The great bird gave up its struggle after about five minutes.
She had spent several months in rehabilitation before that frosty morning in Highland Park Reserve. Her wings were weak, but her captivity probably made the urge to hunt again even stronger.
Poised on my Mother's arms, the nameless Red Tailed hawk’s giant talons seemed to claw at the air, awaiting a chance to strike out and break back into the atmosphere.
After a quiet countdown, she pushed the raptor up into the air for a final boost.
One quivering flutter of her wings and the hawk was once again broken from gravity’s jealous hold.
The great raptor remembered her flying skills quickly, going from a clumsy marionette bob to a sleek, liquid motion with her wings. After heading for the highest local treetop, she gave those rediscovered flying muscles a chance to re-fuel with oxygen. Over the next ten minutes, the hawk hopped between treetops, getting her “air wings” back.
The release was part of an effort spearheaded by my sister-in-law, Sally. Between my father and my siblings, we were able to keep Mom’s raptor release gift a birthday secret until the last moment. It was the kind of present you can’t really wrap; Thankfully, the Hallmark® Machine has yet to create a card for such an occasion.
I’ve had an epiphany of sorts over the last few years on the whole bird issue. I’m hardly a bird watcher, but my fascination with any thing or machine that flies has grown. I’ve visited the Wright Brother’s monument in Kill Devil Hills, N.C several times, and I've even made a feeble hang-gliding attempt off similar dunes down the road.
In reading about Orville and Wilbur’s accomplishments, I am convinced that they were geniuses, far ahead of their time. To think what they accomplished just that morning shows how their knowledge of flight grew exponentially with each putter of the 12-horse homemade powerplant. Yes, they not only created the first true airplane, they designed an engine that was arguably better than any of its day.
The lure of flight goes back eons, probably to early cave dwellers who watched in awe as great birds hunted from the skies, grabbing rodents, fish and larger prey after slow pirouettes from high above.
My fascination with birds has grown along with my respect for the Wrights: Two high school drop out bike makers who spent a decade researching all they could about flying. Most of what was known was either loose rumor or speculation, but the Wrights applied everything learned, and then finished the formula and applied it. They tested and refined the whole flying process so much that they went from that 120-foot first flight to seven times that distance – in one day!
Orville Wright once explained flight this way: “The airplane stays up, because it doesn’t have the time to fall.”
Since that morning at Kitty Hawk, flying has become an accepted part of human life, albeit expensive and persnickety. I won’t get into how poorly managed the airline industries have become, but I can tell you that even under the best circumstances, none of them could achieve what Orville and Wilbur did that morning. They might have provided tiny bags of peanuts to on-lookers, or offered half-full bottles of sarsaparilla, but that’s about it.
The airline industry has stood on the shoulders of giants for decades, bragging about the view.
They are nothing like Orv and Will, who were renowned as “nut cases” for how they would try to mimic the gulls of the Outer Banks, running around with their arms all twisted and fluttering.
But they later proved everyone wrong on the poetic sand dunes of the Outer Banks. To see that event would have been life changing; I’ve always wanted to see one of the Concordes take-off, and I’ve yet to witness a space launch. I’m pretty sure my heart would stop briefly if I did.
Frenchman Rene Gasnier (who later went on to become an aviator) witnessed one of the Wright Brothers’ 1908 flights in France. He said that compared to the Wrights, “We are but children.”
We are still children, over a century later.
I felt that way as I watched that unnamed Red Tail glide around Highland Park: Trying not to blink, and fiercely jealous of that bird as it rediscovered and unwrapped the gift of flight. The sheer awkward poetry of its slow, graceful learning exercise was almost enough to make me forget about the little bag of peanuts thing.
All photos by me, taken a few hours before a winter storm and all within about eight minutes of each other. Took a detour through nearby Milltown, Wisconsin. There's plenty of old wood and iron, much of it strangely historic: The little Polk County village served as an "internment town" during WWII, for German POWs. Many worked at a local Stokely Canning facility, and became an integral part of the area for a spell. Being a "detainee" was a little different then. I have a B/W photo study series of remaining Milltown military facilities, but not on the digital yet. That and about 16,000 other photos. Hmmm, biz opportunity or massive pain in the Blagojevich? Maybe a bit of both. ("Are you there, Santa? It's me, G Mars. I could really use a good negative film scanner for Christmas. I'd ask for a Senate seat, but I don't have the cash. I've been pretty good, this year. Sorry about the whole "power outtage thing," that won't happen again! Thanks! Help yourself to the cookies. Your friend, Greg [Who could really use a negative film scanner] Mars.)
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