Faces in the Bush: An Early Morning Adventure to Youbou, BC - June 5, 2025

Yesterday morning, I set out with two simple goals: soak up the sun on a beautifully warm Saturday, and (hopefully) photograph baby elk in Youbou. Word had spread that a herd with calves had been spotted in the area—Youbou being known for its Roosevelt Elk—but as wildlife tends to remind us, nature keeps her treasures hidden until she’s ready to share them.

No baby elk emerged from the trees that morning. But what I did see more than made up for it.

The experience began with rustling in the bushes—soft rattles in every direction. I stood still, waiting. And then… a face appeared. Then another. And another. Before I knew it, I was surrounded (at a respectful distance!) by a small herd: several large females and a young buck, gracefully moving in and out of the shadows.

One of the most powerful moments of the morning was when I locked eyes with a female elk. She stepped out of the shadows with the quiet confidence of a queen—calm, regal, and radiant in the morning light. She knew I was there. Her eyes met mine with awareness, not fear. And I felt it too—not just as a photographer capturing a subject, but as one being quietly observing another.

There was a shared curiosity between us, like two souls acknowledging each other’s presence in a fleeting pocket of peace. No rush, no alarm—just stillness, connection, and mutual respect. It was a reminder that the wild doesn’t always flee. Sometimes, it meets you halfway.

In that moment, I felt completely present. Blissfully alive. And deeply grateful.

I stayed quiet, keeping my 600mm lens steady, heart racing in the best way. One moment they were in front of me, the next behind me, crisscrossing the road in total calm. I think I counted six in all, completely unbothered by my presence. It was a gift.

Did You Know?

The Roosevelt elk is the largest of the four subspecies of elk in North America. Named after President Theodore Roosevelt, these majestic animals can weigh up to 1,100 pounds and are primarily found along the Pacific Northwest. Unlike other elk, Roosevelt elk tend to live in rainforest and coastal regions—making Vancouver Island one of their last strongholds.

Then came the young male—emerging from the trees like a dream. The soft morning light caught the velvet of his antlers just right, illuminating him in a golden glow that made the moment feel almost sacred. He stood still, strong yet gentle, a quiet guardian of the woods

There was something so striking in his presence—youthful but poised, alert but at ease. He wasn’t in a rush to disappear. He simply existed in that moment, and I was lucky enough to witness it. We exchanged a long glance, and I felt both grounded and lifted all at once.

It’s moments like these that remind me how sacred wild encounters are—not just for the photo, but for the feeling. That soft light, his steady gaze, and the silence we shared—I'll carry that with me for a long time.

After about two hours of this peaceful communion, I began my drive back through the country highway, still smiling. But nature wasn’t finished.

In a sunlit farmer’s field, I spotted movement—large, slow wings. Turkey vultures! I pulled over onto a side street and watched as one landed right by my car. I crept closer, quietly. One step too far and it flew—but not before I captured a perfect portrait. Their faces are often misunderstood, but I think they’re beautifully haunting—faces only a mother (and me, of course) could love.

Did You Know?

Turkey vultures play a vital ecological role by cleaning up carrion (dead animals). Their incredible sense of smell helps them locate decaying food from high in the sky—something most birds can't do. And while their bald red heads might seem a little eerie, that feature actually keeps them clean while feeding. Beauty really is in the details.

On my way back to the car, something orange caught my eye. A fuzzy orange something nestled in the grass, glowing in the light. It is a small, orange-brown butterfly with a fuzzy body and hooked antennae, often mistaken for a moth. Though native to Europe, this species has successfully spread throughout southern Canada. It's a great pollinator and a common summer sight in grassy areas.

Among all the wildlife and wonder, it was the poppies that gave me a moment of pure stillness. A patch of them stood quietly at the edge of a farmer’s field—soft pink and rich red blossoms swaying gently in the breeze, their delicate petals almost translucent in the sunlight. There was something healing about that scene. I didn’t need to photograph anything in motion or chase a wild creature. I just stood there, completely present, letting their quiet beauty wash over me.

Poppies have long been symbols of peace, remembrance, and rest. Despite their fragility, they thrive in disturbed soil, growing where the earth has been turned or broken—reminding us that beauty often rises from hardship. For me, those poppies were more than flowers. They were a gentle reminder to pause, breathe, and simply be. In their color, I found calm. In their presence, I found peace.

And then, nature offered up yet another surprise: a black-and-yellow striped caterpillar type bug making its way across some brilliant yellow flowers. I researched it and it's a Cinnabar Moth Caterpillar. Apparently the cinnabar moth caterpillar absorbs toxic alkaloids from ragwort, making it unpalatable to predators. Its bright stripes serve as a warning: “Don’t eat me!”

And then I spotted two different types of bees buzzed between blossoms. Incredible. This one on the Queen's Ann Lace flowers is called a Hoverfly. It mimics a bee or wasp in appearance, but is harmless and has only one pair of wings. Additionally, Hoverflies are excellent pollinators, and their larvae help control aphids in gardens—making them heroes in disguise!

And this one is actually a Bee Mimic called a Dronefly. Drone flies are master mimics—predators often mistake them for bees, giving them extra protection. Despite the disguise, they don’t sting or bite, and their larvae (called rat-tailed maggots!) help clean up organic waste in wet environments.

I was already buzzing with joy myself (pun absolutely intended), but something in my gut said, “Just one more road.” So down a quiet little lane flanked by farmland I went, and BAM—there they were. Twelve turkey vultures having what looked like a secret meeting in the middle of a field.

I tried to get a group shot, but no luck—apparently, vultures aren’t into family portraits. They kept taking off, landing, shifting around like they were playing musical chairs with invisible snacks. I managed a few decent snaps, though not before getting plenty of unmistakable side-eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking. “Ugh, it’s that camera lady again.” or “Don’t blow our cover, Carl!”

Honestly, with those solemn red faces and moody glances, they looked like they were straight out of a vulture soap opera.

One perched like a sentinel on a bare tree branch straight out of a moody movie scene.

Others gathered in the field, wings folded or stretched as they scanned the grass for movement. I stood there, in awe, photographing their chocolate-brown feathers catching the light.

It was only a half-day adventure, but it filled me up completely. I came home happy and content—thankful for the place I live, and the wild wonders that reveal themselves when you slow down and simply observe.

BONUS

A special thank you to my amazing aunt for being the best travel partner anyone could ask for. Sharing these early morning adventures with her makes everything more magical—whether it's spotting an elk stepping out of the shadows or a surprise vulture on a fence post. We both get so jazzed, practically jumping up and down with excitement like kids on a treasure hunt. Having a birding (and wildlife) buddy who shares the wonder of it all makes the experience even richer. I’m so grateful we get to explore nature’s surprises together.