From across the glen, the heat haze was too strong but I could just make out some flapping on the nest. One chick was still there. During the morning both Frisa & Skye came in but went straight to the nest. As the heat of the day intensified, I moved in to watch from near the hide. The haze was less but still only one chick was visible. Then I ventured into the cool of the dark forest where a gentle summer breeze kept the midges at bay and the clegs seemed less interested too. I'd seen Frisa and Skye depart together on a hunting trip so I seized the moment. It took me over an hour to gently creep through the trees managing to avoid any loud breaking twigs underfoot. I wasn't expecting to see anything but I thought I'd find a suitable place to sit and listen. Young sea eagles are very vocal at this stage. They can keep up a regular call as they food beg to an adult they may be seeing miles away. The call intensifies as the adult approaches. Even though both adults were away I knew I would hear the occasional call and maybe, just maybe I could piece together what had happened. At a distance I could indeed hear a call. Just the one. The wind in the trees, the running water in the burn and passing planes high above made it frustrating. Just as the calls started, so did the swaying tree tops. Then a military jet roared through. It seemed like everything was conspiring against me. I needed to edge a litttle closer - after all, that's what my special SNH licence entitles me to do. But I could not risk startling chicks or adults. I employed every Ray Mears and Bear Grylls technique I could muster to creep along the forest floor and not be seen. Eventually I was in position after a walk that could have taken 10 minutes but which had taken 60+. The wind eased, the planes had flown on and the burn was now just a distant trickle. I could hear a chick. Still only one. The situation didn't look, or rather sound, good. Then I thought I caught the quietest hint of another call. One was loud and quite near. I cupped my hands behind my ears to strain every sinew of my eardrums to focus on the other noise. Maybe I was imagining the whole thing. Suddenly the sunlight through the trees flickered, a vast shadow passed overhead. Frisa was back. Damn it. I'd been rumbled. But no. She circled and then landed in a tree not 50m away. I could scarcely breathe and I dare not move a muscle. Amazingly, I was so well concealed and quiet even an eagle hadn't seen me. I couldn't even move my head to look up so I just gently raised my eyes to see her, preening contentedly in the sun. My hands were still half cupped behind my ears and it took several minutes and a millimetre at a time to lower them. Immediately the midges appeared and bit and itched their way all over my face but I could do nothing to swat them. I'd come this far and there was no way I was going to blow my cover now, it wasn't fair on the eagles. As Frisa landed, the calls from the nest intensified. As I listened, my brain was trying to identify the calls and where they were coming from. Then, as one stopped, another started. It stopped and the other started again. Then they overlapped. There were TWO! One was still on the nest but the other calls were coming from lower down, perhaps on the ground. By now one of my legs was completely numb and I had to ease it carefully out full stretch to get the blood flowing again. Pins and needles spiked through my feet as circulation was slowly resumed. Still Frisa sat there, oblivious to her contorted observer down below amongst the pine needles and wood sorrel. Half an hour later, she finally launched off and away. I could hear her wing beats overhead and the thick branch she'd been on swayed violently as her weight lifted off, leaving some giant bits of eagle down falling gently earthwards. There was no alarm call from her, she hadn't seen me. She was just off on another mission. I could breathe again and slowly stand. The calls from both chicks faded away as they saw Frisa depart but we could all rest easy again that both chicks were accounted for. Drained after the worry of the last 48 hours I fell into the landrover back on the track and removed an entire colony of ticks from my jeans, hoping none had ventured any further. On with the radio as I headed for home to the tune of 'Don't worry - be happy'. Ok, I thought. Good advice.
Dave Sexton RSPB Scotland Mull Officer