One evening in March 2017, I glanced out the living room window and noticed a bald eagle flying over a tall stand of trees. It was carrying a long stick in its talons. There had once been an active nest in a neighboring fir. During a winter storm in 2006, the top third of that tree broke off and tumbled into the sea. For several days following the event, I observed the eagle pair flying erratically near the fractured tree and screeching. A year later, they began to build the new nest and, as far as I knew, never spent any time there. Now, it seemed, things were changing.
The new nest was in a high branched fork of a Douglas fir. The fir stood about 300 feet from my house on a bluff above a deep cove. This rugged and pristine coastline, which marks an international division between the U.S. and Canada, is ideal year-round habitat for bald eagles. Rarely a day passes when you fail to catch sight of one. Over time, I’ve learned that mature eagles sometimes build more than one nest within their territory. They may alternate between them from one breeding season to the next or maintain a single nest several years in a row. All this depends on weather, available food supplies, and, of course, the whims of the eagles themselves.
The bald eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) is endemic to North America—Canada, the United States, and Northern Mexico—with the largest populations in Alaska. It is considered the only “sea eagle” of the genus Haliaeetus found on the continent. Bald eagles are members of the hawk family in the order Falconiformes, comprised of falcons, hawks, eagles, and ospreys and are closely related to the Eurasian white-tailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla). All species within the order are characterized by a hooked beak and sharp, curved talons. The bald eagle name is attributed to the bird’s signature white-feathered head, which doesn’t appear until it reaches sexual maturity at four or five years of age, a time when it also gains white tail feathers. Before then, immature eagles display in various shades of brown with mottled markings of gray and white. The color of their eyes and beak start off as dark brown but transition to yellow as they mature.
Bald eagles have a commanding presence. They are among the largest birds in North America with wing spans of up to 8 feet and body lengths from 2.5 to 3 feet. A full-grown eagle can weigh anywhere from 6 to 15 pounds. Adult females are larger than males, typically by about 25 percent, and are often differentiated by their deeper (thicker) beaks. The birds thrive in marine environments where food is plentiful, which is why their greatest concentrations occur along coastlines and major waterways. Eagles prefer fish, especially salmon, although their diets can vary considerably. They will eat whatever is available including birds, fish, small mammals, and invertebrates.
The term, “eagle eye,” an idiomatic reference to the bird’s keen vision, is no myth. An eagle’s eyesight is thought to be four to eight times stronger than that of the average human. In fact, it can likely spot prey from as far as 2 miles away. And while bald eagles can be skilled hunters, they are also notorious pirates, given to harassing smaller birds until they drop their kill, or, quite commonly, stealing prey right from another bird’s talons. Benjamin Franklin, a respected naturalist in his day, apparently had little regard for the species’ thieving characteristics. In a 1784 letter to his daughter, Sarah, he lamented: “He is a Bird of bad moral Character. He does not get his Living honestly.”
Yet despite its somewhat ruthless reputation, the bald eagle, at times, has suffered devastating setbacks. Prior to the 1700s, total populations were estimated at between 300,000 and 500,000. However, uncontrolled hunting practices and habitat destruction over many years caused their numbers to plummet. By the 1950s, only about 10,000 remained. Their fate was put in further jeopardy with wide use of the pesticide DDT for insect control, which contaminated food sources and caused egg shells to thin, thus resulting in catastrophic population declines. Things began to turn around in 1967 when bald eagles were formally listed under the Endangered Species Preservation Act. They were later transferred to the 1973 Endangered Species Act and classified as threatened and endangered. Since that time, stringent environmental regulations and habitat protection programs have enabled Bald eagle populations to surge. In 2007, the species was delisted as threatened and endangered and its conservation status reclassified as a species of least concern in the lower 48 states. By 2009, U.S. estimates were at 143,000 and rising.
