Day 1 at Harrison Mills: Eagles, Dippers, Swans — and the Mantra That Carried Me - Nov 20, 2025

I had high hopes for this Mainland trip. The plan was simple: head to Harrison Mills and photograph thousands of bald eagles — the biggest gathering of eagles in North America. I had visions of soaring raptors, dramatic shots, National Geographic vibes.

I had no idea the universe had a very different plan for me… one that involved unexpected teachers, spiritual nudges, and one very brave adventure cat named Finnegan.

Finnegan and I walked down a forested path that cuts right through a golf course — nature and human structure blending in the oddest way. My heart was full of anticipation, the kind that sits high in your chest and tingles down your arms. Finnegan trotted beside me like he had done this his whole life. I couldn’t believe how adaptable and calm he was.

Our first stop was a covered bridge over a fast, rushing river. Before anything came into view, I heard the frantic, high-speed chatter of birds echoing under the bridge. When I looked to the right, I literally froze.

What looked like tiny fighter jets were twisting and torpedoing toward me.

Not jets — American Dippers.

My first ones ever.

They zipped under the bridge, landed on slick river rocks, and immediately began their adorable dip-dip-dip routine.

Did You Know?

American Dippers love raging streams because their entire buffet lives under the water. Their grey colour helps them disappear into the rocks, which is probably why they can get away with looking like wet, grumpy potatoes while hunting underwater like champions.

Watching them move so lightly in such a powerful current reminded me that joy can still exist even when life rushes fast beneath your feet. They were tiny, silly, surprising messengers of play — of staying buoyant, no matter the flow.

We continued down the path, and finally, I saw them: eagles. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Perched impossibly high in the trees, scattered like ornaments across the flats. It was breathtaking… and entirely out of reach for my 600mm lens. Spectacular, yet frustrating.

How many do you see?

I snapped what I could — an overview of the flats sprinkled with distant eagles, and then a small, chaotic scene unfolding much closer: a juvenile eagle working on a fish while a crow and a gull hovered around like nosy neighbours.

When I raised my camera, the juvenile looked right at me — a long, steady stare that felt almost human, as if it were assessing my intentions.

And a moment later, a crow literally photobombed my frame and stared me down too, head tilted, judging me with full crow intensity. It was hilarious and strangely intimate, like they were all checking who this new visitor was on their turf.

Meanwhile, the adult eagle beside them didn’t care about me, the crow, the gull, or anything else. It was fully absorbed in its fish, grounded and unbothered — the embodiment of focus.

There was something humbling in all of this: the eye contact, the curiosity, the indifference. A reminder that in nature, not everything revolves around me, and that sometimes the medicine is in simply being witnessed, not capturing the perfect shot. Their reactions, curiosity, scrutiny, and total disregard mirrored the different stages of how I meet the world too. And in that messy slice of wild hierarchy, I felt the quiet spiritual lesson settle in: Not everything is meant to be perfect; some moments are meant to be experienced, not controlled.

And just when I thought the moment had passed, an adult eagle soared overhead — high, powerful, and cutting through the sky like a feathered missile against the deep forest backdrop. It was one of those breathtaking flashes where the wild shows you exactly what freedom looks like. Watching it slice through the air with such precision reminded me of something I forget far too often: when you rise above the noise, the path becomes clear. That eagle carried a message of perspective — to lift myself out of frustration, take a higher view, and trust that momentum comes when you let yourself fly instead of forcing the ground beneath you to change.

As we headed back to the car, we found a log lined with beautifully striped mushrooms, quietly thriving in the shadows.

But when I got back in the car, everything sank.

This… is not what I came for.

Did I make a mistake?

What was the point of coming all this way?

And then… something shifted.

Instead of giving up, I decided to re-group. Reset the day. Adjust the story. My new mantra rose in my mind like a warm hand on my back: I’ll figure it out.

So we drove. And eventually, we found a small pullout where eagle watchers had gathered.

Jackpot.

Eagles perched all throughout the trees — not far specks this time, but silhouettes and shapes I could feel. I couldn’t photograph many because of branch cover, but the portraits I did get had soul — intensity in the eyes, an ancient steadiness in their posture. The kind of portraits where the character of the eagle comes through more than perfection.

And then — pure magic. Two eagles suddenly launched into an aerial dance above me, twisting and locking talons in mid-air like a slow-motion storm. I scrambled with my shutter speed, doing my best to catch the action as it unfolded, but honestly? I was too stunned to worry about perfection. I just stood there whispering, “wow… wow… wow…” as electricity rushed through my whole body. It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments where the world feels charged, alive, and bigger than anything you could ever hope to capture.

Eagles don’t always clash in anger when they fly together like that — in fact, what looks dramatic is often a mix of play, practice, and bonding. Young eagles especially will “sky dance” to test their aerial skills, strengthen their talons, or size each other up without real aggression. Sometimes it’s even a form of social interaction, a way of saying, “Look what I can do!” rather than a fight. So while it looks intense, it’s often more like acrobatic sparring or wild play than true conflict.

