Wildlife Photography Road Trip: Part 2 – Bears, Bees, Birds & Sea Life - June 28-29, 2025

Day two began with hope and marmots.

I headed to Paradise Meadows, camera ready, hoping to spot Vancouver Island marmots near the parking lot. But instead of marmots, I found... mosquitoes. Millions of them. Add in a chorus of excited kids chattering down the boardwalk, and it became clear this wasn’t going to be a quiet wildlife encounter. With a “Bear in Area” sign staring me down and no bear spray in my bag, I decided not to venture too far.

Just as I was about to call it quits, I caught movement in the foliage, a doe and her fawn, emerging quietly into the open. I froze. She took a few slow steps toward me, curious. I smiled and gave her a small nod, silently thanking her for her presence. She tilted her head, watching me with wide, wondering eyes. I softly told her she was beautiful and how much I appreciated the chance to photograph her.

And then—pure magic. She began to play with her fawn right in front of me, leaping and dancing with gentle grace. It was as if she was saying, “Oh, you wanted a show? Let me introduce you to joy.” Time stood still. For those few moments, it was just the three of us, wrapped in a quiet, shared understanding. They played, the fawn bounding like a spring-loaded plush toy while the mother looked on. I took photo after photo, savoring the magic until the peace was (understandably) shattered by a group of running children.

Note to future nature wanderers: inside voices help you meet more wildlife friends.

This encounter reminded me of nature’s gentle brilliance—that sometimes, the most unforgettable wildlife moments come softly, unexpectedly, and leave your heart forever changed.

I snapped a few flower shots on the way back to the car, my skin buzzing from mozzie bites (despite bug spray) and my heart still glowing from the deer. We walk past plants like this every day—quiet, unassuming, background characters in our busy lives. But pause for just a moment, and look closer.

Look at the gradient of greens, the soft burst of yellow where new needles emerge, the intricate geometry of growth—each needle placed with purpose. This plant isn’t just surviving; it’s thriving. Perfect in its form, effortless in its beauty.

It asks for nothing. It just is—growing, reaching toward the light, reminding us that the most extraordinary things are often the ones we overlook.

But Paradise Meadows wasn’t quite done with me yet.

Driving down the winding mountain road, I spotted something black in the bushes. I pulled over—and there it was: a black bear! From the safety of my car and with the use of my 600mm lens, I grabbed a few shots as it lumbered by, completely uninterested in me. I laughed. I had put in my order with the universe for marmots. I guess someone misread the request. But hey—I’ll take it.

As I drove down from Paradise Meadows, still buzzing from the bear sighting and deer encounter, the sun burst through the clouds and painted the landscape in gold. I could’ve kept driving. I could’ve called it a day. But something told me to pull over—and I’m so glad I did.

The roadside was lit with color—lupines standing tall like royalty, and Indian Paintbrush blazing in red, orange, and yellow like tiny flames dancing in the grass. Even in the harsh gravel, tiny, dew-soaked leaves pushed up through the rocks, determined to grow.

These were the quiet bloomers, the ones we fly past on our way to somewhere else. But on this brilliantly sunny day, I gave them my full attention—and in return, they gave me peace, presence, and just a bit more joy to tuck into the day.

Next, I visited a park rumored to be good for wildlife. Spoiler: not so much. I was treated to the delightful sight of a bee hard at work, which was sweet, but not quite the wildlife jackpot I was hoping for.

The trails were crowded, the sun was intense, and I decided to retreat to more familiar ground—Willow Point Reef.

This time, I explored a new section of the reef and was rewarded with something I’d never photographed before: a nudibranch! Plus, sea sponges and a variety of little tidepool creatures I didn’t even know existed. Their undersea world was bizarre and beautiful—a perfect reminder that even the tiniest pools hold entire ecosystems if you just look closely enough.

As I crouched near the reef, something caught my eye—a bright orange, blobby formation hanging like jelly drips from the underside of a rock. I yelled out to my Aunt, my voice bouncing with excitement: “You’ve got to come see this!” We both bent down, completely absorbed, pointing and guessing, wide-eyed like a pair of curious kids on a field trip.

