ENCOUNTERING AN EAGLE

We hope you enjoy ‘Encountering an Eagle’ – personal insights and observations by David Waterhouse – a passionate naturalist, storyteller and WWF supporter – from his experiences in nature.

David Waterhouse has been fascinated by wildlife since he was a young boy. He first heard about WWF in 1961 in England. He became a supporter all those years ago and remains a supporter to this day. He intends his support to continue well into the future and has included a gift to WWF in his Will. Adamant and motivated in his search for these powerful creatures, David was inspired to write and share a wildlife poem and his success story in encountering an eagle.

My first attempt to see a wild eagle in Scotland was an abject failure. A small group of us stood close to the right bank of the Findhorn River near Inverness. It was mid-May. The morning was cloudy, with a gentle wind and intermittent squalls of rain. Every now and then, a weak ray of sunshine broke through the cloud, emitting a soft, filtered light through the moistened air.

The Findhorn was no serene river. It did not so much flow as charge and churn in a furious rush to enter the sea at the Moray Firth.

Despite the odd, lonely farmstead and abandoned old stone dwelling, the place seemed remote and almost forlorn. The steep, barren hillsides on each side of the valley accentuated the feeling of isolation. It was in this desolate place where the last wild wolf was said to have been killed in Scotland, back in 1743, three years before the Battle of Culloden. We spent much time scanning the skyline for raptors and did eventually spot a pair of buzzards and a magnificent red kite, but no eagles.

Although this was a disappointment to us all, I knew that there was a better chance to see one on the Isle of Mull. A few days later, I took a ferry to the island from Oban on the west side of the Scottish mainland. There, at Tobermory, I joined my guide, who was taking a small group of like-minded raptor enthusiasts to look for an eyrie on a steep and inaccessible hillside on the western side of the island.

When we reached the spot, Theo, our guide, set up his powerful telescope on a tripod and focused it on the cliff. While I awaited my turn to look through the ‘scope, I scanned the cliff face with its clinging birch scrub to try to locate the nest – but to no avail. The greater magnification of the telescope enabled me to make out a massive, basket-like collection of sticks, half-hidden by scrub, and the narrow cleft into which it was crammed.

At first, I could not detect the eagle (likely to be the female) which our guide assured us was brooding atop the eyrie. As I adjusted the focus, I became aware of a movement and then, suddenly, clear as day, I saw the proud profile of the sitting eagle’s head and the fierce looking, hooked beak. For a few seconds, as a sun strobe caught the bird’s neck, the feathers on the nape shone like burnished copper, rather than the gold for which this particular species was named.

After only a few minutes, as someone else was glued to the ‘scope’s eyepiece, the sitting bird suddenly flew off the nest. We were not close enough to have alarmed the hen bird. Perhaps its mate was arriving with food.

She flapped diagonally along the cliff face, vanishing over the cliff top before serenely rising up above the skyline. She circled briefly on thick, rigid wings, which must have spanned well over six feet. Her projecting primary feathers only added to the impression that we were all staring up at one of those magic flying carpets of Oriental legend.

In less than a minute she had returned, not to her nest, but to a lookout perch on a rock not far away. This enabled us to view her more clearly, out in the open. Her plumage was like dark chocolate all over except for the bronzed nape.

The golden eagle spends hours soaring the heathered heights looking for prey, which may include anything from deer and sheep carrion to mountain hares, fawns, birds such as grouse and ptarmigan, and even occasional cases of foxes and wild cats. In the distant past, they may well have attacked and killed wolves as they are trained to do in Kazakhstan and Mongolia to this day.

From the Romans to the Germans, the bird we were viewing had impressed the rulers of mighty empires, as a symbol of nobility, confidence and, above all, strength. 

The word ‘eagle’ from Norman French ‘aigle’ and ultimately Latin ‘aquila’ is very old and goes back all the way to pre-literate Proto-Germanic times in Europe. Before 1066, the Anglo-Saxons called all eagles ‘erne’ or ‘arne’. Today, it seems that only crossword enthusiasts know the word Erne, but in the Hebrides, the word was still current among the shepherds when referring to the white-tailed sea eagle. After a long absence, this raptor has been reintroduced to Scotland and both species of eagle now occur on Mull. 

As our small group peered upwards for some time, viewing the large raptor perched against the skyline, the thought struck me that although by no stretch of the imagination could it be called ‘golden’, it was still a magnificent sight in its natural home and a fitting image for any Roman legion. 

GOLDEN EAGLE

An ice-cold dawn with leaden sky. A mighty eagle perched on high

Surveys the glen stretched out below, from rocky heights still flecked with snow.

Weak sunlight strobes the granite rocks and sparkles on the trout-filled lochs.

He leaves the craggy cliff top perch, glides across the line of birch.

Then circles high and scans the glens where black-faced sheep bleat in their pens.

Deer prints stud the sodden moor, where the rutting red stags roar.

He searches cliffs for fallen rams, for mountain hares and still-born lambs.

Sees the craig that saw his birth, beyond the misty, distant firth.

Losing height on tilted wing, sees movement in the purple ling.

Startled fox cubs near their earth bolt to ground for all they’re worth.

Two scurry to the depths below, a third one scampers much too slow.

Now gliding fast above the heather, with hunger reinforced endeavour.

Eagle talons full extended, fox cub snatched and lifeless rendered.

Wing beats sound and thrash the air, as fox cubs tremble in their lair.

He regains height, flies out of sight, strong claws clutching prey.

A fox cub dead, a raptor fed, a lesson learned that day.

David hopes that by sharing his experiences in nature he can inspire others to protect it. You can help too. Please consider including a gift in your Will to WWF just like David has.