July 12, 2024
Alaska, U.S.A.
April 2022
The combination of a subject idea, expiring airline credits, and a desire for a spontaneous weekend adventure led me to book a flight to Anchorage on a Friday and a redeye return Saturday night. I would arrive in Alaska around 7:00 p.m. and depart a little over 24 hours later.
Madness? Yes.
But a challenge is nice every once in a while.
Research is an important part of any trip, helping to better prepare for some of those variables mentioned earlier. It gives some initial insight into locations, ideas for compositions, expected weather, and lighting at specific hours of the day. In this case, research was mostly limited to a few hours in between naps on the flight—not because of a lack of interest, but because of the short window of time I would have. With only the location chosen and arrangements made for a car rental and hotel, my heavy eyes were glued to the snowy mountains outside the window during the final approach. I wasn’t sure if this trip would be a fruitful one or just a brief tour of the Alaskan scenery.
After landing, I began my four-and-a-half-hour drive south, winding through mountains, around lakes, and passing the occasional moose. In late April, the sun sets around 9:30 p.m., so for much of the drive I was able to enjoy the scenery. Having grown up in a state where the highest point is a little over 300 feet, I always feel like I’m on a movie set when I’m around mountains like these—a big part of why I love traveling out west.
My destination for this fleeting adventure was the small “city” of Homer, located on the Kenai Peninsula. It serves as a departure point for bear excursions and offers excellent hiking and fishing options. At this time of year, however, there wasn’t much happening in this city of 6,000 people. I was told by some of the locals that I was visiting just before the flocks of summer tourists would begin pouring in.
I arrived in Homer just before midnight. Beyond the purview of the car’s headlights, I wasn’t sure what the surroundings would reveal come morning. More importantly, I had no idea where I would find what I came here for. I was staying at the end of the Homer Spit, a sliver of land extending over 4 miles into the Kachemak Bay. It’s a popular area during Alaska’s busy season, with a harbor for departing fishing boats and campgrounds along the shoreline. It also is renowned for bald eagle sightings.
When I pulled the blinds the following morning, I was greeted by a dark, cloudy view of the mountains across the bay. I set off around 7:00 a.m, knowing I’d have to start my drive back to the airport a little after noon. At that hour of the day, I wouldn’t be able to capture any meaningful images with so little light, but I wanted to begin the search for a good spot where I would, hopefully, be able to photograph the birds.
I wish I could say I had some sort of scientific method for spotting the animals, but it was primarily a game of pacing and waiting as I made my way up and down the Homer Spit under a light drizzle while the morning light grew softly. I perched myself on a rock on the shoreline—maybe subconsciously channeling my subject—and spent a good amount of time scanning the skies for any noteworthy movement. There were countless seagulls screeching, swarming, and swooping down over the water. But, on the odd occasion, a darker figure with a white head would soar into view. It was unmistakable—the wingspan dwarfed that of anything else in the air.
Pursuing a flying animal on foot is almost always a fruitless exercise, so I kept an eye on where they finally settled to give myself the best possible positioning for a shot. The tide had receded, exposing a large area of sand where the eagles would periodically gather in small groups when they weren’t perched on pillars along the shore. These were the moments I had to work with.
I wanted to get as close as I could to fill the frame without disturbing the animals. A photograph looking up at a bird in the sky lacks context and interest—I had to provide some sense of setting. The only way of doing so would be capturing the images in the first second or two as the birds took to the air or as they swooped down across the water. Over the next 3 hours both adult and juvenile eagles made a handful of sporadic appearances. The ball was then in my court to capture what I came all this way for. The only thing missing was the guitar solo from the classic Lynyrd Skynyrd song.
I’ve had my fin inspected by a manatee, been snuck up on by a 70 ton fin whale, clicked by a sperm whale, and shoulder-barged by a silverback gorilla. Close encounters with impressive wildlife aren’t foreign to me, but the feeling I had watching these birds soar in the wild was special in its own right. It’s hard to say whether it’s their sheer size and wingspan, distinctive coloring, the power of their wings in flight, or their remarkable resurgence, but seeing a bald eagle up close is as much a goosebump-worthy moment as any. Capturing them on camera was icing on the cake.
In the 1960’s, only a few hundred bald eagles remained in the U.S. Through conservation efforts, including the protection of the animals under the Endangered Species Act of 1973, the ban of DDT, restoration of habitats, and protection of nesting sites, implementation of monitoring programs, and public awareness campaigns, the species population rebounded. The bald eagle was removed from the endangered species list in 2007, and today, the birds are found across Alaska and throughout the contiguous United States.
While that may mean it’s not necessarily rare to spot one of these impressive animals, I don’t think it makes a sighting any less special. If anything, I would argue the opposite. Those white heads you see perched atop trees or soaring through the air aren’t a signal for complacency but rather a testament to what’s possible through action and intervention.
-EK
12/07/24
