Another Golden Eagle trip, November 2009.

(Above) - The male Eagle, just after his encounter with the Ravens


I have had many, many great days at the Corrie with my camera.
In fact, the total days spent in the field there in the last two years - must be approaching two hundred.
I must stress though, that these visits are not just undertaken in the selfish pursuit of achieving good images.

No, it is just as much the magnetic lure of the actual PLACE - and not just its superb photographic opportunities, that never seems to wane for me; and even though ninety nine percent of my visits to that lonely coast involve at least ten miles of seriously challenging walking, I don't tire of it.
Sitting hidden in some rocky sheltered spot, watching, and waiting, ever hopeful that the next minute may bring a Golden eagle, or a Peregrine falcon, or perhaps a Weasel, or a passing Fox, just ticks all the boxes for me.
It’s as much the anticipation as it is the actual success I suppose, nothing for hours, and then suddenly, your pulse is racing, and the adrenaline flows.
It could be a feeling similar to the one the successful game hunter experiences, and possibly this is something that is deeply seated in all human beings.
A throw-back to days far in the past, when, having good field skills was a matter of life and death, rather than just an enjoyable hobby.
You have prepared yourself and your gear beforehand, you've made sure your clothing and equipment is well camouflaged, weatherproof, and working correctly.
Then whilst actually in situ, you're stealthy and quiet, you know you have found the best possible location from which to achieve your goal; and you feel that same unbeatable sense of satisfaction when that goal is successfully reached.

Thankfully though, unlike the hunters gatherers of old, I am armed only with a DSLR camera, and a rather large lens....

My most recent trip to the corrie was on Monday the 30th November 2009, it is as follows.


The day dawned absolutely cloudless, the first real frost of the Winter had the formerly saturated ground rock hard after three long months of mud.
At nine a.m a good friend drove me deep into the Kintyre countryside, taking me all the way to the remote road-end from where I usually begin my walk.
The same friend had twice accompanied me right to the coast in the hope of seeing Golden eagles for herself.
She had only succeeded in having two short glimpses of the birds - both from a great distance; perhaps in the future she will have more luck, hopefully so.
When she had gone, I made my way up the steep track, and on to the moors.
I marvelled at the stillness of the hibernating countryside, hardly a bird or animal stirred on the frigid landscape.
It had been a cold night indeed.
The puddles on the rutted track were largely frozen, and large glistening icicles pendulously overhung the deep peat banks - cut into the hillside, in days long past by far hardier men than the latest visitor.
As I gained height, so did the sun and here and there the countryside slowly came to life.
First to emerge were a small flock of Redwings - they foraged busily on the frozen ground; and were accompanied, I noticed on closer scrutiny by a smaller group of Mistle thrushes.
Both these birds eat many berries in the winter, but in this cold high place all the berries are long gone, so like their urban worm eating cousins - the Blackbirds and Song Thrushes, they were trying for better luck on good old Terra firma.

I carried on slowly up the hill, and next came upon a herd of twelve young Highland cattle, standing watchfully, and steaming in the frosty air.
They looked wary as I approached, a reminder that people seldom venture into this area in the depths of winter.
As young cattle do, they stampeded away from me in fright, the hard ground thunderously reverberating from the weight of their passage.

Startled, as they galloped past, a large female Buzzard took off from a fence post nearby, I could see the condensation form in the air as she exhaled her familiar piercing cry.
On the hillside above, a male Hen harrier hunted low over the rushes, once he put up a Snipe from its hidden resting spot, the beautiful silver Raptor chased the Wader half heartedly for a brief second or two then continued with his diligent sweep of the hillside. Perhaps deciding this was too challenging a quarry upon which to waste valuable energy on such a cold day.
I continued and then paused, there and hardly audible, was the 'peeeee-yoo' of a distant juvenile Golden eagle.
I am almost ashamed to admit this, but in the past whilst walking, the whistling sound of air escaping from my own nostrils has made me believe that I have heard the young of that particular species; so with this in mind - I held my breath for a few seconds, but no, there it was again, the same sound. It was doubtlessly the young Eagle I was familiar with, but where?
I hopefully scanned the surrounding countryside, but could not find the elusive bird anywhere.
It was possible she was soaring so high that she was invisible to me, or more likely, that she was perched motionless, watching me from somewhere on the hillside above.
Even though the bird was now eight months old, she still persistently called for her parents to feed her.
I knew though, that she could hunt perfectly well for herself.
A month before I had watched her rapidly sail down onto a distant rocky knoll, and devour some luckless creature on the spot.
I later tried to find the exact area of the kill, hoping to discover what her prey had been, but in the maze of boulders and scree I failed to do so.
In the mean-time, she quieted, and I went on upwards.


As I climbed, I noticed that often the ice on the track was broken, seemingly by a vehicle, this could mean only one thing, there were others ahead of me at the coast.
This didn’t bode well for my chances of seeing any Golden Eagles that afternoon, but I carried on nevertheless, and finally reached my destination at around a quarter to eleven.

The first thing I saw on my arrival was a figure on the clifftop below, then another, and another.
I may have cursed a little, but I accepted things as they were, and sat myself down in a sunlit hollow to see what was going on.

I then observed that the local sheep were all huddled together anxiously in the corrie below me, and on closer scrutiny - with binoculars, I realised that with the men were at least five dogs.

