After the abrupt and unceremonious arrival at our base camp along the brush-entangled stream, Anna and I settled into the beginning of a routine that would last for the next twelve weeks. The dreams of sitting out on a bluff or along a cliff, “out in the wild”, were quickly shattered as we set up camp at the San Carlos river east of Globe Arizona.
Tho bleak, the trail in to camp, which we eventually refer to as the “Waldump”, snaked about a mile from the main road cutting through the reservation connecting Globe Arizona to Saffrord Arizona. This is definitively not the Grand Canyon view of our dreams but, the vista of this Sonoran upland is enticing.
We carve out a patch of dirt nestled on the edge of the local landfill. The talcum powder dirt road, twenty feet away, splits. One arm extends along the creek ending at the railroad bridge after meandering past the space of a sacred sweat lodge. We were informed to respect the space and especially not to go near if we heard a ceremony occurring.
The eagle nest is perched in a tall cottonwood tree, that now, in February is free of foliage. It is just across the creek from the sweat lodge.
The other road-split is my road less travelled. It rises steeply and although it’s top is maybe 40 ft above camp, the steepness of it’s slope becomes a daily workout. The sand is so soft and loose that with every step up, you always have to factor in the half step slip-back. The road goes on, heading into the desert to where? I may never found out. Miss Pickle, tough as she is, cannot jump the ruts and rocks I scope from the top. I must rely on my legs to find out.
At the top of this hill we are tasked with monitoring the activities of this nesting pair of bald eagles. What this entails, is dawn to dusk visual observations of the pair and any human or animal activities within the breeding area that may impact the successful fledging of the soon-to-be, hatched eaglets.
Our camp is not luxurious. Over the past few years, several Nestwatchers, scraped and trimmed away the pointy scrub and cactus to accommodate a space the size of a small two car garage. I pull the van in ( my 1978 green Westfalia, sweetly named Miss Bertha May Pickle- AKA the Pickle or Miss P) and orient her as a visual barrier to the road. Anna came in a small car with a tent, which she set ups 12 feet from the van’s side door. Comfy and close is the best we could do. After three days of sitting in a room of talks on morphology, data collection, dangerous animals, climate considerations of camping in a desert, laws and litigation, I am ever so grateful to have joined forces with Anna and on this first night at camp, I feel safe and at ease.
Here along this tepid stream lined with ancient cottonwoods and invasive tamarisk, amidst the middens of our disposable consumerism, amidst the carcasses of horses brought to their dying field, amidst a culture and identity and spirit I know little of, I begin my journey to the eagles.
The sun sets behind the mountain ranges and leaves me in silent awe. As the sky turns to ink, the last shafts of light shimmer the outlines of the rugged peaks. The sky is so clear, the hues of blue turning to grey, turning to black with a whisper of brilliant white or pink, or orange, or lavender along the peak edges. Little did I know that this was to be the beginning of my understanding of stillness.
Anna is well-heeled in the world of birding and field work. Having grown up in Michigan, studied and with a degree in the environmental sciences, she also worked field studies in South America studying birds of the rainforest. Aside from what we shared in the eagle orientation, I know little else about her. During the the three days of training, we have few opportunities to talk or get to know our colleagues. It is after an arduous day of facts and presentations at the eagle orientation that we 18 nestwatchers have a chance to mingle. A small campfire brought us together. Most of the participants are seasoned. Few like me are rookies. I feel a bit intimidated by the the experience in field work many share and the observance that I am among the three oldest participants in the program. To say I am a little nervous about picking a random stranger to live and work with in the field is real.
Pulling in on the first night at the shooting range eagle camp, Anna is the first person I meet. I wait to give her time to set up before I approach. She set up a small tent and proceeded to sit in her front passenger seat with the dome light on. I startle her in the the starlit dark and her hand swiftly hides what she is holding. Maybe my smile did the trick or maybe it is hers and we relax. She reaches back down and asks if I would like a glass of wine.
We begin to get into rhythm and the schedule of being up before dawn. On weekends we are to monitor from dawn to dusk collecting the behavioral data as the pair is incubating eggs. If anyone crosses into the breeding zone we shift into conservation and education mode. The last question on the application I answered correctly and non- confrontational is the position we are to take. We are not law enforcement and the best approach is to assume that people are unaware of the boundaries or often the nest itself.