Arguably, the bald eagle may demonstrate its most spectacular talents when it takes to the sky. During the breeding season, which varies depending on region, pairs of birds engage in dramatic aerobatics whereby they lock talons mid-air and spin toward the ground. Known as “cartwheeling,” these maneuvers are part of a complex mating ritual, thought to be one way a female judges a male’s suitability or how an established pair reaffirms their commitment. Once partnered, bald eagles typically mate for life. The shared task of building a nest and renovating it from year to year helps to strengthen that bond.
By April, the nest had been transformed from a random pile of sticks into an impressive wooden structure. The nest was much higher and wider. Open spaces were now fortified with lichen and other organic material. I was encouraged. There was a good chance I’d get to see eaglets this year, something I’d never witnessed up close. In preparation, I set up my spotting scope in the yard.
When I took my first long look through the eyepiece, I was stunned by the intimacy of the setting. I’d observed eagles in flight, on the attack, keeping vigilant watch of their surroundings, but never at ease. This is what I saw now. The pair appeared almost tranquil, very “uneagle-like.”
I began to chronicle my observations in my bird journal.
April 7: For the past month, a bald eagle pair has been working on the existing (but never used) nest in a tall fir on the bluff. I watched the male fly out several times to gather limbs from a nearby cedar. On his return, the female carefully positioned the materials with her beak and talons while he went back for more. They are an industrious pair and work well together. The nest is considerably larger than it used to be and seems solid. Today, I set up the spotting scope. The view of the nest (and the eagles) is incredible! This afternoon, one of them flew in with what looked like a large piece of salmon, which I consider a good sign. Egg laying is imminent…
The next day I noted one significant change.
April 8: The female has been in the nest most of the day—I haven’t seen the male. My guess is that she’s laid at least one egg, maybe two. Incubation has begun! Now we wait for 32 to 35 days. The eggs, if they exist, could hatch around May 10.
The eagle pair had indeed entered a new phase. During the next four weeks, I eyed the nest every few hours. The male came and went, primarily to bring food, but occasionally took a turn at egg-sitting while the female flew off for a much needed break. She seemed particularly focused on the one task that mattered—incubation—and so far, our gal was performing brilliantly.
Weather reports warned of a series of storm fronts stacked up across the Pacific Ocean and ultimately destined for Washington. One morning, I woke to clear skies and the notion of a calm day only for the wind to pick up by early afternoon. From that point and throughout the night, fierce gusts slammed the shoreline. Heavy rains followed. During the night, I listened to the high-pitched whistles cornering the house; felt the doors and windows rattle. By morning, the sun was shining again and blue skies prevailed. A similar pattern repeated for the next several days.
The male eagle had disappeared. Given the storms, I wondered if some tragedy had befallen him. Until the chaos passed, my spotting scope remained in the house. Periodically, I gathered enough courage to run outside and take a peek. Whenever I did, I saw the female eagle firmly planted in the nest riding it out, swaying in a two-count rhythm with the tree and facing the wind. Her snowy head feathers were taking the brunt of the storms, blowing at a backward angle like she was cruising in a convertible. She appeared unperturbed, shifting attention only briefly to preen a feather or two.
The days ticked by. The female remained a vision of strength as my journal entries digressed into staccato-style notations that reflected a long period of weather and waiting.
April 17: Weather is crazy. Female doesn’t seem to mind. No sign of the male.
April 22: Weather still sucks. Still haven’t seen the male. I hope he’s not dead.
May 3: One more week to go until eggs hatch.
In May, the long series of unpleasant storms yielded to sunny days and comfortable temperatures. Everywhere, new life. One morning I noticed a family of quail skitter across the grass as I stood just a few feet away: two adults, accompanied by a dozen or so fresh hatchlings, each no larger than my thumb. Already the young were running with the speed and intensity of survivors.
My projected hatch date of May 10 came and went. Two days later I noted several exciting updates.
May 12: The male has come back! And something’s happening. Both adults are actively poking their heads down into the nest. I’m sure an egg (or two) has hatched.