Obviously the time had come to get the sheep off this high unforgiving landscape, and down to more benign ground.
Unfortunately this had coincided with my visit - and the chances of seeing anything remotely interesting whilst this was going on were frankly zero.
Still, it was good to see that the Shepherd and his colleagues were taking good care of their animals.
All too often in these remote hilly districts, one comes across dead, or dying ewes, and far from a Shepherds' help many small tragedies occur, but these animals would fare much better on the lower slopes they were now destined for.

Watching the dogs working was an absolute joy.
The speed with which they covered the dangerous uneven ground was scintillating, and once they had finished, and the sheep were safely herded out of the way, I made my way down to my usual spot in the corrie below.
I stopped there, and had a cup of coffee while the nearest Shepherd and his dogs, still rounding up a few stragglers approached my position.
Even though in the corrie the temperature was still well below freezing, sweat rolled down his face in rivulets, the exertion from the challenging pursuit of his flock obvious, his cheeks, the shade of colour that only a hard outdoor life can produce.
We had 10 minutes of pleasant discussion on the area and its wildlife, and I managed to happily ascertain that the Shepherds' were nearly finished in their work, and would be leaving soon.
Interestingly, when asked, he informed me that: ‘The dogs don’t bother much with the wild goats, they just tend to ignore them.’
Strange, but as I had witnessed true, and probably just as well, as no dog could safely follow these animals along the vertigo inducing pathways upon which they so rapidly and fearlessly venture.
Soon, but only after one of the Sheepdogs had kindly pissed on my rucksack.... they left me on my own.

As the shouts and whistles of the shepherds - and the barks of the dogs receded, I got myself into ‘Eagle mode’ and waited.

After around ten minutes I was cold, and after half an hour - I was positively frozen.
A pair of fleece lined trousers, waterproof leggings, not to mention a further pair of camouflage over-trousers, failed miserably to keep the heat in my legs.
The three fleeces and camo jacket covering my top half fared little better. The chill seemed to be leaking right out of the ground, slowly filling my body with its damp persistent fingers.

I stubbornly stuck it out, by now the Shepherds and their dogs were a distant memory, and the corrie, bereft of sheep was as silent as the grave.
I watched, as around half a dozen Feral Goats sat sunning themselves on a dizzying ledge five hundred feet above the Atlantic.
They must have fled to this ‘refuge’ as their domestic relatives had been so skilfully rounded up.
The ledges narrowness seemed terrifying to the human eye, but through binoculars, the goats all seemed contented, most of them grazing happily, and one huge old Billy stretched out like a dog on a sunny porch.
Occasionally, the deep late November quiet was broken by a Ravens' baritone croak.
Often, as I have remarked elsewhere, this cry can be a ‘heads up’ for Golden eagle enthusiasts.
The Corvine family all have very little tolerance for their Aquiline counterparts, seeing them rightly as a threat to themselves - and their young, but today the Ravens were calling in a joyful manner, something that they often do on fine sunny days, and altogether a very different sound from that harsh, scratchy, 'uttered under the breath'* croak, reserved by them for Eagles.
An hour passed, and the cold was now becoming intolerable, my toes were getting painfully frozen, and I was seriously contemplating the long trek home, when I heard the Ravens again.
This time, they were making the ‘right’ noise, ie - short, hardly audible croaks, repeated often.
There was almost certainly a Golden Eagle around, but where?
Then I saw it, the male bird, his size giving him away.
Much smaller than the female, he actually didn’t dwarf the two pursuing Ravens quite as much as one would expect.
The three birds flew at great speed above the sea and in towards the cliff face.
Then, at the last moment - before a disastrous impact seemed inevitable, they swept upward, the Ravens carrying on skywards, the Eagle alighting near the top of the imposing crag.
He sat there blinking in the weak winter sunshine, then, for only the third time in my life, I heard an adult Golden Eagle call.
He seemed to be giving tongue in pure irritation at the impudence of the now departed Ravens.
It is a querulous sound, quite indescribable, but if I had to put it into words, I would say it is like the bark of a small dog, mixed strangely with the call of some gull, or large wader.
It certainly isn’t the cry one would expect from such a huge and powerful bird.
He didn’t sit for long, and soon he was soaring, unmolested, above the corrie.
I watched as the impressive bird slowly rose on the scant thermals.
I also clicked away happily with the camera, but only when the sunshine hit his dark brown plumage - knowing that when he was in shadow, any pictures taken would turn out to be useless.
He rose until I must have became visible to him, and then off he shot eastwards, over the rocky hill above, and once again, out of my sight.
Happy, I turned and made my way up the steep slopes to the frozen grasslands above, and the long road home.
I left the corrie at around two thirty, the sun already low on the south - west horizon.
The frost, barely lifted, had returned in earnest by four pm; and once more the hills and moors were silently locked in winters icy grip.
I walked in bright moonlight until six, then cold and footsore, reached the main road, where I was kindly picked up by a different friend.
I was warm and comfortable by supper-time, but the birds and wildlife of that wild spot have to uncomplainingly endure that kind of weather, and much, much worse, all the winter long.

JR MACDONALD, NOVEMBER 2009

* Ravens and Hooded crows both use this call and a few others when in 'mobbing' pursuit of their feared enemy - the Golden eagle. If I had to try and describe it, it would be as follows: The sound is quiet, oft repeated, and is almost as if the bird is muttering under its breath, In a crow, short, staccato, almost conversational ''caws'' are heard - intensifying as the bird approaches its target. In the Raven, similar sounds are used, but deeper, more racous.
Both calls are very different from the usual sounds these birds make, and seem to be reserved only for large Raptors.

(Below) - A Hooded crow driving off an Eagle.



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