A Bird In The Hand.... By Paul Rudd

Vickie and I were invited to attend the release of 5 bald eagles back into the wild on Saturday. The eagle in the picture is the one we captured in January, a young female. All five took to the air like a bird in fli...well you get the idea. They were released on a hillside overlooking a mountain lake, everyone there had a few Goosebumps or tears going. Thanks again to the Grounded Eagle Foundation for taking great care of these amazing birds.

January 2008

I was deep in a nap, in the co-pilot seat of our 1998 Nissan pick-up truck, "Ol' Red Ryder," when I was welcomed back to the awake world by my wife, who was driving, as she said loudly, "Oh crap!"

Vickie and I were heading to a small cabin in Western Montana's Swan Valley, to spend a beautiful winter's day; her skiing, snowshoeing, and running the dogs, while I rested my right leg from a surgery I went through a few days earlier.

"Whaa?" I managed to mumble wiping the drool from my face, my head flooded instantly of the many things that could be wrong at this point in the journey. Something she just remembered, forgotten the keys to the cabin, a pair of skis, or worse yet a cooler of food still resting in the garage.

"I just saw an eagle get hit by a car!" she said, as she slowed to a crawl to investigate the scene.

I am not sure if it is Vickie's work as a wildlife biologist, or just her time spent in the great outdoors with a larger than average dose of the predator gene. Somehow, she has the ability to spot things in the woods, or on a hillside, that would take my droopy eyes and a pair of binoculars hours to discover, if I ever saw them at all. "Look, there's a herd of elk on that hillside, in those trees." she might say.

"Oh yeah," I'll reply, having no idea as to what she is seeing, and wondering if she really sees what she says she sees, or is just messing with me. I would really have no idea either way.

"Really," I asked, "an eagle?" Then I asked perhaps the dumbest question available at that moment in time, "Well do you think it's O.K.?"

"I have no idea." Vickie says, and then informs me of the problem facing the mighty eagle. "They come down to eat a deer or elk that gets hit buy a car, but they are so big of a bird that when they try and take off when a car is coming they fly too low and can't clear the vehicle." As we slowly roll past the intersection that she witnessed this all happen.

"Well do you want to stop and see if it's O.K.?" I asked.

"We need to get to a telephone, and call someone who can come and help. There is a guy in the Swan Valley who runs an eagle rehabilitation center, or we can try Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks, and see if there is anyone nearby." She said as we sped up on our way to the small town of Seely Lake. "Now if we can't get anybody on the phone we might have to go back and get the bird ourselves, do you think we can do it?"

"Oh yeah, we can do it," I reply not having fully comprehended what it was that she has just said to me, "You mean catch it?" I asked.

"Yes," she instructed me as if she has done this all many times before, "we'll need a box to put it in and we can use the dog's blanket to catch it, wrap it up and get it into the box."

I started having flashbacks of being a young boy lying in front of the television with my grandpa and my brother, watching Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. Every week we would watch as Jim Fowler would get his ass kicked by a python, a rhino, or some other giant wild animal, while Marlin Perkins calmly voiced over with a soothing, "Oh it looks like Jim has his hands full this week." Alternatively, "It appears as though Jim may be in a bit of trouble."

Meanwhile, Vickie pulled Ol' Red Ryder into the parking lot of the local grocery store and informed me that she was going to make some calls. I volunteered to go and find a box.

I found the helpful grocery clerk and mentioned that I needed a box.

"Well now, how big of a box are you looking for?" he asked with a smile.

"Umm, well I need one big enough to put an eagle in." I replied excitedly, expecting him to whisk me to the back stock room, in the back, and retrieve the perfect eagle transport vessel, "We are going to try and help rescue one that was just hit by a car, back at the turn-off to Placid Lake."

It was at this time that the clerk's face beamed and he said, "Well mister, don't forget to help yourself to them claws, and some of them feathers while you are at it."

I think this guy was joking, in much the same way that a jerk makes an off-color joke and expect everyone to chime in on "the big laugh," that never comes. Worst of all, after all of that, he never did whisk me away to the stock room, in the back, to the section where they keep the special eagle boxes. I turned and walked away, knowing we would have to figure something better out.

I returned to Vickie who was dialing numbers on the payphone like someone trying to win a radio station contest, when she finally gets someone to answer the phone. It was Ken Wolfe at the Grounded Eagle Foundation.

"The odds?" you ask, that there is an eagle rehabilitation organization nearby. I have no idea, but today must have been our lucky day, because our number just hit!

"Yes, I understand." Vickie says into the phone, "Well if we can capture it we'll bring it up to you."

"What's the deal?" I asked. "Are they sending someone down?"

Vickie was remotely familiar with the person she just spoke with, and informed me that Mr. Wolfe is in bad health, he lives 40 minutes away and would not be able to come and help us, and we are going to have to go and get the eagle ourselves.

Go ahead and cue the opening soundtrack to Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom; for I have just changed my name to Jim Fowler.

We arrived back at the scene of the accident, the eagle has moved now, from off of the corner of the intersection, to down a hill and into some thick tree cover.

The great bird lies in the snow, wings extended almost all of the way out as if in flight.

