Long before sunrise, I parked quietly along a frozen marsh where one narrow ribbon of open water still flowed through Farmington Bay. I had been there the morning before and knew this was where the first eagle would appear. As dawn slowly reached the marsh, one bald eagle left its roost along the Wasatch Range and glided toward the creek. I came to think of him as the scout. His job wasn't simply to find breakfast. Before the rest of the eagles committed to the morning's hunt, he had to decide whether the area was safe. Photographers had already been waiting for hours, hidden quietly inside their vehicles. The hardest part wasn't staying warm—it was resisting the urge to press the shutter. One burst from a camera, one car door closing, or one careless movement could convince the scout that something wasn't right. If he left, the opportunity disappeared. If he stayed, the marsh slowly came alive. One eagle became ten. Ten became thirty. On exceptional mornings, fifty or more bald eagles filled the frozen wetlands, trusting the judgment of the first bird to arrive. Nature doesn't reward the closest photographer. It rewards the most patient one.