Our
cabin meets the
end of a gravel lane in the backwoods of some property in the rural
foothills of Mount Rainier. It has about a thousand square feet of
livable walking space and a high ceiling that makes for ample
flailing about areas you would have to see to believe. As tall as we
could make it safely to code to sit on 30x20ft surface, and as many
windows possible that could be withheld as structurally sound. The
biggest one we could get, reasonably, opens up to our backyard forest
and man made meadow next to our front door. The tops of trees stand a
hundred feet towering in view from our front porch. Really, they are
wide steps a neighbor made for us in about a half hour from slabs he
recently milled, his housewarming gift to grace the entrance of our
newly built home. A modest setting to what became a once and a
lifetime sight.
The
porch steps are
warm with Spring light. An aroma hinting of the mountain
snowdrifts move past the open door. My firstborn sits atop my
lap. The second child freshly standing in the world wobbles in a deep
wagon about four stair steps and six paces in front of us. We are
enjoying each other and the surroundings when a sudden sound from
behind the house skips our hearts. Around the corner, towards the
back right of the house, we hear a loud thump crash that makes me
think of metal cans yet somehow more organic. I am alert with an
awareness of movement before seeing it. I straighten. My whole body
is poised for ready. A screechy squeal, skittering noises, some paces
towards the front of the house.
The
movement sounded
fast. It felt I had only a mere half second to decide if I was to
respond—children, the light of the day, and where I was
positioned near the house became a factor.
“Hey!”
I shouted. I made it loud and low, stern with a touch of erraticism
to keep it unpredictable, from somewhere between my chest and gut,
and not abrupt, but crescendoing so as not to frighten but startle.
It was instinctual. I hear something stop, then a rustling, this
skiiiiiid right into view. Oh, hi, large Bald Eagle.
Large
Bald Eagle!!
How
long is a
moment?
In
this case it was
infinity condensed
to about
eight seconds:
One. The
eagle
is in full view now. Just past the corner of the cabin, every
glorious inch showing. It’s wings pulled in, curved around the
air in two outstretched primaries cradling unchanged force. I noticed
it didn’t move its head like a human would coming around the
bend. With its mouth open slightly, only its eye turned to me,
exceptionally locked under the unexpected shock.
Two.
Yes, it
startled very much! Ha! And me, too! So much so it lost its lunch, an
anticipated meal of our tamed pet bunny that got too close to the
open space near the evening’s five o’clock browsing
hour. At the same time the eagle and I are introducing
ourselves, our rascal of a bun, who we call Christmas, blows out of
its talons down the path, careening serpentine in the dirt, flopping
nearly segmented but perfectly healthy for forty feet into a stump
hollow to safety. Later discovered without a scratch.
Three.
I’m
already halfway to my feet, slow to ease into it deliberately and
fast enough to show where I stood was about to be forefront the
children while also getting as close as I could get to the majesty
before us. When I saw Christmas was saved, a smile
spread
across my lips in welcome of this immense creature before me, now
naked with excuses. I knew the animal felt my body changes, signals
that I was not afraid, but also with an eager race to not miss
anything as my heart was beating fast to greet it. It held back
flight movements to take it all in.
Four.
I am expecting
the launch. The moment holds, stretching the gaze to keep him there.
Now standing, I lean into one pace forward with no intention to
blink. He doesn’t disappoint in every amazement. One bounce and
a swoop has its body in the air again. He moves diagonally
nine
feet upward.
Five.
It STOPS
midair.
Or sort of floats,
gyrating twelve feet from the ground. Its body twisting, using the
currents of space, tucking his wings spherically to circle
180-degrees.
Six.
It gave a
wonderful flap and some sort of throat sound, flew off diagonally to
the tops of the tallest fir just beyond the cabin.
Seven.
At this
point, I am under where it hovered and exclaiming awe!
Eight.
My body
decides to give a laugh cry and I allow it. Quite overwhelmed with
gratitude, yipping and yelling “thank you” and “what
the what?” “how?” “hey!”
The
bird left marks
where sharp appendages and disarmed elbows met the dirt path as he
slid to a stop into view. A four inch long three inch deep gash in
the lawn shows where he grabbed the morsel. Measuring the distance of
length between pinky toe to talon was as far as two people linking
hands.
At
least I greeted
it and said goodbye in some fashion. It has been by since then
dropping feather gifts. But also… I haven’t seen
Christmas for some time. That eagle may have developed a one track
mind. It’s still young yet. Five or six years by my based on
some research and his epic fail at getting dinner that day. We always
hope the newest member of the wild is alive. She knew the risks of
freedom. It was well worth it for her, every night perched in her pen
sniffing the beyond. She earned her place and knew the risks even
more after this first attack, all the merrier to be alive. The best
to her. She, the bravest puff of fur I have ever known. With some
hope, maybe she just ran away with her newfound native bunny friend
that has been hanging around the house with her in the
mornings.
H. E. Wheeler is
a nature enthusiast, avidly pursuing the physical and literary
sensations of the wide, untamed world. Her poetical and candid style
hopes to put the reader alongside the adventure, with a heart for
sharing an appreciation of education and conservation, keeping the
wild its wildest.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
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