Wildlife Photography Road Trip: Part 1 – The Magic Begins in Campbell River - June 27, 2025

On Friday, June 27th, I packed up my gear and hit the road for Campbell River. A 3.5-hour drive from southern Vancouver Island stretched ahead of me, and as the kilometres passed, the skies grew darker. Rain threatened. Doubt whispered. But I reminded myself: in wildlife photography, you’re never guaranteed perfect weather—or any wildlife at all. Still, I’d planned, prepared, and dreamed for this. I was determined to find magic, no matter what.

And magic I found.

The weather was unpredictable—overcast, rainy, windy, sunny, and sometimes all at once. But I didn’t care. Rain doesn’t hurt me or my equipment, and in fact, it felt right to photograph wildlife in the elements they endure daily. I wanted to show them in all their resilience.

My first wildlife encounter came sooner than expected. Along a highway known for its 100 km/hr speed limit, I safely pulled over when I spotted three turkey vultures perched in a bare tree. Then—bam—a whole bunch more appeared in another! The tree, stark and leafless, looked as if it had been made just for them. I couldn’t help but wonder: Why here?

That’s when I noticed the creek running just below their perch—an ideal feeding ground.

Did You Know?

Turkey vultures don’t hunt live prey—they’re scavengers with an incredible sense of smell that can detect carrion from over a kilometre away. Unlike most birds, they rely on scent more than sight to locate food.

I spent time photographing the vultures, soaking in their eerie beauty and watching them soar above me.

As I headed back to the car, buzzing with energy, I also paused to admire some gorgeous wildflowers nearby—another gift from the roadside.

After a quick bio and refreshment break, I arrived at my first planned destination: Willow Point Reef. I'd made a wish to the universe for bald eagles and shorebirds. It was mid-day and, of course, raining again. I stepped out of the car questioning my life choices when suddenly—I heard the call. That unmistakable, soul-stirring cry of a bald eagle.

Electricity shot through me.

I turned and saw not only an adult bald eagle but a juvenile perched beside it! Heart racing, I grabbed my camera. A few quick shots in, and I strapped on my 40lbs of gear (don’t judge—you never know what you’ll need out there!) and hiked out across the rocky shoreline.

There they were: adult and juvenile eagles perched and calling. Others circled overhead. One even landed on a shoreline rock not far from me. At times, they flew so close I could feel the wind from their powerful wings overhead. I simply stood there—watching, listening, being with them.

As I stood quietly on the rocky shore, I spotted a juvenile bald eagle standing alone at the water’s edge—gazing out at the horizon. He wasn’t hunting, calling, or flying. Just... watching. There was something almost human in his stillness, as if he too was lost in thought.

I couldn’t help but wonder—What was he thinking about? Was he contemplating the currents? Dreaming of the skies he hadn’t yet flown? Did he feel the pull of some ancient instinct, whispering who he was meant to become? Born into this wild stretch of shoreline, what did he make of the world, of us, of himself?

I stood with him for a long while, sharing the silence. Two beings, worlds apart, both trying to find meaning in the wide open. It was magic. Pure and simple.

At one point, I counted at least eight juveniles and two adults on the beach. I was overwhelmed with joy—tears nearly welled up. There’s something about bald eagles that cracks my heart open wide. Their presence is commanding, almost otherworldly.

Get ready for the magic that is Bald Eagles (I'm a little obsessed)!

The eagles landed in the tidepools like it was just another Tuesday—completely unbothered by the wind, the sideways rain, or the odd human inching closer with a camera the size of a baguette.

They gave me the occasional side-eye, like, “What’s this beach gremlin doing now?” but otherwise let me creep around the rocks as long as I didn’t overstep. Thank you, 600mm lens, for making me less annoying.

Did You Know?

Juvenile bald eagles don’t actually look bald—or even very eagle-y—when they’re young. Instead of the iconic white head and tail, they rock a mottled mix of brown, black, and white feathers that make them look more like big, broody hawks with a wild tie-dye situation going on.

This patchy look lasts for about 4 to 5 years as they slowly grow into their adult plumage. Think of it as their awkward teenager phase—moody, mysterious, and probably listening to dramatic eagle screeches in their tree nests.

So the next time you see what looks like a “giant brown bird of chaos,” you might just be looking at a bald eagle who hasn’t grown into their crown yet.

When one got too close to another’s rock, they'd just give a casual shove—plop—and then go back to pretending I wasn’t there. Drenched, crouched, and thrilled, I was the weirdest part of their afternoon—and they didn’t seem to mind.

One juvenile bald eagle turned and locked eyes with me, the wind catching just right and fluffing the feathers on its head into a full-on electric shock hairdo. It looked like it had just stuck a talon in a socket—or had a really shocking thought. We stared at each other for a beat, both slightly windblown and curious. I swear he was judging my hairstyle too.

