Fogbound Magic: A Three-Hour Birding Adventure I Never Planned - Nov 16, 2025

I didn’t set out to go birding today—not on a dense, fog-heavy fall afternoon where the world felt muffled and quiet. All I meant to do was run a quick mid-day errand and grab an iced coffee. That was it. But then I decided to take the scenic way home, and that one small choice opened a door I didn’t even realize I was walking through.

Of course, I didn’t have my camera. Classic.

So I raced home—15 minutes flat—and came right back. By then, the flock of grebes I’d initially spotted had dissolved completely into the mist. Birding is a practice in accepting impermanence.

However, before I knew it—

BAM. BAM. BAM.

There they were: the first signs that I was no longer on an errand… I was on an adventure.

The fog was so thick it turned the shoreline into a soft painting, and out of that silver silence came the first movement: cormorants, slicing through the emerald water like brushstrokes. Watching them glide confidently through what they couldn’t fully see reminded me that presence is its own power—that even when your world feels foggy, you can still navigate with purpose.

Among them were hooded mergansers, diving with laser focus. I watched them disappear into the water and pop up again with such precision that it felt like the fog sharpened their instincts instead of obscuring them. They were a small reminder that clarity doesn’t always come from what’s around you; it often comes from within.

What are you looking at this Hooded Merganser says...LOL.

A few metres away, harbour seals quietly surfaced, eight in total—though I only managed to photograph one before they slipped back into the mist. They reminded me that some magic is fleeting, meant to be witnessed rather than captured fully. The fog swallowed their shapes like a secret being kept.

Then, another surprise: five Greater Yellowlegs. Five! The most I’ve ever seen together in one place. Their pale legs were almost glowing against the muted beach, and something about seeing them as a group felt like a gentle nudge from the universe—sometimes abundance doesn’t trickle in; sometimes it arrives in a cluster of joy.

In two separate pockets of shoreline, plovers tiptoed through the shallows. Delicate, alert, soft. They carried a quiet wisdom, reminding me that gentleness is not weakness. It’s presence without force, something the fog seemed to be encouraging in me too.

And then I heard it…

Kenny the Kingfisher.

His rattling call cut through the fog like a spark of electricity. A reminder of timing—of showing up at the exact right moment, even if it’s unexpected.

The shoreline was still alive. The fog had turned everything into silhouettes and ghosts, and yet there were birds everywhere—shorebirds, ducks, cormorants perched on a nearby island with their wings half-spread like ancient guardians. The double-crested cormorants were stunning in this light: teal eyes bright like gemstones, orange and red beaks glowing even through the haze. They kept tilting their heads toward me, fully aware I was watching. I wished for a closer portrait, but their easy confidence in the water felt like another quiet lesson—move in your element, even if not everyone can come close.

I sat down on a staircase to the beach, breathing in the salt and fog, and that’s when harlequin ducks drifted toward me. These little treasures of colour came so close I could hear the soft ripples of their movement. They trusted the moment until instinct told them to pull back—another reminder about boundaries: it’s okay to come close, and it’s okay to drift away again.

Then the quiet morning exploded into drama.

A seagull swooped in with a live crab—huge, bright, very much alive. The gull had pulled it right from the kelp beds and began working on it with unapologetic persistence. I found myself narrating the scene like some kind of foggy shoreline commentator:

“Oh wow, now the seagull rips off a claw!”

People walking by laughed, but I was mesmerized. Nature isn’t cruel; it’s honest. The gull reminded me that survival requires tenacity, even when the work is messy.

Just when I thought the day had offered all it could, the final moment arrived: through the fog, perched on a shoreline tree like silent kings, were two bald eagles. Their bodies blended so perfectly into their surroundings that I almost walked right past them. Even with their striking colours, they were fully camouflaged—another lesson: nature doesn’t flaunt its power; it hides it in plain sight.

The eagles sat facing away from me until—perfectly in sync—they turned their heads over their shoulders. I clicked the shutter. It felt like alignment. Like the fog parted just enough for one perfect glimpse.

Even Finn, my sweet, curious companion, enjoyed the adventure—padding along the beach, watching the fog-draped birds from a safe distance, occasionally stopping just to smell the salty, mysterious air. He seemed to understand the quiet magic of the day.

I didn’t plan to bird for three hours today.

I didn’t plan for spiritual lessons either.

But fog has a way of revealing things you don’t expect—slowing you down, drawing you inward, and inviting you into worlds you might miss if you stayed on your original path.

And that’s what you get when you go out with me.

You never quite know when a simple errand will turn into a full-on birding odyssey.