The white-headed eagle sounds as frustrated as I feel. An immature bald eagle has just almost crashed into it. The the chestnut-colored eagle slips into a sulk. Twenty feet away, another immature eagle casually grooms its wing feathers. Aki ignores all the noise. 

We are standing on the Fish Creek bridge, maybe thirty meters away from the avian drama. The stream, which is usually jammed with spawning salmon, looks empty. There must be fish somewhere. Minutes ago, one of the eagles dropped the severed head of a pink salmon on the trail just before we reached it. 

            We had planned on walking to the mouth of the stream. Then a stream of human fishermen passed us. Like the eagles, they are looking to catch some fish. Like the eagles, they are likely to end up frustrated. 

            I gather the little dog into the car and we head out to a berry picking spot that showed promise a few weeks ago. The place is bare, as if someone or something hoovered up all the blue berries, huckleberries and cloud berries. To make something out of the trip, we continue down the trail until it dumps us out on a beach. We have seen whales, sea lions, eagles, and seals from the beach. Once a northern harrier flew straight at me before dodging into the woods. Today, the sea and sky are empty.