Three years ago, on a crisp autumn morning, the wind carried a chill through Yellowstone. I sat on a weathered cliff, sipping black coffee from my thermos—no sugar, a habit born from years of early mornings in the field—when suddenly, a dark shadow swept across my notebook. I looked up and instantly held my breath. A hundred feet above me, two giants of the sky were circling, facing off: a golden eagle and a bald eagle, locked in a silent standoff. That day, I forgot my research notes, forgot the wind stinging my face, and even forgot old Ollie, my border collie, dozing at my feet—he was completely unimpressed by the spectacle above. I just sat there, watching these two raptors dance a deadly dance—one a symbol of raw power, the other of unyielding resilience. And as I watched, I thought of Sara, a cancer patient I'd been supporting. A week earlier, she'd told me, "I feel like I'm fighting an invisible enemy, and I don't know if I'm strong enough." That day, I suddenly understood: these eagles weren't fighting over territory. They were fighting to survive. Just like her. Just like all of you who are going through your own battles.
I'm Elias Hunter, PhD in Animal Behavior from UC Davis, a certified professional pet behavior consultant, and the lead mentor at the FaunaScan community. For twenty years, I've cared for all kinds of animals—from timid stray cats to retired search-and-rescue dogs (Ollie is one of them). But for the past decade, my heart has belonged to raptors—especially these two: the golden eagle and the bald eagle. I've spent countless dawns and dusks tracking them, watching them hunt, laughing at their clumsy moments (yes, even apex predators mess up), and marveling at their unyielding spirit. Today, I'm not here to share cold facts or list their wingspans and diets. I'm here to share their stories—the messy, beautiful, deeply human moments that make them more than just "raptors." I'm here to tell you that strength isn't about being invincible. It's about getting back up when the wind is against you, when your talons are tired, when your enemy seems stronger and more fearsome. That's what these eagles have taught me, and that's what I want to pass on to you.
Let's start with the golden eagle—my old friend, the silent warrior. I first encountered a golden eagle in 2018, in the Sierra Nevada. I was setting up motion-sensor cameras to track hunting patterns when suddenly, there it was—perched on a jagged rock, wings tightly folded, its eyes sharp as shards of amber. It was even larger than I'd imagined, its dark brown feathers glinting gold in the sunlight (clearly, that's how it got its name). But what struck me most wasn't its size—it was its patience. I sat there for an hour—a full hour—watching it, and it didn't move a muscle. No twitch, no head tilt, nothing. Then, without warning, a hare darted across the grass below. In the blink of an eye, it launched—diving at what I'd guess was 150 miles an hour, its talons extending like small blades. I held my breath, sure it would miss. But it didn't—it snatched the hare mid-stride and flew back to its perch as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But here's what you don't see in nature documentaries: the day before, I watched it miss three times. Three times! It dove, missed, hit the ground—and without a moment's hesitation, took off again. That's the golden eagle's superpower: not perfection, but persistence.
Now, the bald eagle—oh, this one is a completely different character. Loud, bold, and, frankly, a bit of a troublemaker. I once saw a bald eagle steal a fish straight out of an osprey's talons mid-air—then fly off triumphantly as if to show off. But there's a reason they've become an iconic symbol. That white head, those bright yellow talons and beak, that majestic wingspan—you can't miss them. Unlike the golden eagle, which prefers ambushes, the bald eagle is an opportunist. It loves water—lakes, rivers, coastlines—and it's an expert fisherman. I've spent afternoons sitting by Yellowstone Lake, watching them circle above the water, eyes locked on the fish below. They'd circle once, twice, three times—then, bam—dive down, talons slicing through the water like knives. But here's a little secret: they're not perfect either. Last summer, I watched a young bald eagle try to catch a fish far too big for it. It grabbed the fish, struggled, and ended up crashing into the water—soaked, bedraggled, with nothing in its talons. Did it give up? No. It shook off the water, took to the sky, and tried again. Over and over, until it succeeded. That's the bald eagle's defining trait—stubborn, relentless, and completely unfazed by failure.
Now, for what many of you are most curious about: their aerial battles. My word, the spectacle is breathtaking. Over the past ten years, I've witnessed it three times, and each time my heart raced. The first time was that day in Yellowstone—the day I thought of Sara. The golden eagle had claimed a cliff as its territory, and the bald eagle wanted it for itself. They met in the center of the sky, circling each other, their calls echoing through the canyon—sharp, fierce, defiant. Then the battle began. They pecked at each other's wings with their beaks, grappled with their talons, climbing higher and higher as if testing who would break first. For a moment, I truly thought one of them might be seriously injured—badly. But here's the miracle: they never go for the kill. They fight to defend, not to destroy. After about ten minutes, the bald eagle retreated, letting out one final cry before flying off. The golden eagle returned to its cliff, ruffled its feathers, and let out a triumphant scream. This isn't about who's "better." It's about protecting what's yours. About resilience. And that's the lesson, my friends. You don't need to win every battle. You just need to keep fighting.
I know what some of you are thinking: "Elias, these are just birds. What does this have to do with me?" Let me tell you about Sara. After I shared the story of the eagles with her, she started coming to the park with me every Saturday morning. We'd sit on a bench, drink coffee, and watch the birds. She'd point to an eagle soaring overhead and say, "If they can keep going after failing a hunt, after losing a fight, then so can I." She didn't beat cancer overnight. It was a slow, grueling process. There were days she couldn't get out of bed, days she cried, days she wanted to give up. But every Saturday, she'd look up at the sky and find a little more strength. That's the power of these creatures. They don't know they're inspiring you—they're just doing what they do: surviving. But in that survival, in that persistence, they offer us hope.
And to my fellow raptor enthusiasts—you know who you are—this piece is for you too. I know we love to debate who's more "impressive," who deserves the title of "king of raptors." But here's my take: they both do. The golden eagle with its silent persistence, the bald eagle with its bold resilience—they're two sides of the same coin, both victors in their own right. They keep going, no matter what. And aren't we the same?
I still return to that cliff in Yellowstone from time to time. Ollie is older now and can't go far, but he still comes with me, resting his head on my knee as we watch the eagles soar. Every time I see one dive, miss, and rise again, I think of Sara. I think of all of you. And I remember my own mantra: "Even if today it only looks at you for a moment longer without flying away, that's a victory." You don't have to become strong all at once. You don't have to force yourself to be okay right away. Every small step, every time you get back up, every time you keep going—that is a victory. Just like those eagles.
So, the next time you feel exhausted, when the fight feels too hard, when you're not sure you can go on—look up at the sky. Find the eagles. Watch them soar, watch them fight, watch them keep going. And remember: you are not alone. You are strong. You are resilient. Like the golden eagle and the bald eagle—you too are a survivor. Be kind to yourself, be gentle with yourself, and keep going. One day at a time. One flight at a time. As I always say: love it, starting from understanding its silence. (Even eagles have their quiet moments.)