On weekdays, especially since the eagles are sitting their nest, we move about the territory which includes the San Carlos lake that sits a mile away as the crow flys and which is the only body of water that can sustain a large population of fish. The sustenance it provides means the difference between life or death to the eaglets to be. We learned very quickly that both of us could not go together on these field days. Within the first week, our presence, two white women, was known by all who lived there. Within the first week we had visitors from the local community. And within that first week four young teenagers swiped my cell phone.
We were later informed that it was best not to leave our camp unattended and in the past, previous nestwatchers suggested that two women should never be sent here alone. I slowly begin to understand. Racism and fear, prejudice and sexism – all are factors and I realize I hold many of those ideas and ways of being. I know I am undereducated and underexposed to the real ways of life and I begin to learn much more than the job requirements and the life of bald eagles.
We are sitting at the observation post and the early spring winds pummel us with fine sand, the sun slides across the sky exposing us in in direct path to the glare and intensity. We rig up a big beach umbrella and after scouring the dump, we fill old buckets with rocks and tie the umbrella down at several points. The wind gusts tug at the apparatus, occasionally requiring a hard grab of the pole to keep it from flying off the bluff.
Each morning we haul up the chairs, the umbrella, the scope, the data sheets, the brick radio and do our first check of the day. Once set, I descend /slide back to camp and start a pot of water for tea and a breakfast snack. Anna, is wrapped up in her down coat with a blanket wrapped to keep her legs warm as I trod back up the hill with a thermos of English tea. We flip flop back and forth, taking turns at the scope and giving each other a break from the relentless wind.
Nothing of any enlightenment happens these first sessions. The eagles pretty much sit on the nest for hours and occasionally a nest exchange occurs for one to take a similar break from the relentless wind. The novelty of our living out by the nest is over. Fewer people wander by.
Our days are becoming routine, with the exception of some of the dump discoveries that Anna and I drag home. We have decided not to have campfires after a rare few we attempted. This was due to the weirdness of the surrounding landscape and it only intensified after the fire illuminated the half burnt babydoll face staring over at us through the fire.
We sit at nightfall watching the stars come out and tonight is one for the books. As we finish dinner and are packing up the dishes and food stuffs, a strange, deep growling, rumble washes over the camp. We both freeze and look up at each other. This is the second time we have both looked into each other’s eyes and without a word, we knew the thought running through both of our brains. I grab the spotlight that hooks into the cigarette lighter while Anna climbs up on top of Misspickle. I join her and start directing the light towards the sound which is growing closer. Picture this – two white women sitting on top of a Volkswagen camper with a spotlight searching the under and upper brush in what really is some of the last real wild space in the southwest on Apache land.
The story told us by the young teens, which one of them swore was true, (because his mom witnessed it and she was a public servant for the tribe), was that of a mysterious being lived in the river. The story goes that on a moonless night the body of a man was found a hundred feet away from the water, soaking wet, with no tracks leading to or from the edge of the water. An evil spirit that lived in the river that only comes out at night. Tonight the story is gaining a little credence as the grumbling comes closer with the added sound of bushes being crushed in the advance. How big was this creature? We have no weapons of any kind, not even rocks, as the site around us was talcum powder sand.
The light picks up movement from multiple directions with the sound coming from straight ahead. Coyotes and wolves hunt in packs but the sound is not one I have ever heard come forth from a coyote and the closest wolves are several hundred miles away in the white mountains and New Mexico.The last possibility is bear. But again, that many? hunting together?
What really took only five minutes held us in a grave state of confusion and fear for what seemed hours, our hearts beating, our adrenaline off the charts. Then they, not it, came bursting through the brush.
Our second big laugh ensued. We were being stampeded by a herd of wild cattle! Miss Pickle was parked right in their trail. Behind the cows, looking a bit desert worn, came the biggest bull I have ever seen and he was driving them on with his otherworldly aria.
With a sigh of exhausted relief, we had a toast for our first session and the next day we packed our gear for a four day break, feeling that we might yet survive this experience.
keep the adventure alive 