie" as the title for this story, I settled on "Snowball with a Tail".