At 3,500 meters, every breath is a conscious act. The air is thin, cold, and impossibly clear. This is the realm of the golden eagle—and for three weeks last autumn, it was my home too.
The Hide
I built my photography hide on a cliff face overlooking a valley where eagles had nested for generations. It was little more than a camouflaged tent, anchored to the rock with ropes and prayer. Each morning, I climbed to it before dawn. Each evening, I descended in darkness. In between, I waited.
Waiting is what wildlife photography mostly is. Hours of stillness, of watching clouds move across peaks, of tracking distant specks that might be eagles or might be nothing at all.
The Pair
The eagles I was documenting were a mated pair. Golden eagles partner for life, and this pair had been together for at least eight years, returning to the same nest each spring. They had raised two chicks that summer, now fledged and learning to hunt on their own.
The male was smaller, faster, more acrobatic. The female was larger, more patient—she could hang motionless on a thermal for twenty minutes, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Together, they were masters of their domain.
The Hunt
On my twelfth day, I witnessed something extraordinary. The female had been circling high above a grassy slope when suddenly she folded her wings and dropped. Not a dive—a controlled fall, adjusting her angle constantly, her eyes fixed on something invisible to me.
She struck a marmot at nearly 200 kilometers per hour. The impact was silent from my distance, but I could imagine it—the explosive force, the instant death, the sudden weight in her talons.
She rose with her prey, labored wingbeats carrying her back toward the nest. I had the shot—one perfect frame of her ascending, the marmot dangling, the mountains behind her touched by golden light.
"The eagle does not question its nature. It hunts because it must. It flies because it can. There is no doubt in that existence—only purpose."
Above the Clouds
On my final morning, clouds filled the valley below my hide. I was literally above them, watching their white surface ripple like a second landscape. And through that sea of clouds, an eagle rose—emerging from the mist like a creature from myth, ascending toward me with slow, powerful wingbeats.
She passed within thirty meters of my hide. Close enough to see every feather, to catch the amber of her eyes, to feel the air displaced by her passing. She knew I was there—she'd known all along. But I had stayed quiet, stayed patient, stayed respectful. I had earned my place on her cliff.
She circled once, then disappeared over the ridge. I never saw her again.
Coming Down
After three weeks above the clouds, returning to the valley felt like entering a different world. The air was thick, warm, noisy with human activity. I had photographed eagles, but I had also lived something—a brief window into a wild existence that most people will never know.
That's what I try to capture in every image: not just the animal, but the world it inhabits. The thin air, the cold winds, the vast spaces where wings are more useful than legs. A world that exists whether we witness it or not.
Shot in the Tien Shan Mountains, Kyrgyzstan.