My eye caught a glimpse of nothing more than a white dot in a lush green palisade of Douglas Firs rising from the mirror surface of the reservoir, but the flutter in my belly and the smile cracking across my face knew the Eagle had landed.
Slowing my mountain bike to a crawl on the remote logging road, I maneuvered for the best view and pulled out my camera.
For many, many years I would have zipped right past, focused solely on my breathing, my pedal stroke and my rhythm, relying on the solitude of nature to allow me to concentrate on my physical nature rather than the metaphysical.
Keep a steady pace.
Keep pushing.
Ride for fitness.
A few years back I altered my approach, taking time to stop and soak in the wonder of nature that surrounds me. To stop and watch the Eagle.
The American Bald Eagle represents a lot of things to a lot of folks. For me, the Bald Eagle remains the standard bearer of optimism — majestic, feathered proof of a better future ahead.
Growing up in Wisconsin I never saw a Bald Eagle outside of a zoo. The Bald Eagle stood proud, perched atop a frightening list of fauna threatened by extinction.
Years later, when I saw my first Bald Eagle in the wild, tears flowed.
I’m a dreamer of the highest magnitude, and knowing we had taken measures to assure its posterity, as well as that of Wolves, Whooping Cranes and others, enriched my soul.
Typically the incessant honking of Canada Geese serenade my ride along the reservoir.
Last year the Bald Eagles hung around for a week or so, making for a much louder symphony echoing through the valley when they would swoop down from their lofty perch and circle, checking out the menu, if you will.
But this year, they’ve stuck around, no doubt finding plenty of meals paddling above or swimming below the water.
Fewer Canada Geese and even fewer Ducks mean the Eagles have decided to hang out for a while, their presence now going on four weeks. I saw both parents, then what I assume to be their juvenile offspring.
Sometimes you have to lift your head and look around.
Time to ride.
Some mornings on my commute I see my buddy the Great Blue Heron fishing for breakfast in the outflow from the water treatment plant. Hundreds of cars pass him every day, but only I know he’s there.
And one extra Hallelujah for even one less goddamned Canada Goose.