"I knew we should have caught it when we had the chance earlier!" I shout, as if I have even the slightest of clues as to what I am talking of. "Now we are going to have to go after it!"

"Stop freaking out!" Vickie says to me. "You are totally losing it. Now you can stay here and complain, (something I do very well thank you,) or you can look at this as an adventure and help me out."

I do not know a lot of things, but I do know that I am not going to let my wife go and wrangle an eagle all by her lonesome. Sure, she has held jobs such as mountain lion tracker, grizzly bear D.N.A. collector, a trouble-bear trapper, and has spent more days doing dangerous things than most people ever can imagine. I should have just let her handle this situation by herself, she would have been fine, and I could have finished my nap, but what the hell, let's go and catch an eagle!

We emptied out the back of Ol' Red Ryder, put on our snow boots and winter clothes, and sorted out our eagle wrangling gear, otherwise known as a double layered dog blanket, my winter coat, and a twelve-gallon blue plastic storage container. Then we repacked the truck, making sure to leave enough room in the back for our soon-to-be precious cargo.

With precision swiftness we devised a plan on just how we were going to catch said wounded eagle. "If we spread out, sneak up, and move up on it, one of us can keep it busy, while other one can sneak up from behind and cover it with the blanket or the coat." I suggested. You could almost hear the other two stooges giggling with excitement.

"Sounds like a plan." Vickie replied. "Let's give it a try."

We spread out as planned, "I can't believe this is working!" I thought to myself.( Not that anything was actually working yet, but I had to have something to be excited about.) Slowly, we made our way up to the beautiful creature lying in the now thigh deep snow. I held the blanket up to hide myself the way some hunters use a hunting blind, Vickie was inching closer as well with my coat spread wide in her hands. Closer and closer we approached, narrowing the distance between us and the bird.

Strange things were running through my mind at this point, as I tried not to think about what it was we were trying to do. "Hey my art teacher was right!" I thought, the closer I get to an object the larger it appears. "This bird is gigantic!" Then the theme music from the Colbert Report began playing in my head, complete with the eagle screeching, and the flags waving.

Vickie had pointed out earlier when we were gearing up, (Remember the box and the blanket?) that there was another eagle circling up above the trees, across the road, most likely the mate of the one we were about to try and capture, and it was calling to the injured party. Thus, the headline I was reading in my head as we made our approach, "Local Woman Killed by Angry Eagle while Attempting to Rescue Injured Bird" (Yes, I know it would have to be an awfully wide newspaper to fit that all in.)

This bird was no dummy, as we closed in it took one good look at the approaching circus and decided it was out of there! With a few flaps from the giants' mighty wings and a good run on those long strong legs, it managed to get 30 yards through the thick trees in an almost drunken stooper, before it crashed again into the deep snow and took a rest.

Vickie and I looked at each other with a, "This could end up being a bit harder than we thought." look. We slowly progressed to the new area of operation and made another attempt at a capture, but failed again, as the bird made yet another feeble attempt at flight and escape.

It was on our third attempt that I managed to get close enough to try and throw the blanket, in a cast-net style, over the eagle. This wily creature was having nothing-doings with that, and made yet another dash for freedom into a clearing, near what we knew was the snow covered creek that ran through the property that we were so blatantly trespassing.

The eagle was now resting once again, wings spread wide, appearing to be leg deep in the snow, as were we. Its' head turning looking around, but obviously tired and worn down form the several evasive maneuvers. I looked at Vickie who was three yards to my right, and mouthed, "What are we doing!?"

She smiled at me and mouthed, "You can do it." So I took one final step closer with my trusty blanket spread wide, and carefully as possible, covered the giant bird's head and body as it pulled it's outstretched wings in, allowing me to fully cover it.

I cannot express to you in words the feeling of pure elation as I gently pinned the blanket to the snow. I am sure I uttered a string of cuss words out of nervousness that would have convinced most that I suffer from Turrets.

Vickie said she would go and find the blue storage container that we decided to leave halfway back due to the awkwardness of carrying it through the deep snow. It seemed like hours, as I hovered over this hard panting creature, but it was only a few minutes before she returned with one eagle containment unit in hand.

She laid the box next to the blanket in the snow and we looked at each other with a shared "Now what?" expression. Which was an excellent question that neither one of us could provide a precise answer to.

The eagle has been resting, hopefully comfortably, for around 10 minutes now, just enough time, I have convinced myself, so that when the blanket is removed it can swoop up and sic its' mighty talons and razor sharp beak into whomever decided to try and hold it down. It didn't get to be this nations' symbol of freedom by being a big sissy.

Vickie decides, having much more experience with wild animals than I, that we should not remove the blanket, but simply scoop the bird up and over, into the box, put the lid on and slowly retrieve the blanket back out from the container. So with the Colbert Report theme still playing loudly in my noggin', we do just that, and it works like a charm! One eagle all boxed up and ready to go!

As we make our way back up and out of the creek bottom, we take turns carrying our passenger, who behaves really well except for one small escape attempt that left its' wing sticking out from under the lid. We slid the wing back in and re-secured the lid and made our way to, what will now be referred to as, the emergency eagle transport vehicle or E.E.T.V., a.k.a., "Ol' Red Ryder!"