What we were looking at was a colonial tunicate—a bizarre and brilliant sea creature that looks like it came from another planet. These soft-bodied filter feeders live in clusters and spend their lives glued in place, quietly cleaning the ocean one current at a time. Honestly, I was obsessed.

It was one of those magical tidepool moments where curiosity takes over and time just pauses. We giggled, poked our cameras under the rock (not our hands!), and marveled at how alien and alive our shoreline really is.

And more and more Starfish.

As I peered into a tidepool, this burst of neon orange caught my eye like an underwater firework. At first, I wasn’t even sure it was real—it looked too bold, too perfectly fluffed. But sure enough, it was a plumose anemone, its feathery tentacles spread like a living pom-pom in the shallows.

These incredible creatures aren’t plants—they’re animals. Cousins to jellyfish, they use their soft, ruffled arms to catch plankton and tiny particles drifting by. And when the tide drops or they feel threatened? They scrunch up tight into little gelatinous blobs, disappearing from view like shy performers after a show.

It was like stumbling on a secret coral garden—hidden right in plain sight.

These tidepool treasures completely captivated me—a living gallery of marine life in full texture mode.

On the left, I spotted a plump, glossy California sea cucumber, lounging among seaweed and rock like the ocean’s version of a jelly gummy. They may look like squishy blobs, but they play a vital role in the ecosystem—cleaning the sea floor by processing sand and detritus like little underwater composters.

Beside it, a striking mottled sea star clung to the rock, its marbled surface glowing in the sunlight. Every arm was alive with color and purpose. I knelt down in the wet sand, wide-eyed like a little kid, utterly mesmerized by these incredible beings.

There's something magical about tide pooling—one minute you're photographing barnacles, and the next, you're nose-to-nose with a sea cucumber that looks like it wandered out of a science fiction movie.

Later, I stopped by a marina in Courtenay, where a seal had cleverly stationed itself near some fishermen cleaning their catch.

As soon as the scraps hit the water, the seal swooped in like a pro. One even floated on its back, nostrils up, waiting patiently for more. It was adorable—and a smart survival strategy. Oh to be a harbour seal.

Though the air was full of birdsong, I couldn’t see much... until I drove through a small shoreline community and spotted a Great Blue Heron sunning on the rocks. I turned around, stepped out slowly, and stood still. He opened his eyes briefly to clock my presence, then closed them again, soaking up the sun as if to say, “Just be chill, human.” It was a quiet, perfect moment. A gift.

Encouraged, I pressed on to French Creek Marina—and jackpot! It was a wildlife breakfast buffet. Two bald eagles graced the scene—one perched near an enormous nest, clearly on lookout duty.

The other watching from a distance with an expression that seemed to say, “If I don’t move, maybe she won’t see me.” (I saw you, buddy. And thank you for the photo op.)

And then I noticed another one nearby, most likely a mate. INCREDIBLE!

As I moved on, I encountered a rock pigeon with striking dark plumage—absolutely beautiful, and just shy enough to give me a challenge.

A bit later, I caught sight of my first photographable bunny, who kindly let me take a few shots from the car window. I love it when wildlife cooperates... it happens so rarely.

But the bunny wasn’t alone. Nearby, a bald eagle was being dive-bombed by a few crows—those relentless feathered rebels who just love to harass the big guys for sport. I snapped a few shots before carrying on, thinking my wildlife day was over.

The eagle was unbothered. He didn't even duck. It was awesome.

Not quite.

One final bald eagle sat perched on the top of a tall tree near the beach, scanning the shoreline like a ruler surveying their kingdom. I pulled over one last time, hopped out, and captured the moment. Calm, commanding, and utterly unbothered by me. It was the perfect end to the perfect day.

All of this—every sighting, every surprise, every silent exchange with wild eyes—was urban and local. Not in some remote jungle or mountain, but right here on Vancouver Island.

Nature is always offering us moments of wonder if we just slow down enough to notice. I hope these blog posts bring you a little bit of that magic and remind you—this is what we’re here for. To live, to learn, to be kind, and to notice the beauty right in front of us.

Stay tuned for Part 3: Kingfishers & Coastal Surprises!