Just as my eagle encounter had wrapped up, I caught movement behind me—a Great Blue Heron, a little farther down the beach, giving itself a good feather shake like it was fresh out of the bird spa. Moments later, it took off and vanished into the distance. I figured that was the end of it.

The coloring on this heron was noticeably softer—more muted blues and grays, without the sharp contrast of an adult’s plumage. That gentle fade led me to believe I was watching a juvenile, still growing into its full regal tones. Even in its quieter colors, it was absolutely stunning.

But nature had other plans.

As I shifted my focus to the tidepools, I suddenly realized I wasn’t alone. A Great Blue Heron had been nearby the whole time—so still and so silent, I hadn’t even noticed it. It took off and glided around me like a shadow with wings, circling several times before landing farther down the shoreline as if to say, “You may continue.”

A few plovers were also working the rocks, hopping from one sunlit perch to the next with their usual mix of cuteness and attitude. It's always humbling to realize how much life is quietly unfolding just beyond our line of sight—until we slow down enough to see it.

Micro-Wonders of the Intertidal Realm

Once they began to move on, I turned my attention to the rocky beach and the tide pools that stretched around me like a hidden city. And what a discovery—hundreds of starfish in every colour imaginable.

Before We Dive In: The intertidal zone is a fragile, living world filled with creatures doing their best to survive the sun, surf, and curious humans. If you explore these tidepools, please tread carefully, look but don’t touch, and avoid poking, prodding, or picking up any marine life—especially sea stars, who are vulnerable to stress and disease. Your gentle presence ensures this magical realm stays thriving for the next wanderer to discover.

These are Ochre Sea Stars. Ochre sea stars play a keystone role in their ecosystem. They prey heavily on mussels and keep mussel populations in check, which helps maintain biodiversity in the intertidal zone. If ochre stars disappear, mussels can take over and crowd out many other species.

Did You Know?

• Color Me Fabulous: All those purples, oranges, and pinks in your tidepool glam squad? They're all the same species—Ochre Sea Stars. It’s like one sea star went to the salon and couldn’t pick a color... so they didn’t.

• Built-In Bling: Those tiny white dots all over their arms? Not decorative rhinestones. They're actually spines and breathing bumps (called papulae), because fashion and function are important in the intertidal world.

• Sticky Business: The hundreds of tiny suction-cup feet under each arm. Those are tube feet, and they help these stars move, cling to rocks, and pry open stubborn mussels like little underwater gym rats.

• Cuddle Puddle: See them snuggled up together in your middle photo? They're not shy. Ochre sea stars love a good mussel buffet, and where the food is, the party is. Think of it as a low-tide potluck... with less pot and more pluck.

  
  

Whereas, below is a Mottled Star, a common species found in the intertidal zones along the Pacific Northwest coast. Mottled sea stars can regenerate lost arms and are important predators in tidepool ecosystems. They feed on mussels, barnacles, and other invertebrates by everting their stomachs outside their bodies to digest prey—a truly wild adaptation!

As I carefully wandered the rocky beach, it felt like I’d stumbled into a secret underwater society having a meeting at low tide. Every corner revealed a new resident of this soggy neighborhood—some shy, some bold, and some just unapologetically weird.

Here’s just a taste of the cast of characters I met:

Crab (top left):

This little sideways scuttler was trying to act casual, but I caught it mid-creep. Most likely a juvenile shore crab, these guys are the tiny bouncers of the tidepool world—always ready to wave a claw and run for cover.

Clam shell (top middle):

A perfect “clam-open” moment. While the occupant has long since moved on (probably to a gull’s stomach), this shell was a beautiful reminder of the filter-feeding life—clams help keep ocean water clean while just hanging out and being chill.

Periwinkle snails (top right):

These tiny swirl-shells were everywhere, looking like they'd RSVP’d to a snail convention. They survive being exposed at low tide by sealing up tight and waiting out the sun. Slow? Yes. Smart? Also yes.

Sea urchin test (middle left):

This white sea urchin skeleton (called a “test”) looked like a tiny alien artifact. Sea urchins usually have spines and tube feet, but this one’s gone full minimalist after passing on. In life, they use their jaws (called "Aristotle's lantern") to scrape algae off rocks—tidy little sea gardeners.

Tunicating blob (middle right):

These golden-brown globsters are likely colonial tunicates. Think of them as ocean couch potatoes with a PhD in filtering. They don’t move, don’t chase prey, and don’t care what you think. Respect.

Red seaweed with brainy vibes (bottom left):

This jelly-like sheet might be a type of red algae (possibly Mastocarpus or Chondrus crispus), and yes, it looks like it has a nervous system. No, it doesn’t. Yes, it still freaked me out a little.

