The Aurora Hen Rescue
by Diana Hulet
Photography by Diana Hulet
After three weeks of quarantine for avian flu, hens arrive at Wildwood Farm Sanctuary where volunteer Ty and board member Cassie Strickler gently tag them, marking the beginning of a new chapter in the birds’ lives. Newberg, Oregon, USA, May, 2024.
Answering the Call
In April of 2024, I was part of a monumental effort by Portland-based animal activists to rescue over four hundred hens from slaughter.
Before this, my acts of rescue had always been personal — helping a grounded sharp-shinned hawk, carrying an injured squirrel off the road, and offering small moments of companionship to animals in times of need
I’ve documented CAFOs and rodeos, fish hatcheries and sanctuaries, bearing witness to both suffering and survival. But until this moment I had never been part of a large-scale rescue.
I don’t want to forget what happened in those weeks — the way a community came together and did what was needed. I want to remember, so I will tell this story.
It was 3:00 AM when I checked my phone. I couldn't sleep.
In just a few hours, I would meet a group of activists to negotiate a rescue that could save the lives of hundreds of hens whose young bodies had been exploited in an egg-laying facility near Salem, Oregon. According to one image we saw of the barn, the hens appeared to be Red Stars, who are known for the large quantities of eggs they produce.
I lay in bed, staring into the darkness, thinking of the hens’ suffering.
By 5:00 AM, I was up, gathering my camera, gloves, towels, and PPE before heading south. Our small group met at a golf course parking lot about a mile from the farm.
The air was full of anticipation and we steadied ourselves in the uncertainty, drawn together by a Craigslist post that sparked a movement to save as many lives as possible.
First Things First
The first hint I had of what would come happened at a Portland Animal Rights Collective meeting when a local activist mentioned an egg-laying operation shutting down and selling their hens for ten dollars each.
Their Craigslist post had called the hens "layer machines" — a term that initially sparked outrage. Later, I learned the wording was intentional to bypass Craigslist’s restrictions on animal sales.
They were selling over four thousand hens.
Someone contacted the farm to see if they would release any birds without requiring payment. After someone visited the farm and spoke with a worker, we began organizing.
Sanctuaries stepped up to offer quarantine space, potential adopters volunteered, and people provided crates and vehicles for transport.
We needed a village, and we had one.
Within days, a support network emerged for hens who had spent their lives in a dark, cramped barn, walking on metal shelving and concrete. This is the reality of "cage-free" — not small battery cages, but one enormous cage where birds compete for food, water, and space.
On this organic farm, any health issues or injuries went untreated, and suffering persisted until the birds succumbed, as rescuers saw firsthand.
Rain, the last hen rescued from the closing egg-laying facility in Aurora, Oregon, begins to regrow her feathers as part of her healing journey. Now, she spends her days surrounded by her flock and the compassionate humans at Wildwood Farm Sanctuary. May, 2024.
Three hens rest in the back of a rescuer’s van as they await their ride to Out to Pasture Sanctuary. The stress on their bodies from living in an egg production facility for the first year of their lives is clearly visible in the morning sun. Oregon, USA, April, 2024.
Current State of Affairs
As of January 2025, there are approximately 369 million egg-laying hens in the United States. In Oregon, 12 permitted poultry operations dedicated to egg production house about 4 million hens.
While the farm we rescued these hens from was on a smaller scale, the birds still endured tremendous suffering and injuries due to overcrowding.
In 2019, Oregon passed Senate Bill 1019, which went into effect on January 1, 2024, prohibiting the use of battery cages and requiring large-scale egg producers to transition to cage-free systems.
Battery cages confine hens to spaces so small they can barely stand or spread their wings.
To prevent injuring one another in these highly stressful conditions, hens are often debeaked — a painful procedure that removes the tips of their beaks without anesthesia.
While Oregon’s hens now live in cage-free systems, suffering, injury, and illness persist.
Diseases spread rapidly in large-scale operations, as seen with the ongoing avian flu crisis.
According to Reuters, in January 2025 alone, 19.5 million egg-laying chickens were culled due to avian flu — the highest monthly toll since the outbreak began.
The USDA swiftly compensates poultry producers for culling and replacing their flocks, reinforcing a cycle of mass production and harm rather than addressing the root causes of disease and suffering in industrial egg production.
Photos show hens who have been debeaked, the conditions of hens living in battery cages, culling of hens due to avian flu, and the conditions on cage-free farms. Images are representative of the typical conditions on these farms in North America, Europe, Eastern Europe, Asia and Australia from 2013-2024. Jo-Anne McArthur, Human Cruelties, Andrew Skowron, Lukas Vincour, Ram Daya, Stefano Belacchi, Rebecca Cappelli Loviconi / We Animals
Who We Can Save
From the outside, the barn looked like those I've passed on highways and country roads — unassuming, easy to miss. But stepping inside, the reality was overwhelming. The air inside the barn was thick — dust, ammonia, the movement of too many bodies in one space.