And then came one of my absolute favourite moments of the entire day — an eagle mid–takeoff from a branch. I caught him just as he was hunched down, waddling along the branch like he wasn’t a powerful apex predator but more like a slightly grumpy, oversized chicken trying to find the right launch point. I couldn’t help but laugh.

And then, in an instant, he transformed — pushing off with explosive force, wings opening into full command of the sky. That combination of awkwardness and majesty was incredible to witness. One second he was just walking along a tree like, “excuse me, coming through,” and the next he was pure power and freedom. It was another unforgettable moment that reminded me that even the most magnificent beings have humble, funny, beautifully relatable moments.

And then something even more extraordinary happened.

A female belted kingfisher — bold, brave, and utterly unbothered — landed on a powerline right in front of a forest filled with raptors. She stared at me, tossed out her sharp call, and blasted off like a spark of blue lightning. Watching her reminded me to stand fearlessly in my own truth, even when surrounded by giants or expectations. She was pure attitude, pure courage. Badassery at it's finest!

As rain started pouring and the mist rolled in, we decided to follow a local tip and try one more place.

The next location didn’t have many eagles, but it greeted us with a softer kind of beauty.

A goldeneye duck spinning and playing in the river.

We also came across a few mergansers cruising through the water, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the males — their wild hairdos and bold patterns make them look like they’re late for a rock concert. The females, at first glance, seem much plainer and sleeker, but when you stop and really look, their colours are just as incredible, soft, earthy shades that glow in the right light. Watching them reminded me of the beauty in contrast, and how every creature carries its own unique signature. The mergansers became quiet teachers in that moment, showing me that patterns, personalities, and beauty come in many forms, and that slowing down to notice the details is where the real magic lives.

A log full of cormorants basking in the afternoon sun — like a group of friends soaking in warmth before the cold returns.

Did You Know?

Cormorants often choose estuaries and logs over the open ocean because estuaries are basically easy-access buffets. The mix of fresh and salt water attracts schooling fish, making hunting way less work than in the unpredictable waves of the ocean. And the logs? Those are their drying stations — since cormorants don’t have fully waterproof feathers, they need a place to perch, spread their wings, and warm up between dives. It’s like their version of sunbathing on a pool float between snacks

And then there was this one cormorant perched on a log with his head tilted dramatically toward the sun, absolutely basking in his own magnificence. He looked like he was posing for a Renaissance painting titled “Behold, It Is I.” I swear he was waiting for someone to applaud.

On the other side of the log, another cormorant was giving me the full side-eye — those turquoise jewel eyes sparkling like, “Yes, human? Can I help you?” He wasn’t afraid, just intensely curious in that judgmental-but-endearing way only cormorants can pull off.

And then — the moment that took my breath away: Our very first Trumpeter Swans.

A whole family, including cygnets, gliding across the water with a calm, protective tenderness. They moved like a single unit, so peaceful it almost silenced the world around them. They reminded me that strength doesn’t have to be loud — that sometimes the greatest power is in quiet presence and the instinct to protect the things you love.

Did You Know?

Trumpeter Swans make pit stops on the BC mainland during migration because, honestly, it’s the swan equivalent of a premium roadside rest area. Shallow water? Check. Safe space for the kids? Check. Endless buffet of roots and aquatic plants? Double check. It’s basically their “fuel-up, snack hard, stretch your wings, and keep going” spot. Even swans need a good layover — especially when you’re flying with toddlers.

Before sunset, one final gift appeared: a juvenile European Starling perched in the golden light. I took a moment to really stop and notice him — this little bird covered in tiny heart-shaped spots. Not everyone’s favourite bird in BC, since starlings are considered invasive, but that didn’t stop me from admiring his beauty. And in that quiet moment, he became a little nature-teacher, reminding me to stop rushing past the ordinary. So often, it’s the everyday beings that hold the gentlest lessons — about appreciation, acceptance, and finding beauty where others choose not to look.

We were out from 7:00am until dark. Ten hours.

Finnegan surprised me beyond anything I expected — in and out of the car, walking paths, staying in a hotel, observing wildlife with the wonder of a young explorer. I was (and am) so proud of him. He’s becoming quite the adventure cat.

As I reflected that night, the lesson became clear:

I didn’t stop. I didn’t give up. I didn’t let disappointment decide the ending.

And that’s when my mantra changed. Not “I can’t do this,” or “Why is this happening?”

But: “I’ll figure it out.”

And because of that, Day 1 transformed from disappointing to extraordinary — not because of perfect photos, but because I stayed open, curious, and willing to try again. Sometimes the journey isn’t about the shot you came for. It’s about the animals who show up to teach you, the unexpected magic along the way, and the reminder that perseverance turns an ordinary day into something unforgettable.

As I wrapped up the day, I felt grateful not just for the wildlife I saw, but for the wild spaces that still exist so close to us. These everyday places — estuaries, river edges, trails, little pullouts on the side of the road — only stay wild if we care for them. Keeping them clean, respecting the habitat, and giving animals space ensures that these magical moments can keep happening, not just for me, but for everyone who wanders with curiosity. The wild can thrive beside us… if we choose to make room for it.