Two weeks went by with no eaglet sightings. Up in the nest, priorities had shifted. The focus now was on finding food. Nearly every day, I noticed at least one eagle fly off and return with prey. The adults ate heartily. I figured they must also be feeding little ones. All I could see was the tops of the adults’ heads. Soon I got confirmation.
May 25: This morning I watched the female fly into the nest with a carcass of some kind. I noticed movement beneath her. AT LAST, an eaglet! A tiny gray fluff ball that pecked enthusiastically at the thin strip of meat its mother dangled in front of it. And then—a second eaglet! They are not what I’d call adorable. In fact, they’re pretty pathetic at this stage with bug eyes and black beaks that seem too large for their heads. At least I know they exist. For now, they seem active and healthy. I’m going on the record: The eaglets will fly the nest the last week of July.
During June and July, the eaglets matured rapidly. The young birds began to show more “eagle like” qualities as they traded their gray down for dark-colored feathers. Even their once-oversized beaks no longer seemed awkward.
To keep pace with the appetites of growing offspring, the adults continued to work in tandem to find enough food. The nest served as a sort of revolving door with one or the other flying off on a hunting mission. In locating prey or carrion, they were successful. Often, I saw the entire family in the nest eating ravenously. But soon after a meal, the adults usually left the nest and kept watch nearby. On several occasions, I watched the female aggressively chase other birds from the area—everything from crows to Cooper’s hawks—even a mindless Kingfisher who had the audacity to cross her path. I concluded that eagles had excellent parenting skills, adept at supplying food and nurturing, and certainly in acting on their protective instincts. Critically, they also seemed wholly capable of leaving their young unattended for extended periods of time to instill the self-sufficient traits they would soon need to survive.
June 20: The eaglets are shedding their down. The rim of the nest is littered with light-colored fluff as if a major pillow fight has taken place. The young birds seem most active in the early morning and around nightfall, often poking their heads above the rim of the nest as they move around or eat yet whatever Mom or Dad has delivered. And speaking of Mom, today she chased away two crows that apparently got too close for her comfort. She’s extremely protective and doesn’t put up with any sort of trespass—except me, apparently, harmless from my distant spot on the ground.
July 1: The eaglets are growing so fast I can hardly keep up. They seem HUGE relative to what they were a couple of weeks ago. I’ve taken to calling the larger one “she” and the other sibling “he.” I can see distinct personalities between them—she being the more curious and bolder of the two.
July 23: Another week or so and it will be time to fledge. The young eagles appear fully grown and have all their feathers. Naturally, they are growing more curious of the world around them, checking out higher branches in the nesting tree and flapping their wings to gain strength. Sometimes I catch them in a playful period—poking each other with their beaks or preening—but mostly they sit contently, biding their time. Their mother has taken up routine nest maintenance. Today she brought in a large wad of lichen. I imagine the place is getting pretty ripe by now and she’s doing her best to “recarpet” over the mess. I try not to think about it.
August 1: Week 11. Fledge Week. I check on the nest as often as I can. Usually, I find the young eagles basking in the sunlight or perched on nearby branches. In the last few days, each has shown more independence. Where before they always stood within a few feet of one another, now I see them steadily moving farther apart with the larger sibling exploring much higher in the tree. Increasingly, they make “test” leaps as they flap their wings. Both seem restless. No doubt they are gathering courage to take that inevitable first flight.
Just short of twelve weeks, the young eagles were ready to fly. One Thursday morning as I peered through the scope, I noticed the larger eaglet standing on a high branch of the nesting tree. Something told me this was it. Before I knew it, she leaped into the wind. Wings spread, she made a tight, awkward circle, then aimed for a tree on the opposite bank. Thrilled to be in the right place at the right time, I watched for several minutes and followed her movements the rest of the day.
