Harrison Mills Trip – Day 2: Swans, Fog, Eagles & Finding the Magic Anyway - Nov 22, 2025

The morning did not start the way anyone hopes a wildlife photography day will begin.

Let’s just say: hotel challenges. Enough said.

Before my brain was fully awake, we were up, packed, and out the door into a sky that had opened into a full-on downpour. Not a gentle drizzle. Not a romantic mist. A showerhead on max pressure kind of rain.

And instantly, the doubt crept in: What if I don’t get any more photos? Was this whole trip a waste if I didn’t capture what I came for?

But I’ve been learning, deeply, that sometimes the hardest mornings are simply the ones asking us to shift our mindset. So instead of spiraling, I pivoted. I headed to a location where I knew wildlife was almost guaranteed. Eagles? Uncertain. But I was willing to greet whatever showed up.

And oh, did something show up. But first, let's talk about Harrison Mills.

Did you know that Harrison Mills is home to one of the largest gatherings of bald eagles in the entire world?

Every fall and early winter, thousands of eagles funnel into the Harrison River valley. At peak season, it’s not uncommon for local counts to hit the thousands — with juveniles and adults scattered across the trees, shorelines, and sandbars like ornaments on a wild Christmas display.

Why do they come? One simple reason: salmon.

When the salmon spawn and start to die off, the river becomes an endless buffet. Carcasses wash up on sandbars and shallow edges, making it incredibly easy for eagles — especially juveniles — to feed without needing advanced hunting skills. It’s basically the eagle version of an all-inclusive resort.

The habitat is perfect too. Harrison Mills has wide, open sandbars, shallow river edges, and tall cottonwood trees — everything an eagle could want for perching, feeding, and scouting territories. The fog, rain, and moody lighting only add to the magic (especially for photographers).

Now that you know why Harrison Mills is such an eagle hotspot, let’s slip back into the rhythm of Day 2, starting with the moment the morning took an unexpected turn—thanks to the swans.

The first hint of magic that morning came in the form of soft movement in a farmer’s field. I pulled over, and there they were. Two adult trumpeter swans with cygnets, each one looking like a tiny grey velvet bunny brought to life. The babies weren’t skittish. They weren’t unsure. They simply were — present, curious, and completely themselves in that moment.

They watched me with big, gentle eyes, their tiny heads tilting as if trying to make sense of this human quietly kneeling with a camera. In a few of my shots, their beaks even form what looks like the faintest smile. It felt like they were saying:

“We’re new here.

We’re learning.

We’re exploring.

And it’s okay not to have everything figured out yet.”

Standing there, I realized something. Cygnets don’t rush to become swans. They grow into their grace one day at a time, curious, open, and unashamed of simply being in the process.

And maybe that’s the spiritual reminder they carry. It’s okay to be a beginner. It’s okay to not have the whole path mapped out. Curiosity is enough. Showing up is enough. Growing slowly is enough.

As we continued driving, we turned a corner and found even more enchantment — a slough waterway filled with 60+ trumpeter swans. It was a whole community of elegance, families scattered throughout the morning light, each group moving with its own rhythm.

Did You Know?

Trumpeter swans and American wigeons love hanging out together — but not because they’re best friends. Swans are basically the buff landscapers of the wetland world. They yank up big clumps of aquatic plants, stir the whole place up, and while they’re doing all that heavy lifting…the wigeons swoop in like tiny salad thieves to snatch all the loose plant bits floating to the top. They’re not cooperating — it’s more like:

Swans: “We’re just trying to eat.”

Wigeons: “Ohhh free snacks!”

Nature’s cutest freeloaders.

Watching them, I felt my shoulders relax and my mind soften. The rain didn’t matter. The rough morning didn’t matter. All that mattered was this quiet moment with a group of beings simply learning how to live and reminding me I’m allowed to do the same.

The Bald Eagles — Lessons in Power, Truth & Perspective

And then I heard it—the unmistakable call of a bald eagle.

We spotted two. one perched confidently in a tree, and another sitting on a log enjoying a fish…until he noticed my camera and launched off immediately, as if saying: “Absolutely not, miss. No breakfast photos.”

I had to laugh. But standing there watching them, something stirred. Eagles are teachers of clarity.

They remind us to rise above the noise, to get perspective, to trust that even when the ground feels messy, the higher view is always available. They don’t waste energy on what doesn’t matter. They conserve. They strike when it’s time. They embody patience and precision.

And somehow, seeing them in the rain, still hunting, still thriving, reminded me: Strength isn’t loud.

Strength is focused. Strength knows when to act and when to simply watch.