The hens hid or ran, unaware that for many of them, their life was about to change. The hens lived in this difficult space until their bodies gave out. Entire flocks were killed at around a year and a half old when the birds were no longer considered "productive."
Standing in the barn, surrounded by stressed hens running in every direction, I told the farm worker that we had an agreement with the farm manager to take about 100 hens to sanctuaries without having to pay for them.
He either didn't understand or didn't believe me. I pressured him and I stayed there until he finally texted the manager.
The manager pulled up and walked briskly toward me. "All the hens are already called for," he said sharply. He had made a deal with another egg-laying operation.
I took a long breath.
Though I felt defensive, my long-standing meditation and mindfulness practice gave me a moment to pause. I could have easily seen this man as the enemy and become annoyed or angry — a stance often taken in animal advocacy when coming face to face with farmers in animal agriculture, which I wholeheartedly understand.
However, my mind was centered on doing whatever was necessary to drive away with hens in my car. I opened myself up to a conversation with this person who was just trying to do their job.
"That's unfortunate," I said, "What happened?"
On her next step towards freedom, a laying hen rescued from a cage-free, organic farm looks out from her crate as she travels from a staging area to a local sanctuary. She is one of a group of rescued hens who began their day in a dark and crowded barn and will end it with sunshine, grass and compassion. Oregon, USA, April, 2024.
He explained that other employees had made the deal without his knowledge, but at least the hens would be out of the barn. He seemed frustrated by being left out of the loop, especially since he had taken on the responsibility of finding the hens another alternative. We both knew the birds were already stressed and exhausted.
He asked, "Do you know what happens to the hens when they're spent?"
"Yes. That's why we're here." I responded.
He had called them "layer machines" in his ad because he didn't want them to meet the same fate as every other flock he had watched leave on a transport truck. Suddenly, we were on common ground.
He looked me in the eye and said, "You can take 50."
"Thank you," I texted our group and chills ran up my arms and neck as the rescue began to take shape. The farm manager stood back, watching us follow protocol and precautions for avian flu.
Earlier that day, an activist who helped organize had texted me, "Life is on our side." At this moment, I felt her words more than ever.
We lined up the crates a safe distance from the barn. Three of our rescuers suited up in gloves, booties, protective suits, and masks. One wore open-toed shoes, so I slipped off my hikers and handed them over, watching them walk straight into the barn, determined and courageous.
Before another minute passed, they were coming out with hens in their arms.
In the morning light, we could see the condition of the birds — their emaciated bodies, with missing feathers, some bleeding from injuries. They were so thin that some crates held nearly ten hens.
However, after just a few moments outside of the barn, they reached through the grates for fresh grass, and began to splay their wings out, stretching in the warmth of the sun.
The birds’ vocalizations even changed as each individual then began to calm down. The transformation was already happening.
Some rescuers went for the weakest, those with no chance if left behind. Others chose the strongest, those most likely to survive.
While they went in and out of the barn, I stayed with the farm worker, keeping his attention while the rescue unfolded. When I had time, I documented as many moments as possible.
We draped towels over the crates to keep the birds calm, and within half an hour, it was time to go. The journey to the staging area, where we would assess their health and prepare them for the next chapter of their story, had begun.
On the Move
Two hens settled quietly in a crate in my backseat as I drove down winding country roads. I turned on classical music, letting a cool breeze drift through the open windows.
Each mile carried them farther from their former lives, multiple vehicles formed a caravan of hope, driving toward a future full of compassion.
Within the hour, our suburban garage, serving as the staging area, was a flurry of activity. A dedicated duo of volunteers from Washington carefully checked each hen for signs of illness or injury.
Other volunteers offered fresh water while the techs administered medication and assessed which hens required the most critical care.
By late afternoon, every hen was on her way — some to individual homes, others to sanctuaries where they would be quarantined, given space to heal, and, most importantly, be free from exploitation and deeply loved.
It was hours before I thought about the ones we couldn't save. I was standing in my kitchen, drinking a glass of water, when I had a moment to pause and let the day sink in.
We left over a thousand hens in the barn, and all I could do was offer prayers for their liberation and reflect on what I could learn from this rescue to prepare for the next one, which was already coming.
A rescued laying hen is weighed and receives necessary medication and a parasite treatment from a volunteer mother and daughter veterinary tech team from the state of Washington, USA. The two triage over fifty hens this day and provide essential support to the first large rescue effort during a massive rescue of laying hens from a cage-free, organic farm that is closing its operations. Oregon, USA, April, 2024.
