Born to Float - Science and Strategy of Photographing ducklings

A blanket of fog drifted low across the lake, catching morning light in soft streaks as the still surface mirrored the vast stretches of spruce and birch along the shoreline. It was the kind of Alaskan summer morning that holds its breath; cool, quiet, and brimming with possibility. I had arrived before sunrise with one goal in mind: to photograph a pair of Pacific loons I had been tracking for days. Their calls had echoed across this lake for weeks, haunting and wild, and I had hoped to finally capture them in golden light from water level.

But wildlife photography often trades in the unexpected.

Instead of loons, it was a brood of newly hatched Mallard ducklings (Anas platyrhynchos) that came gliding through the fog. Ten of them, just hours old, followed their mother in tight formation, paddling through patches of blooming pond lilies like a fleet of miniature ships. As they passed within arm’s reach of my lens, eye-level and impossibly fluffy, I forgot all about the loons. The ducklings stole the morning.

Those images, intimate and low to the water, would have been impossible without one piece of gear: a floating blind.

For many wetland birds, especially waterfowl, nothing is more unnatural than a human standing upright on the shoreline. Vertical movement triggers immediate retreat. But when you disappear into the silhouette of a floating blind, low and silent, you become something else entirely—just another floating shape in a landscape filled with them.

For wildlife photographers who specialize in wetland habitats, a floating blind is one of the most underutilized yet game-changing tools you can add to your kit. The concept is simple: conceal the human form, break up your outline, and get as low to the waterline as possible—because that’s where the most intimate and compelling images live.

The low angle of view is where magic happens. Shooting from eye-level with waterbirds doesn’t just make your photos more dramatic—it changes the emotional register of your imagery. You’re no longer observing from above; you’re in their world. Every ripple becomes a leading line. Every reflection a compositional opportunity. And every subject—especially small ones like ducklings—becomes a character in a scene rather than a shape on a background.

My floating blind is a lightweight model from Mr. Jan’s Gear, built for mobility and always packed in my vehicle from April through October, alongside a pair of chest waders. I’ve used it to photograph loons, moose, grebes, and waterfowl all across the duck factory we know as the Prairie Potholes region. And it’s especially effective for situations like this one: shy subjects at close range, photographed at true eye level, with a background of blooming lilies, and early light.

From this angle, the ordinary becomes extraordinary. You’re no longer looking down on wildlife; you’re entering their world—on their terms.

Photographing ducklings from that perspective brought another question to the surface—one that’s often overlooked in the moment: how do they stay afloat?

Mallard ducklings are what biologists call precocial hatchlings, meaning they emerge from their eggs fully down-covered, eyes open, and ready to walk and swim within hours. Unlike altricial species like songbirds, which hatch blind, naked, and helpless, ducklings are functionally mobile from day one.

Their ability to float is rooted in the physics of feathers, specifically their natal down. This fluffy, insulating layer traps tiny pockets of air close to the body, giving ducklings natural buoyancy from the moment they hit the water. Though not waterproof in the way adult feathers are, down acts like a sponge for air rather than water—unless it becomes saturated.

What’s remarkable is that ducklings don’t yet produce waterproofing oil themselves. The uropygial gland, located at the base of the tail and used by adult birds to preen oil across their feathers, is undeveloped in the first days of life. Still, ducklings can gain a measure of water resistance through physical contact with their mother. When they huddle beneath her belly feathers, they pick up trace amounts of the same oil she uses to stay waterproof.

This maternal transfer, combined with air-trapping down, allows ducklings to venture into water almost immediately - but only briefly. Extended exposure, especially in cold conditions, can be dangerous. That’s why you’ll often see ducklings drying off or warming under their mother’s wings between feeding sessions.

It’s a precarious balance. Their fluffy insulation helps them float, but their limited waterproofing makes them vulnerable. The act of staying afloat in their first days isn’t effortless—it’s a carefully evolved biological trick.

Back at the lake’s edge, the morning unfolded in near silence. I had entered the water at sunrise, carrying the blind through the forest and easing into position along a stretch of lily-covered shoreline. My camera rested inside the blind on a gimbal mount, set to an 800mm lens. I prefer to work with these super telephoto lenses from floating blinds largely because they provide a shallower depth of field, even at f/6.3, than a 600mm f/4 does. And this shallow DOF adds to the ethereal nature of working with animals from this perspective.

The mother Mallard moved first, guiding her young with the casual confidence of a bird who had done this many times before. The ducklings, tightly grouped, shifted behind her like a single organism. As they passed within range, they fed briefly among the lily pads, before disappearing into a flooded stand of alders at the water’s edge.

Floating blinds change the way you think about wildlife photography. They force you to slow down, to anticipate rather than chase. When you’re waist-deep in water, mobility is limited, and that’s a good thing. Movements are deliberate and calculated. You exist with the scene. You listen. You wait. That stillness, combined with eye-level positioning, makes for images that are both technically stronger and narratively richer.

From a photographic standpoint, ducklings are especially compelling. Their downy texture reflects light in soft, diffused ways. Their constant movement presents both challenge and opportunity. And their vulnerability—to weather, predators, even to being separated from their brood—adds layers of emotional gravity to the frame.

For all these reasons, ethics are critical. The floating blind allows you to be close without interference—a presence that’s passive, not disruptive. The key is to move slowly and never position yourself between the brood and the shore. Always let the birds choose how close to approach.

The ducklings I photographed would, in time, replace their natal down with juvenile contour feathers. Within six to eight weeks, they’d be fully feathered and able to fly. Their uropygial glands would mature, allowing them to waterproof themselves like adults. The precarious physics of floating on fluff would be replaced by the engineered elegance of true flight.

But in those early days, there is something uniquely powerful about their form: soft, uncertain, and entirely dependent on a body adapted not just to survive—but to float.

For me, that’s a story worth telling. Not just the beauty, but the biology. Not just the ducklings, but the delicate equilibrium that keeps them buoyant, thermally insulated, and protected.