August 3: Flight! This morning, the larger (female) eagle flew from a high branch of the nesting tree over the cove, where she made a full circle, and then landed in a cedar on the other side. It wasn’t graceful—more of a crash than a landing—but no tragedy either. Throughout the day, she made several short flights from one tree to another. Then, late in the afternoon, she disappeared. The remaining eaglet is very much alone now. After his sibling flew out of sight, he seemed uncharacteristically anxious, jumping from branch to branch, moving farther away from his comfort zone. I thought he might fly too, but by nightfall I noticed he had returned to the nest.
The next day the younger sibling was still anxious. Throughout the day, I watched him move from branch to branch, up then down, then up again. But that evening, several remarkable things took place.
August 4: The larger sibling came back tonight. Around 7:30, I heard her call out to her brother—a shrill Kik-ik-ik-ik!—and he called back. A few minutes later, she flew into the nest and the two made quite a ruckus as they reunited. The parents showed up soon after that (I had not seen them for several days) and perched themselves in neighboring trees. I got the feeling the adults were making sure the “kids” were okay before flying off for the night.
When I checked the next morning, the siblings were still together.
August 5: Both young eagles remain together in the nest tree. I think the older bird is going to stay with the younger until he finds his courage. Contrary to what I’d read about rivalry between eaglet siblings, this pair seems particularly bonded. To their advantage, food has been plentiful and the climate mild. I guess there’s less pressure to compete in this environment. Both have made it to this stage. It won’t be long now before the younger one takes the plunge.
By mid-day, the older sibling had disappeared. I noticed the younger one standing alone, near the end of a long branch in the nesting tree. He looked out at the vast waterway in front of him, his sleek brown figure silhouetted against blue sky. It was a beautiful afternoon with a slight northeasterly breeze. Since early morning, I had sensed he was on the verge—that he wanted to fly, must fly—because his instincts had finally overtaken his fear.
Then I watched him lean forward, his head dip and his body lift into the air. His wings fully extended for the first time. Tilting and turning, he found his center and gained stability. He was flying!
August 5 – 2:10 p.m.: The younger eagle has flown! His sibling was waiting in a tree nearby. I heard her familiar call and saw her figure glide toward her brother. She circled and aligned with him. Wing next to wing, they flew together over the water and disappeared around a rocky cliff to the west.
When I looked through the scope the next morning, the nest was empty. There were no birds in the sky; no detectable breeze. Deathly quiet. I knew the young eagles were nearby, likely at the mouth of the Elwha River learning to hunt and forage alongside their parents, to perfect flying skills. Before long, they would leave this place and begin a long exploratory journey. Develop survival skills. In the process, some would die. In fact, some 30 percent would not survive their first year. For those that did, the future would be full of promise. Within five years, they would gain full sexual maturity. They would earn their distinguished white head feathers, their place in the world.
During the next few weeks, I occasionally noticed young eagles flying the coastline, joining up with other fledglings of the season. By mid-September, they had all disappeared.
On October 11, my husband was working outside along the bluff. I was surprised when he came into the house a little too fast, a little out of breath. He told me the eagle tree was gone.
Gone?
I followed him outside and looked toward the bluff. I heard myself gasp as I stared at the place the tree used to be, where the nest was no longer.
Gone.
We made our way into the woods to take a closer look. The truth knocked against my heart long before we got there, because I could see it, the Douglas fir’s jagged sheared-off trunk illuminated in the sunlight. The top fifty feet had broken away.
We walked a precarious path along the edge of the bluff, looking down into the cove. Eventually, we gained sight of what we already knew was there, a mangled heap of tree trunks and sticks and fresh fir limbs lying at the base of the cliffs. We could see the tree’s tragic course, a long, circuitous scar carved into the opposing bank.
The tide was coming in. We could hear it lap against rock and wood and sand, watch it slip coldly under the tree that had been, a reminder that everything was temporary, that all of life—each glorious and imperfect piece of it—was a gift.