On a typical winter afternoon in northern British Columbia, Canada, I head north of Prince George to one place I know the water won’t be frozen. My subject is Trumpeter Swans.
Most Trumpeter Swans migrate south from Alaska, the Yukon, and across Canada to escape winter, but a small, hardy group chooses to stay, surviving the harsh northern cold in a narrow stretch of river that never freezes. I can only assume this open water provides enough food to sustain them through the winter. Seeing and photographing these powerful birds in such an unforgiving landscape is a reminder of nature’s resilience.
The location I head to that day is known as the 100 Forest Service Road, an active logging road during the winter months. The river below me is the Cooked River, and I find myself standing on a square-timber bridge, looking down at the swans gathered in the open water beneath me.
As I stand on the bridge watching the swans, movement catches my peripheral vision, upstream in the bush. I slowly raise my camera and bring the lens to my eye to see what’s there.
It’s a Canada Lynx. This is where things get exciting. The cat moves deliberately, circling the area before finally settling down—a familiar ritual shared by all cats, wild or domestic. It’s instinctive, deeply rooted behavior, and witnessing it here, in this frozen northern landscape, makes the moment even more remarkable.
It’s at this point that the Lynx slips out of sight. Darn it! I can’t see him anymore, and that’s disheartening to say the least. I scan the area carefully but there’s no sign of movement. The snow here is nearly four feet deep, and getting closer for a better view won’t be easy. Still, I decided to go for it. I begin the slow, exhausting walk upstream, pushing through deep snow on the opposite side of the river from where I first spotted the Lynx. The distance I need to cover is roughly one hundred meters, but in snow this deep it takes nearly fifteen minutes. When I finally reach the spot, I’m exactly where I hoped to be, across a narrow section of river where I should be able to see the Lynx. There he is! He’s an older male. It’s just after 2 p.m., and he’s settled in for an afternoon nap.
I tell myself; this is the moment to slow down and wait. As I settle into position, I notice a mule deer carcass lying along the edge of the frozen river. The Lynx will stay with that deer until it’s completely consumed. I know he won’t leave the area. How the deer ended up here is hard to say. The river is shallow enough that it may have tried to cross, slipped on the ice, possibly broke a leg, and succumbed to the cold. Perhaps it was taken down by the Lynx himself, as he is certainly large enough to bring down a deer of this size.
I’m now sitting in an improvised seat carved into the snowbank, waiting for this well-fed and content Canada Lynx to wake from his nap. About an hour later, he rises from his snowy bed. It’s around 3:30 p.m., and I know the light won’t last much longer. This is the moment.
I start shooting as he sits up, scans his surroundings, and stretches, long and deliberate. Wow! Things are getting more exciting now. After a nap, he’s clearly hungry again, and who can blame him? Napping is hard work. He makes his way down a well-worn path toward the river’s edge, where dinner awaits.
The pulling and tugging begin at what remains of the mule deer’s hindquarters, nearly consumed already. The front half is buried in snow and ice, but that won’t stop him. Rested and strong, he digs in and hauls at the frozen carcass with everything he has.
Watching this is a powerful reminder of just how strong Canada Lynx are. Despite weighing only 8 to 17 kilograms, they possess strength comparable to much larger carnivores. While snowshoe hare makes up most of their diet, Lynx are fully capable of killing deer or even caribou, especially when the animal is weakened. They also have an impressive bite force, up to 635 psi. In comparison, a grey wolf’s bite measures around 400 psi, while a black bear’s bite reaches roughly 800 psi.
With the carcass finally free, the Lynx has everything he needs for now, and this is where patience pays off. From my makeshift seat tucked into a snow-covered willow bush (surprisingly comfortable, I might add) I continue watching. Suddenly, a mink appeared no more than half a meter to my left. It stands up on its hind legs, looks at me, looks across the river, then looks back at me again, before deciding to swim across. Now things are getting even more exciting. I’m already thinking about how incredible this moment is and how much I can’t wait to share my experience. As the mink swims across the river, it catches the Lynx’s attention. He lifts his head from the carcass and watches, waiting to assess the situation.
In one smooth motion, the mink slides up onto the ice directly in front of the Lynx. The Lynx peers over the deer carcass, using it as cover, poised for an intrusion. The mink sits there for what feels like a minute or two before making its decision. Then it commits jumping from one ice shelf onto the same ice the Lynx is standing on.
Suddenly all hell breaks loose! It’s an incredibly rare interaction to witness, let alone photograph. As the mink approaches the carcass, seemingly unaware of the Lynx, the cat launches himself over the deer in pursuit. The mink spots him at the last second and dives back into the river. Despite what many people believe, Canada Lynx are not afraid of water. They are strong, capable swimmers and regularly cross rivers and lakes within their range. Lynx have even been documented swimming in temperatures as cold as –27°C.
Without hesitation, the Lynx plunges into the river after the mink.
The struggle lasts roughly 30 to 45 seconds before the Lynx surfaces with his prize. The mink gambled and at this moment, it appeared to have lost.
The Lynx carries its prey back to the spot where he had been resting earlier. Surprisingly, the fight isn’t over yet. The mink is still alive and refuses to give up.
A fight erupts between the two, snow exploding into the air. I can see the mink fighting desperately for its life, but to no avail.
The struggle lasts roughly forty-five seconds before everything goes still, right in the same place where the Canada Lynx had been resting peacefully just an hour earlier. Although moments like this are something we, as wildlife photographers, hope to witness, it’s impossible not to feel sadness watching such a beautiful animal meet its end.
Under normal circumstances, minks are well protected from predators for several reasons. They are aggressive, highly defensive, and notoriously unpleasant to deal with. Their coats are extremely oily and water-repellent, but it’s more than just oil that keeps predators at bay. Minks are ferocious for their size and possess powerful scent glands. When threatened or injured, they release a strong, ifferent scent but in the same manner as their distant relative, the Skunk. This animal demonstrated that defensive nature clearly as it fought for its life.
This helps explain what I discovered later. When I returned to the area days later, the Lynx was gone. Higher water levels had erased any sign of the deer carcass, and I noticed something, the mink had not been eaten. The Lynx had killed it, not for food, but for invading his territory.
It’s nature’s way.