Page 6 of Beasts of Mine

Stay on marked trails when alone. Carry plenty of water and the radio. Tell someone which route I planned to take. Check the ground around fallen logs before stepping over them. Don't touch brightly colored frogs, no matter how harmless they looked.

And, because apparently someone had once needed the clarification, don't intentionally approach a large predator just to get a better photograph.

I knew better.

Usually.

The conservation organization funding my visit wanted updated wildlife images for educational materials, research documentation, and future grant applications. The scientists stationed here were also conducting population surveys, and after I had a few days to settle in, I would begin accompanying them deeper into the reserve.

Several rarer species had been reported farther out.

Those were the photographs everyone wanted.

I knew better than to expect anything remarkable during my first afternoon, though. Wildlife photography involved far more waiting than most people realized, and some days ended without a single usable image.

I was fine with that.

Mara suggested that I spend the rest of the afternoon settling in.

I genuinely tried.

I showered, changed into a fresh shirt, organized half my equipment, drank an entire bottle of water, and sat on the edge of my bed with every intention of staying there.

Twenty minutes later, I had my camera in my hands again.

I wasn't going far.

At least, that was the plan.

The nearest marked trail started behind the equipment building and curved beneath the trees. Within a few minutes, the sounds from the station faded until all I could hear were insects, birds, water dripping from leaves, and occasional movement somewhere above me.

The temperature beneath the canopy was slightly cooler, although the air remained humid enough that my clean shirt wasn't going to stay clean for long. Damp soil and decomposing leaves gave the forest floor a rich earthy smell, and exposed roots crossed the narrow trail often enough that I had to pay attention to where I placed my boots.

I slowed my pace. Moving quickly was one of the easiest ways to miss something. A small movement near the base of a tree caught my attention.

I stopped.

A green lizard clung to the edge of a broad leaf several feet away. Its tiny front feet spread over the glossy surface while its throat moved rapidly with each breath.

I raised the camera carefully and waited.

The lizard stayed put.

I adjusted my focus and shifted slightly until the angle was better. When its head finally turned, I pressed the shutter twice.

The second photograph was sharp.

“Thank you,” I whispered to the lizard, smiling as I checked the focus around its eye on the screen.

The little creature remained on the leaf, watching me.

“You're very photogenic,” I added to the lizard, keeping my voice low while straightening carefully.

It disappeared beneath the leaf almost immediately.

“Apparently you don't like compliments,” I murmured to the empty spot, hooking one finger beneath the camera strap as I stood. “Fair enough.”

Talking to animals had been a habit since childhood, and years of working alone had only made it worse.