Close Encounters with Wildlife

This is Kumiko Hawkes, intrepid photographer, renowned for her stunning images of coastal wildlife and the natural world. If you see her in your travels, say hello. She’s a reserved presence in the field, but always ready with a quiet word and a friendly smile.

It’s a beautiful West Coast summer day. A warm breeze carries the salty aroma of the ocean. The sky is bright blue and dotted with puffy white clouds. Whale-watching boats drift by and kayaks skim along effortlessly. I feel at peace as I sit with my camera.

Every year, hundreds of cormorants and gulls make their nests along the wall of the cliffs here. From the ferry, it’s easy to see their long white streaks on the rock face, a testament to years of habitation. The top of the cliff sits at least 50m above the ocean, and there’s a small place to perch at the end of a public access trail. There are no barriers or fences at the edge of the cliff; it would not be a good place for someone with a fear of heights. I, on the other hand, love it. Sitting here, I feel like I am one of the birds.

A massive flock of cormorants now flies in from a distance, like something exploding. It approaches along the cliffs, in what seems like slow motion, then bursts into a cacophony of screaming. I can’t see what’s causing the panic, but my heart starts beating fast. Finally, I see a bald eagle flying in, closer to the cliffs.

The eagle’s not rushing. Now only about 6 metres away, it glides in slowly, like a kite with its string being pulled from the ocean below. I can see its eyes scouting the cormorant nests, searching for the best meal. Its vision locks on a target and it quickly shifts direction, swooping toward the cliff.

Even with my heart beating hard I feel serene and calm, and this beautiful day becomes even more special. I track the eagle through my camera lens as it hunts, and hear a high shrieking sound. It’s a Peregrine falcon, the fastest bird in the world, known to have reached speeds up to 390 km/ hr. I’ve seen this particular falcon many times on the island, but this is my first time seeing it hunt, drawing on the full potential of its incredible speed.

It rises high into the sky, then strikes like a bolt of lightning, knocking a young cormorant right out of its nest.

With the eagle and the falcon on the attack, the hundreds of cormorants and gulls panic, scattering in all directions, some so close I fear I may be hit by their wings.

My heart pounds even harder and I find I’m struggling for breath. I just can’t believe what I’m seeing. I feel completely alive and at one with this majestic natural scene. It’s all I can do to calm myself and come back into my own body. I keep repeating to myself: “I have to truly see this. I have to remember this clearly.” So I stop taking photos and, instead, just sit there and watch, steeping this moment into my memory.

I head back to this spot over the next few days, hoping for another glimpse of what I’d witnessed, but there is no repeat performance. I’ve never understood why, since it ought to be easy for birds of prey to hunt for cormorants, whose nests are there for the taking. It’s as if these predators have secret knowledge of how much they can harvest without tipping the balance.

I feel very honoured to have experienced this spectacular sight. It has deepened my appreciation of nature.

Foggy days are truly special to me. Fog—especially thick fog—is rare in Japan. On fall mornings when I awake to deep fog outside my bedroom window, I feel a rush of excitement, jump out of bed, dress in a hurry, and dash out the door.

On one such deep, foggy morning I arrived at the beach to be greeted by a soft, hazy view of the water. I breathed in the cool, humid air—its essence a blend of the salty sea and the earthy forest. Usually, the beach is silent on a foggy day, and sometimes the fog is so thick I can’t see anything farther than a metre or so away.

On the lookout for a Kingfisher, I move stealthily along the beach in a whiteout world. I’ve always been intrigued by these adept fishers, bedecked in their stylish blue-grey tuxedos. Kingfishers are among the most reclusive of birds, however, so I normally have to content myself with spying on them from a distance. On a foggy day, though, I’m sometimes able to remain undercover from the Kingfisher’s phenomenal vision.

So when I chance upon him—a striking male—he doesn’t notice me, even though I am so close. Observing this Kingfisher perched on an Arbutus branch, then flying across the surface of the flat ocean in the fog, is like being in a painting, gradations of blue and grey colouring the world.

When he finally notices me, he retreats to a nearby beach, singing out with his usual staccato calls. I follow him and sit down on a log to listen. After a while, the gentle, delicate sound of waves on the otherwise calm ocean captures my attention. The rippling is not far away, and it’s coming closer. The fog obscures whatever is headed my way.

I wait a long time for my curiosity to be satisfied. A form finally takes shape—it’s a river otter. He’s caught a crab for breakfast and is now settling down to eat, just a metre from me. I start photographing him. The sound of my shutter startles him and he looks right at me but quickly turns his attention back to his breakfast.

In that moment there is only the otter and me in that magical misty world. I feel incredibly clear and focussed. The only sounds are my camera shutter and the small crunching sounds of the otter chewing his crab.

Soon breakfast is done and the otter slips back into the ocean and vanishes into the fog. For some time afterwards, I can still hear the gentle lapping of his wake as he glides through the ocean.

Much as I love the sunshine, my solo excursions on these haunting foggy days have resulted in some of my most memorable moments with wildlife.

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This story first appeared in The Survival Guide for the Dark Side Volume.

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