The Beginning

In late December of 2009 I discovered a beautiful young male passage Red Tailed Hawk in my back yard.  He was injured and could not move his right talon, probably some infected squirrel bite or some such as befalls so many of these first year birds.  He was severely malnourished and could hunt and fly no more.  He hopped up onto a table on our porch where I watched him for a few hours while I called various vets to find out what to do.  I talked to him and even played a little guitar while waiting to hear back from the vets.

When I discovered the Center for Birds of Prey and talked with a volunteer, they asked me to go and "catch" the hawk and bring him down to Awendaw.  As you might imagine, this gave me no small pause.  I wanted to ask her exactly how does one go about catching a bird of prey, with a wicked curved beak for tearing and needle sharp talons.  My Y chromosome, however would have none of that and I found myself simply saying "Will do!"

The little guy did not like that I left his presence while talking on the phone and he hopped around the fence and followed me as I was going to go inside to find an old kennel.  It was truly remarkable to see something so wild acting in such an out of character manner.  I walked over and picked him up like a baby.  I remember being amazed at how light he was.  This bird appeared so solid and vibrant, but picking him up reminded me of nothing so much as carrying the wind.

Into the kennel for a quick show and tell with the kids, and we were headed down to Georgetown where another volunteer was kind enough to meet me and ferry our little rescue to the center.  The next few weeks went by with many calls to the center (pretty sure that the sound of my voice was beginning to evoke killing urges in several of the staff by the end) to check on "the bird who wouldn't die", as they unfortunately named our little guy.  I say unfortunately as I know full well the risks of making such declarations regarding anyone's health.  They did it all.  Tube feeds, antibiotics, antiparasitics, you name it.  They told me initially that there was no way he would survive the night and the kids and I were sad.  When he made it through the next few days, we found ourselves discussing him more and more.  We practically planned the party for his release from rehab and frankly I am surprised that Brynn didn't have invitations drawn up and ready.

This went on for almost three weeks.  We tried to go down and see him several times but no one at the center was available at the last second.  We finally went down for a tour of the center and watched the flight shows on the coldest day on record in the history of all of mankind.  Maybe.  Again, we were rebuffed when we asked to go see our charge.  They brought us the kennel with assurances that we could go see him later that week.  Unfortunately, the next day I got the call that he had finally flown off to freer skies.

I think you can tell from the above that this bird had insinuated itself into our psyches to a degree that none of us had foreseen.  Jordan and I decided to volunteer at the center to learn more about birds of prey and I spent a considerable amount of time researching falconry and breaking out an old copy of My Side Of The Mountain.

The real kicker was the dreams.  Dreams of flying like I hadn't had since I was young, dreams where I woke up smelling that wild smell like the day I held our bird, dreams of clouds and winds and rain and hunting.  There was never really a chance of escaping this, much to my dear wife's chagrin.  When I discovered that there was a falconer living just a few miles away, I knew that certain things were just inevitable.