Put Down the Camera
Less than a week later, after numerous individuals had visited the barn to rescue as many birds as possible, our group had another chance to return. Hundreds of birds faced a terrible fate if we didn't act quickly.
We had originally planned to return that Friday, but suddenly the timeline became urgent. We had to go immediately.
The farm manager decided to open the doors and allow anyone who could come to catch the remaining birds to take them for free.
There was no time to update the spreadsheet, coordinate transport, or contact sanctuaries. We had to go. The following morning, a small group of us met again in the golf course parking lot and figured out our next steps.
I would go with one other rescuer, while the rest of the group waited for our signal. We had no idea what to expect.
As we pulled into the driveway, I was stunned. At least five vehicles were parked, and people were walking out of the barn, each holding three or four hens upside down by their feet as the birds flapped and screeched in panic. Grabbing my phone, I called the rest of the group.
"Get here NOW!"
I didn’t pick up my camera this time. Instead, I ran toward the barn, where hens were desperately fleeing for their lives. It was a nightmare.
Of the approximately four thousand birds already taken since the farm announced its closure, only hundreds remained. These were the fastest and most stressed, having been chased for weeks.
Portland animal advocate Molly Flanagan accompanies rescued hen Rosemary as she explores a grassy backyard for the very first time. Molly, along with other dedicated activists, opened their homes to provide safe spaces where the hens could quarantine, rest, and begin to heal. Oregon, USA, April, 2024.
Hens arrive in multiple crates to Wildwood Farm Sanctuary, their forever home, where they’ll soon meet the rest of the flock and begin a life entirely different from the one they left behind. After being tagged, they’ll be free to wander through the grass, take dust baths, and simply be themselves. Oregon, USA, May, 2024.
I moved quietly and waited for a bird to drink water. I reached into the metal shelving, grabbed one of her legs, and held on. I pulled her toward my chest, protecting her wings as she squawked in distress, telling each one, "You are safe now," as I carried her to an available crate. The other rescuers arrived, and again and again, we did this. By the time our crates were full, we had nearly 200 birds.
Once the farm worker witnessed others handling the birds roughly — grabbing them, tying their legs, and tossing them into bins and pillowcases — he allowed rescuers to return throughout the week. He opened the barn doors and let the rescue continue until every last hen was saved. He even stepped in to help, securing hens in a safe spot for rescuers to pick up in the evening.
The last bird, desperately hiding, was rescued by long time animal activist Amber Canavan, as a storm battered the barn roof. Amber named her Rain and she now calls Wildwood Farm Sanctuary home. Due to the extraordinary efforts by individuals and sanctuaries, more than 430 hens were rescued over the course of several weeks.
Their exhausted bodies are finally able to heal, rest, and, in some cases, like that of one of the first hens to be rescued, whom we named Sage, let go.
Collective Liberation
Experiencing fresh grass, eating grapes, foraging in gardens, and taking dirt baths in the sun are these birds' definitions of freedom. As witnesses to this transformation, we watch the residue of exploitation and harm slip away.
The hens live at farm sanctuaries, including Out to Pasture, Wildwood, Tikkun Olam, Wildlings Forest, and others across the West Coast. A few rescuers care for small backyard flocks, where they notice each hen's personality emerge and recognize them as individuals fully deserving of this beautiful new life.
Soon, they will have lived more of their lives in sanctuary than the months they spent unseen in that dark barn.
I walked away from this experience understanding that, as much as I love to document active rescues, there will be times when my hands need to put the camera down and carry feathers, fur, or fins.
I am forever connected to the other activists who were part of this rescue, and I'll always remember locking eyes with Avery inside the barn. We both teared up and then had to turn away, shaking our heads, realizing it wasn't the time to let ourselves feel.
But now it is, and the joy of knowing that hundreds of individuals were saved is everything.
Despite the differences and challenges the animal rights movement faces, countless individuals and organizations came together for this rescue.
These disconnects often arise because we are constantly traumatized by bearing witness to animal suffering — and as a movement, we are still learning how to tend to our collective grief.
Tangible opportunities to directly help animals serve as a salve for our aching hearts. While policy changes, protests, and journalism are essential to shifting how animals are viewed and treated, nothing compares to physically carrying a suffering animal out of harm’s way and into sanctuary.
Over the weeks that the Aurora hen rescue spanned, life was indeed on our side.
A laying hen rescued from a cage-free, organic farm that is closing its operations peers around volunteer Tanvi Varma’s shoulder. Tanvi works as a local television reporter and assisted negotiations with farm staff to release the hens to rescuers. Tanvi now experiences the outcome of her efforts. Oregon, USA, April, 2024.