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The sun had risen, but clouds and a thick stand of trees prolonged the darkness at Reeds Lake in East Grand Rapids, Michigan. Standing on a floating boardwalk, Steve Jessmore heard the swans before he saw them: a sudden commotion of high-pitched cries and beating wings, piercing the stillness of the late-November morning. In an instant, the flock crested the treetops as the sun broke through, bathing the stark white birds in fiery light. Just as quickly, they were gone.

It was Jessmore’s first time seeing Tundra Swans, a species that only briefly touches down in Michigan on the way from its Arctic breeding grounds to wintering habitat on the mid-­Atlantic coast. But his fortune in spotting the swans was not the result of careful planning. Two months into a new wildlife photography project, he had already learned that the trick to witnessing the spectacular was simply to show up, day after day, season after season.

Having worked as a for 35 years, Jessmore was used to putting in the time. He’d documented everything from breaking news to professional sports, but he’d never focused on the region’s wildlife. He started photographing birds on a whim while at home during the pandemic, and when he posted the images, he was floored by the enthusiastic response. Strangers told him that his photos provided comfort and joy at a time when the world felt far away. Still, while he was having fun, Jessmore didn’t consider himself a birder. “I could have named maybe 10 birds,” he says.  

His work at Reeds Lake was quickly changing that. In 2021 the local library commissioned Jessmore to photograph the 265-acre freshwater body for an exhibition, and he was immediately taken with its long boardwalk. Completed in 2010 as part of the new Waterfront Park, it zigzags more than 400 feet over water. Though he lived less than 15 minutes away, he’d visited only once before, and what he’d initially thought would be a quick assignment blossomed in his imagination. He asked the library for one year, during which he would visit as often as he could to document the avian life he encountered—an approach sometimes called “patch birding.” Though Jessmore hadn’t yet heard the term, he was struck by the possibilities: “This could be my place.”

Over that year, Jessmore returned to the park more than 100 times, usually arriving before sunrise and occasionally exploring nearby trails or venturing out on his kayak. But most days he stayed on the boardwalk, which became the theater where he took in the ecosystem’s drama and abundance. As he’d done with human subjects, he liked to wait for moments of action to capture images that told a story. He photographed geese sparring and Bald Eagles collecting nesting material. He spent days trying to frame a bird in flight between the branches of an eastern redbud, finally getting it right on the fourth morning with an Eastern Warbling Vireo, its wings spread angelically between the blooms. 

Even amid these remarkable moments, Jessmore realized that the biodiversity he was so closely observing wasn’t particularly unique. Tucked into Michigan’s second-largest metro area and ringed with homes, Reeds Lake is not untrammeled wilderness. From the boardwalk Jessmore could hear cars rumble along I-96. Nonnative plants threaten to change the lake’s chemistry and clog its bordering wetlands. 

Yet the lake, park, and surrounding trails also ensure vital access to nature for the city’s people and wildlife alike. One morning Jessmore measured the boardwalk’s length with his own footfalls: 241 steps. A short and flat walk, designed for accessibility. Putting a number to it drove home that the wonders he has seen at Reeds Lake are available to anyone. “You do not have to be in camo or do anything weird to see this stuff,” he says. 

The experience, for him, offers proof that remarkable places can be found in every community. Patience (and perhaps a willingness to rise early) is all it takes to reveal the myriad lives that intertwine in a single slice of habitat. A patch birding or photography practice close to home—an inherently low-carbon activity—can, through repetition, sharpen any birder’s skills by focusing attention on subtle wildlife behaviors and landscape shifts. 

That was true for Jessmore. He not only learned about dozens of new species as he edited each day’s photographs and read about his sightings in a growing collection of field guides—he also observed how wildlife used different habitats and plants throughout the changing seasons. The project opened his eyes to the complex realities of avian existence, too. Like people, birds form close bonds and compete or cooperate for what they need. Some even have daily commutes. He came to recognize the dignity of their lives.

More than anything, cultivating his connection to Reeds Lake has filled Jessmore with gratitude. “When I’m out there, there’s no bad day,” he says. “I may not bring back any great pictures, but the day is not a waste.” Prior to the pandemic, he was staring down retirement, unsure of how he would spend his days and find meaning beyond his career. Through his now-tremendous love of birds, and by sharing what he finds with others, Jessmore has discovered a new direction. “I have so much to look forward to,” he says. “I don’t even have a doubt about what I’m doing for the rest of my life.” 

Today Jessmore continues to visit the lake several times a month. He hopes his photos inspire people to find their own patches and do what they can to protect them. This is the thought he returns to when the world’s problems feel overwhelming. “Let’s bite off something we can chew, and then let everybody do that. Let’s see how we do,” Jessmore says. “I think we’ll do pretty good.”

This story originally ran in the Winter 2025 issue as “On the Boardwalk.” To receive our print magazine, become a member by making a donation today.