Fly Like the Eagles
Bald eagles gather each year at the Harrison River in world-beating numbers. The sight left me thinking about more than the birds
The sense of anticipation in the jet boat is palpable as we plow through the muddy turbulence at the confluence of British Columbia’s Fraser and Harrison rivers. The thrum of the motors, the excited jabber of the passengers and the amplified voice of guide Jo-anne Chadwick create a hubbub that persists until we catch our first glimpse of the bald eagles.
Brawny, broad-shouldered raptors are everywhere: perched on poles and snags, huddled near the shoreline and gliding imperially overhead. It’s a shock to see a creature normally associated with solitude gathered in the hundreds, and a stunned silence descends over the boat.
The quiet is broken when a flock of eagles explodes out of a grove of cottonwoods. As the boat slows and the windows fly open, the sound of the baldies’ high-pitched chittering rushes inside along with a blast of frigid air. High above our wondering eyes, birds with wingspans as broad as pterodactyls wheel crazily in the sky. Those of us with cameras leap to our feet and begin jockeying for position, opening windows and climbing onto the prow of the boat.
Our guide cautions calm, assuring us there will be no shortage of photo opportunities. She does not lie; there is a seemingly endless supply of eagles as we cruise on through the river’s braided channels, past massive, snow-dusted mountains that glow with a mysterious incandescence in the stingingly clear winter light.
Although bald eagles inhabit many parts of North America, 70 per cent of them live in Alaska and B.C., where they flourish because of salmon. Dead or dying fish are a vital food source and explain why the eagles are drawn to the Harrison River each fall. The white-headed raptors begin arriving in November, flying in like hungry conventioneers from across the continent. Most remain until February, feasting on spawning salmon. In some years, the count reaches 7,000, making this one of the largest concentrations of bald eagles on the planet.
When our 90-minute tour ends, I drive to a viewing site at the Chehalis alluvial flats. There is an icy wind blowing up the valley, and all the eagles here are having bad hair days. I soon retreat to an area where members of a local rehabilitation society are burning wood in barrels and displaying two of their resident education birds: Snoopy, a brain-damaged northern saw-whet owl, and Sonsie, a male bald eagle.
Rescued as a baby by fishermen, Sonsie is now so imprinted on humans he can’t be released back into the wild. Although he may be accustomed to humans, there is nothing domesticated about Sonsie’s demeanour. His piercing stare, hooked beak and razorsharp talons lend him an intimidating aura. The handler lifts the bird up on his outstretched arm and cameras click, but no one gets too close. It may be difficult to accept that Sonsie has lost his freedom, yet he lives a pampered life compared with his free-flying brethren. Even in the best of times, only one hatchling in 10 survives to adulthood. The bald eagle may represent the most successful recovery of any endangered species in North America, but it still faces threats from habitat destruction and pollution.
In B.C., the bird’s continued existence depends on strong annual salmon runs and wild spaces like the magical stretch of the Harrison that we explored this morning — a place where, despite our distance from the eagles, I felt connected with something much larger than myself. It’s a good feeling, and I carry it with me like a secret gift all the way back to Vancouver.