As I continued walking, I heard the rattle of a kingfisher. That electric little call that makes the whole river feel alive. A male flew in — perfectly framed — and the exact moment I raised my camera, he darted off. Classic kingfisher mischief.

But moments later, a female arrived and landed right on the perfect branch, staring directly at me with this “well, are you ready or not?” expression.

Her energy was undeniable: bold, confident, curious, unbothered. She tilted her head as if she was examining me. Like she was deciding whether I was worthy of her portrait. And in that moment, I felt this spiritual nudge. Kingfishers remind us to claim our space. To show up proudly. To be vibrant. To stop shrinking. To let ourselves be seen.

She bobbed her head. She posed in profile. She made eye contact that felt like it reached into my soul.

Then — queen that she was — she took off and gave me the classic butt shot as a final blessing.

Her message lingered: “Be bold. Be bright. Be unapologetically you.”

By this point, I’d shifted from stressed to buzzing with excitement. I called the Harrison River eagle tour company and asked if Finnegan could join — and they said yes! We grabbed a quick lunch, drove to Harrison Hot Springs, and were greeted by a wall of thick fog and steady rain.

But something had shifted inside me. The weather didn’t matter at all anymore.

Finnegan popped his head out of his backpack, nervous at first, then slowly settling into me. Eventually he curled on the bench, warm, safe, and brave. Watching him adapt reminded me: Even small hearts can be incredibly strong when given safety and love.

As the boat pulled away from the dock, the world transformed into a dreamscape: fog drifting like smoke, rain misting over the river, cedar-scented air, silence broken only by eagle calls.

And then — hundreds of eagles.

Silhouettes in the fog.

Juveniles perched like ghosts on treetops.

Adults swooping low, unfazed by the elements.

Photographically? Brutal conditions.

This tree is known as the Eagle BNB. LOL.

But spiritually? Absolutely perfect.

As we moved deeper into the river, eagles began appearing everywhere — perched along the shorelines, standing proud on sandbars with their catch of the day hanging from their talons, and cutting through the fog with that unmistakable squawk that sounded like they were announcing:

“Incoming! Make room, friends!”

Some swooped low over the water, others circled above us, and every few minutes another silhouette would glide out of the mist like a ghost with wings. It was an experience unlike anything I’ve ever felt — being completely surrounded by hundreds of eagles in every direction.

And the juveniles… oh my goodness.

Did You Know?

Young eagles are messy eaters — and salmon on sandbars is basically their “training ground.”Before they master the art of clean, efficient hunting, juveniles practice by tearing into dead or leftover salmon in wide-open spaces where they won’t fall off branches or lose their meal to the river current.

They looked like oreo cookies with wings — mottled chocolate, cream, and caramel feathers all mashed together in that awkward, adorable “I’m still growing into myself” stage. They were everywhere: on logs, in trees, swooping overhead, calling to each other. The whole scene felt alive, wild, and beautifully chaotic.

At one point, we watched a juvenile I immediately nicknamed Oreo (come on, look at him. You can't tell me he doesn't look like an oreo cookie. LOL.) swoop straight through a group of unsuspecting seagulls, scattering them in every direction for absolutely no reason other than pure eagle attitude. It was hilarious to witness — the kind of chaotic teen-bird energy that makes you laugh out loud — and it gave me the perfect chance to practice some of my in-flight shots.

Oreo looking proud of himself.

It was pure magic to witness.

As we headed further down the river toward a quieter logging area, it seemed like nothing was happening at first — just fog, stumps, and stillness.

And then out of nowhere, a juvenile eagle glided in closer, giving me a front-row seat to his landing. I snapped a few beautiful shots… right before he turned and gifted me the classic eagle butt pose I always seem to get from animals.

I joked about it out loud, and I swear he actually looked back over his shoulder with the most cheeky side-eye. Of course, I was laughing too hard to photograph that moment — but trust me, the attitude was there. LOL.

At some point I lowered my camera and just sat there. Fog in my hair. Hands cold. Heart wide open.

The lesson was so clear:

• You don’t have to control everything.

• Sometimes the experience is the gift — not the outcome.

• Not the perfect photo.

• Not the perfect conditions.

• Just the moment.

A harbour seal even followed the boat for a few minutes, hoping for snacks. When none came, he dipped under with a sassy little flick of his tail that felt like: If you won’t feed me, I’ve got better places to be.

And even he had a message: “Take what you need, then move on.”

By the time we headed back, the fog was thicker, the rain heavier, the world quieter. But the stillness was everything. No seasickness. No disappointment. No lingering stress. Just joy, connection, presence, and a deep understanding that the wild always gives you exactly what you need — even when it’s not what you expected.

The art shots will come another day.

But this day…

this day was about being truly alive in the moment.

And I’m so grateful.