Into the Forest, Into My Feelings: A Fall Photo Adventure - Nov 8, 2025

Today I set out on a sunny fall day with two intentions in mind: mushrooms and salmon. Simple goals. Soul-filling goals. The kind that pull me back into nature and out of my swirling thoughts.

I headed to a local river known for its salmon run, hoping to catch the first signs of the season. I was too early — not a single salmon. But the river still offered me a guide.

A female Belted Kingfisher perched nearby, chattering as if reminding me to trust the timing of things. Kingfishers have this way of appearing when you need to reconnect with your intuition, and the way she hovered, paused, and assessed before flying off felt like a quiet nudge to slow down and listen within. She gifted me one photo — just one — before disappearing into the trees.

Did you know?

Kingfishers can hover like hummingbirds and can actually see underwater thanks to special adaptations in their eyes.

From the river I slipped into the quiet world of mushrooms: clusters on logs, shelves along tree trunks, tiny ones that looked like fairy umbrellas, strange ones with muted colours, and even slime mould weaving between them like cosmic frosting. And then I found a giant fallen log — a full mushroom city. A kingdom.

As I crouched beside each cluster, I couldn’t help but look at the mushrooms in absolute awe. These tiny, humble beings are the forest’s quiet workers — breaking down fallen trees, recycling nutrients, and turning decay into new life. They’re the heartbeat beneath the forest floor, the recyclers, the healers, the ones who make renewal possible. Seeing them up close felt like witnessing the forest breathing, transforming, and beginning again — a reminder that even what falls apart can become the foundation for something new.

But inside, I was fighting. Grief crept in, my mind tangled with comparison, doubt, and that unkind voice that too much YouTube can fuel. So I stopped at every interesting mushroom. I crouched, tilted, adjusted, breathed. Photography became meditation — one angle at a time.

Did You Know?

The gills on these mushrooms aren’t just beautiful — they’re tiny spore factories. Each one can release millions of spores that drift through the forest air, helping the next generation of mushrooms sprout wherever conditions are right. Angel Wings often grow on rotting conifer wood, which is notoriously hard to break down. Their presence is a sign the forest’s hidden life-support system is thriving.

These eerie little fingers popping out of the moss looked like tiny forest zombies waking up from a nap. Dead Man’s Fingers are forest recyclers, breaking down tough wood tissues that very few organisms can digest. Without fungi like this, forests couldn’t regenerate.

On my way to the farm flats, my thoughts wandered again. And then the grief hit hard. One of those sudden emotional breaks where everything spills over.

And right in that vulnerable moment, I turned onto the main farm road and saw him.

A Bald Eagle.

Perched.

Still.

Watching me.

Eagles have a way of showing up when clarity is trying to find its way back into your life. They carry that sense of strength and higher perspective — the feeling that you can rise above whatever is weighing you down, even if just for a moment.

Did you know?

A Bald Eagle can see a rabbit from almost two miles away — their vision is up to seven times sharper than ours.

And then, in true eagle fashion, he gave me the ol’ feathered moon. Thanks buddy, very majestic!

In that moment, my grief loosened its grip.

I fell into the flow.

I stayed with him until he chose to leave, wings opening like a reminder that we, too, are meant to lift.

A Northern Harrier circled next — fast, low, scanning the fields the way harriers do, as if reading the land with intuition as sharp as sight. They glide close to the earth for a reason: the grounded path reveals what the high perspective can’t. I didn’t get a perfect photo, but I got the moment — watching him hunt, swoop, and enjoy his meal from the comfort of my tripod beside the car.

At the farm flats, I finally found the swans. Elegant, snowy white, and beautifully uninterested in coming close. Swans always feel like symbols of healing and emotional renewal — love in motion across a muddy field. My 600mm had to do the heavy lifting.

Two Snow Geese and four White-fronted Geese, travelling together again for the second year in a row.

Loyal. Connected. Returning.

Did you know?

Snow Geese navigate partly using the stars and can travel up to 5,000 km during migration.

Geese always remind me that we don’t walk our paths alone — that even in migration, there are companions who help us navigate the seasons of our lives.

Hundreds of geese suddenly lifted into the sky, circling in giant spirals before landing in another part of the flats — a living, breathing river of wings.

By then I was starving, so I drove into a seaside town. But before I even had the chance to think about lunch, I stepped out of my car and heard a familiar voice — the rapid chatter and buzz of an Anna’s Hummingbird.

My mom’s bird.

Her favourite.

Hummingbirds have always been messengers of closeness for me — reminders that love doesn’t disappear; it simply changes form. The moment that tiny bird appeared, I knew she was there with me. Watching. Encouraging. Sharing the day I wished I could tell her about.

Just a few steps away, two harbour seals were napping beside the fish shack, curled in that classic “banana pose” that keeps them warm and alert.

Next, common and double-crested cormorants perched along the docks, their emerald-black feathers glowing in the sunlight. They always strike me as reminders to dive deep — to go beneath the surface for what truly matters.

As I stood watching the cormorants, the sunlight caught their feathers just right, revealing jeweled shades of green, teal, and deep black. Their plumage looked almost iridescent, shimmering like polished gemstones every time they shifted. It was one of those moments where you realize just how much beauty hides in the everyday — all it takes is the right light and a willing heart to see it.

And as if the day hadn’t offered enough, one last gift waited for me: A Cooper's Hawk.

I was shocked at how still it stayed. Even from way down on the ground, inching closer with my camera, it didn’t flinch. It just sat there — weathering the cold, the wind, and me — with this calm, unwavering presence. It was one of those rare moments where you’re allowed into a wild creature’s world for just long enough to feel pure awe.

The Cooper’s Hawk felt like a quiet message in itself — a reminder to steady my heart and stay focused, even in the cold, even in the wind. Hawks often appear when you’re being asked to trust your instincts, sharpen your inner vision, and hold your ground. The way this one stood so calm, so unmoved by the world swirling around it, felt like a lesson in resilience: you can weather the storm, too.

And this face says it all!

Even with all the magic, the sadness was right there with me. My mom would have loved today. She would have cheered for every bird, every moment, every unexpected encounter. Her absence feels like a weight, but somehow days like this also make her feel close as if the world lifts the veil just a little.

As I wrapped up my day, I kept thinking about how incredible it is that I didn’t have to go far for any of this. Every single photo I took — the eagle, the hummingbird, the mushrooms, the cormorants, the geese, even the Cooper’s Hawk — all of it happened right here in the urban edges of my own city. Wildlife isn’t something you have to travel hours to find.

It’s around us all the time, living its quiet, beautiful life just beyond our daily routines. Most people never see it. Most people never even know it’s there. But today I felt deeply privileged to witness it — to slow down, to look closely, and to spend time in the wild pockets woven into my community. And I’m endlessly grateful for that.