"You drive." I said, "I'll sit in the back, here, and ride with the bird."

At which point Vickie says one of the more absurd things I have ever heard her say, "You are not riding in the back of the truck, it is too dangerous for you to be back there!"

Forget the fact she just helped me wrangle a creature that could have ripped out our eyes at any moment it wished, but riding in the back of an E.E.T.V. was too dangerous.

"Come on," I pleaded, "I don't know where this place is that we are going, and you do, besides if this thing gets out of this box, we aren't going to have such an easy time catching it again. So you drive, and I'll keep an eye on this thing." For once, I had her dead to rights, we were loaded up and on our way!

On the way to the Grounded Eagle Foundation, in the back of the E.E.T.V., I was opening and closing the lid to the container trying to let in some fresh air for our quiet, and well-behaved passenger. At the thirty-minute mark of our forty-minute ride I peeked inside to what I was afraid was a now dead eagle.

Now, this created a bit of a pickle. I wasn't about to open the lid completely to awaken an angry savage, with talons and beak a-flailing. I cracked the lid just a bit more, and held it open while I reflected seriously for the first time in this adventure. I was convincing myself that at least we tried to do a good thing by attempting to rescue the bird, and if it died before we could get it medical help, at least it was better than leaving it to suffer and die in the woods. I was coming to terms with having to tell Vickie that all of our good intentions may have not been enough, and that the eagle had died.

I was quickly brought to my senses by the blue storage box being rocked onto its' side as I lunged for the lid and slammed it down tightly, I quickly realized that our eagle friend was alive and kicking!

Vickie pulled the E.E.T.V. into the Grounded Eagle Foundations' parking area, and as we got out and carried the eagle towards the cabin, a man greeted us, whom, I assumed was Ken Wolfe. He instructed us to put the box in the back of his truck and to come inside.

Once inside, Vickie told him our story, leaving out all of my embellishments, and said that we didn't think to remove the carcass from the side of the road that caused the problems to begin with.

Ken received a call from his assistant, who called to say she had just removed the carcass from the side of the road. He also looked at us and said, "You know those talons have more power in them than the cartridge from a high powered rifle."

"Yeah, I guess we got lucky." I replied, while silently beating myself up for not thinking to remove the carcass from the roadside, something I would have never ever thought to do in a million years.

Ken then offered us a ride, in his truck, down to the eagle rehabilitation building. I took the invitation, while Vickie chose to walk down and meet up with us.

We grabbed a portable plastic dog kennel from outside, the eagle in the box, and went in to what looked like a veterinarians' medical lab. Once inside, Ken donned a pair of bicep-length Kevlar lined leather gloves.

"The same stuff they make a bullet proof vest from." Ken offered.

With a quick removal of the lid to the blue box and a swoop of the hands Ken pulls out the eagle by the legs, just above the talons, and lays it down on top of the dog kennel.

He then proceeds to have Vickie hold the eagles' legs while the eagle bit at his gloved hand. Ken then does a quick examination and determines that the wings are not broken, but the eagle cannot see, a side effect from swelling of the brain.

Ken proceeds to attach a small leather cap to the head of the eagle that covers the eyes, similar to the cap a falconer uses, the cap is decorated with bright colors and even has a tassel of brightly colored feathers sticking out from the top. I am not sure that the eagle is fully appreciating these extra bits of flair right now. He then asks me to hold the head down firmly, as he prepares to give the bird an injection.

Now that we have a chance to really see the bird, it is beautiful, dark brown, with tufts of yellow and bits of white down peeking through. Vickie thought that it might be a Golden Eagle, but Ken informs us that it is in fact, a young female Bald Eagle, whose head has yet to turn white.

"What are you giving it?" Vickie asked, as Ken administered the shot to the breast area of the Bald Eagle.

"It's a drug that reduces swelling of the brain." Ken relied. The only way that I discovered it was because I had underwent an operation on a tumor in my brain and the doctor gave it to me. I told him what I did, and he scaled it down for use on birds. It has saved hundreds of birds' lives; it used to be that they would just fly off and slowly die from swelling of the brain, or other internal injuries."

Ken finished the inspection of the bird, all twenty-seven pounds of her. We put her into the dog kennel, left her there to rest and recover.

Ken then showed us some of his other recovering patients. An adult Bald Eagle that had ate mice that had eaten rat poison, and was receiving treatment for thinning of the blood. He proceeded to take us through a door into an eagle flight room that measures 160' from perch to perch, with five adult eagles flying from end to end. "We have returned hundreds of birds back into the wild over the past 25 years." He added.

With my mind fully blown, and the adrenalin tapering off, it was time to go. We finally reached our destination that night, and I can say with conviction that it was indeed, the journey and not the destination, that made this our best trips to the Swan Valley yet.

The Grounded Eagle Foundation, Inc is a Montana chartered non-profit organization devoted to wildlife rehabilitation, edu

cation, conservation, and preservation. The organization operates the Northern Rockies Raptor Center, a regional wildlife rehabilitation hospital devoted to birds of prey specifically (and all other birds generally).