Green anemones (bottom right):

These beauties were tightly shut like little sea macarons, waiting for the tide to return. When submerged, they bloom like underwater flowers—but beware! They’ve got sticky tentacles and stinging cells to catch unsuspecting snacks.

This punk rocker (below) of the tidepools is the Purple Sea Urchin, and yes, it’s as fierce as it looks. With those vibrant violet spines, it’s basically the glam metal version of a porcupine. But under all that edge, there’s a soft spot—literally. Sea urchins have a round shell called a test, covered in movable spines and tube feet, which help them get around and cling to rocks like tidepool ninjas.

What’s even cooler? They’ve got a mouth on the bottom with five teeny teeth known collectively as Aristotle’s Lantern. These jaws let them chomp through kelp and algae with surprising power.

Fun fact: In areas where urchins go unchecked (like when sea otters vanish), they can mow down entire kelp forests like underwater lawnmowers on a rampage. Conservation tip? Save the kelp—love a sea otter.

I was in awe. This undersea world, exposed for only a short time, felt like another realm entirely. There’s so much in this world we don’t understand—and it’s all wonder.

Later, after checking into my hotel—tired, sore, and elated—I glanced out the window and saw two crows dive-bombing something on the nearby rooftop. I grabbed my camera and was stunned to see... a juvenile bald eagle!

In my pajamas, I snapped a few shots from my balcony, but of course, I couldn’t stop there. I changed quickly and headed out to see if I could get a better view. The eagle sat calmly while the crows eventually gave up. He won. And I stood there, amazed again.

That moment led me to explore the nearby shoreline, and to my delight, I spotted a harbour seal swimming by the ferry dock, hunting for its evening meal.

As I watched the harbour seal circling behind the ferry, it dawned on me—this wasn’t random swimming. The seal was fishing the ferry. The churned-up wake likely stirred small prey from the depths, and this clever seal was taking full advantage of the buffet line. Nature always finds a way… and sometimes it hitchhikes behind a BC ferry.

 That lit a fire in me. I jumped in the car and began exploring nearby marinas.

What followed felt like a domino effect of rare encounters:

• Two bald eagles perched on construction cranes

• Two juvenile eagles play-fighting (too fast to photograph!)

• Two more perched on other marina structures

• A lone killdeer near the shoreline

• And finally, a rusted barrel absolutely covered in cormorants

As I watched the bald eagles perched high atop the marina equipment, I couldn’t help but admire their choice of real estate. Cranes, masts, and rooftop edges—anything that gave them the best view of the world below. It’s as if they always make sure they’ve secured the high ground, not just for hunting, but for watching. I often wonder what they think of us—scurrying around like little ants while they sit in stillness, calm and commanding. From their perch, they seem to see everything... and miss nothing.

As I focused my lens on the eagles perched high above, feeling all majestic and inspired, I accidentally wandered a little too close to a group of killdeer on the ground. They immediately let out a dramatic squeal of protest—like tiny, feathered alarm systems with trust issues. Flustered, they took off in a whirl of wings and indignation. I apologized, of course, like any polite wildlife paparazzi would. But they were already mid-flight, probably gossiping about the clueless human who crashed their party.

Meanwhile, down at sea level, the Cormorant Yacht Club was in full swing. Perched on their rusted luxury barge, these all-black beauties were doing what cormorants do best: aggressively ignoring everything. Some were deep in preen-mode, others were just standing like retired sea captains with stories. The vibe was part goth, part CEO retreat. I imagine the yellow rust was intentional—they like their lounges weathered, thank you very much.

As I moved on, I thought I was witnessing your standard-issue seagull board meeting, but a closer look revealed this was more of a mixed-species rooftop social. Among the usual suspects were a bunch of Bonaparte’s Gulls—petite, elegant, and sharply dressed with dark bills and subtle head markings. They stood out like the artsy minimalists at a family reunion full of louder, chunkier gull cousins.

Everyone seemed to be keeping to their own cliques—classic big gull energy on one end, soft-spoken Bonapartes clustered politely on the other, like a high school cafeteria with better feathers. I couldn’t tell if they were planning their next snack heist or just enjoying a break from ferry watching, but the mood was... organized chaos with a side of squawk. One turned and stared straight into my lens. I swear I heard it say, “Unless you brought fries, move along.”

I laughed.

If I hadn’t seen that eagle on my rooftop, I would’ve missed it all. And it reminded me of something powerful. If we just slow down, stop, and look around, we’ll see that life is thriving all around us—even in the heart of human environments.

I returned to the hotel just before dark, exhausted but electrified. The day had given me more than I could have hoped for. Stay tuned for Part 2, where the wildlife wonders continue through Saturday and Sunday.