Sergeant's Sister

By August Legends

What better subject for a book than bald eagles? I want to tell you about a family of special eagles. These eagles started life on a nuclear cooling tower and had access to food that made them bigger, stronger, and faster. Eagles are opportunists by nature; they took what they wanted until they were connected to the only thing in nature that they could not touch, the ultimate prey. The Sergeant's Sister was too good a provider for her own good. How far can they go before man learns how far they have gone?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781645316602

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Copyright © 2020 August Legends

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64531-658-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64531-660-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Our Montana

The Eagles Scream

By the Light of the Moon

The Screaming Eagles

Meth-odd to Your Madness

Larissa

Bridge of the Gods

Free Enterprise

Puppy Chow

Sick—and Tired of it

God’s Gift to Men

Under the Influence

Star Border

Having Reservations

Fueling the Fire

Establishing Boundaries

Out of the Blue

Down by the Riverside

Flash

Home is Where the Heart Is

Now You’re Gone

The Belly of the Whale

Homecoming Queen

About Time

Our Montana

My Dad always thought of himself as an outdoorsman and a survivor. In California, we used to camp at different sloughs along the Sacramento River to fish at night and the basic provender for the trips was beer, lots of beer. I, being 14 at the time, and not in competition with him for this staple, had to be sure there was at least a package or two of hot dogs and buns, and some chips for me and the four little kids to eat while Dad drank himself stupid.

We had Coleman gas lanterns, so we would be able to see well enough to be safe. At that time, you had to buy gallon cans of Coleman Lantern Fuel, or white gas, at $4.99 a gallon, to keep them burning and by law they had to be in red containers clearly marked as ‘GAS.’ The lead additive in regular gas plugged up he lanterns. Of course, if you needed lots of beer you wanted to spend as little as possible on everything but beer. Premium gasoline, basically white gas, or unleaded gas, was on sale at the pumps for around two bits a gallon, against five or so bucks for a gallon of Coleman fuel.

Back then, glass gallon jugs were commonly used for milk and everyone had those jugs just lying around most of the time. With screw—on metal caps those jugs were handy for all kinds of liquid storage. We had a jug or two of water and maybe some Kool-Aid and of course there was a cheap jug we labeled as ‘GAS’ for the lanterns.

We usually got out of the house later in the day because Dad didn’t get drunk enough, early enough, to get a bug up his ass to go on one of these outings until after dinner. After shopping, fueling up and driving from Irvington, California to the Sacramento River we frequently arrived after sunset. Me and the kids would run around and collect firewood in the headlight beams and then I’d proceed to get the fire going. I was a pretty good fire starter; of course, I cheated, there was a frigging’ gallon of white gas just sitting there waiting to start a fire.

By then the kids were hungry and I would go cut sticks for them to roast hot dogs and marshmallows with. T-bones wouldn’t have tasted any better and the kids were seated for an hour or so. Somewhere in the middle of all of that confusion I had fishing poles set up and the kids were enjoying watching them in anticipation of the fish biting. They had the annoying habit of playing with the poles until their lines were reeled in most of the distance to the shore or until the hook was hidden in moss and debris.

I would sneak off when the kids were distracted and hide over the edge of the embankments along the sloughs. Once there I could crawl further away or closer to them, unseen. With the gas lanterns and a fire as the only source of light you could be completely hidden, in plain sight, fifty yards from the fire. They wouldn’t notice I was missing until I’d throw a rock into the water or make unusual noises. The kids would cautiously move a few yards from the lamp, and/or the fire light and I would skulk as close as possible in an effort to catch one of them off guard and scare the be—Jesus out of them. Their screams could be heard for miles across the water and so could their laughter.

The highlight of one fishing trip was when a little grass on the edge of the campfire started burning. Dad reached for the jug of water to quench the fire, which he could have quenched with his foot. When the liquid hit the flame the jug in his hand exploded splashing gas all over his sleeve and arm. We dipped him in the creek (Ok, so we threw him in! He was on fire for Christs’ sake!) really quick but he was still burned pretty bad. He required medical attention although the real trauma was that he was unable to continue drinking beer in the hospital.

One winter in Montana we went on a camping trip and had the use of a dilapidated cabin with a good, solid roof, clear back in the middle of nowhere. Someone came up with a chainsaw and I cut enough wood to last most of the winter, although we would only be there for a few days. We had enough food to keep us comfortable and enough beer to keep Dad uncomfortable. In a situation like that we’re talking about a case and a half a day. We weren’t oversupplied with blankets but as long as the fire was maintained it was cozy indoors. We were supposed to take turns keeping the fire stoked but it was usually up to the earliest riser, which was the guy that had to piss anyway. Well guess who happened to be taking pisses all night long: Yeah! You guessed it, the beer drinker.

I woke up before sunrise and it was getting a fairly good chill on in the cabin. I asked Dad if he would throw some wood on the fire while he was up and he grunted acquiescence. I awoke later to learn the fire had gone out, as it hadn’t been taken care of. I hollered until Dad woke up and I told him it was his turn to build the damned fire, he let go out. He grumbled some more but stayed in bed. One of the kids got cold earlier in the night and he had moved to Dads’ bed with a couple of extra blankets; they were still toasty, blessed with the extra bedding. I tried to coerce him into fixing the fire and told him that it was warmer outside than it was inside of the cabin.

He said, Well Stupid, open the friggin’ door!

On our way home we drove through Yellowstone and all in all it was a pretty good day for viewing animals.

We saw eleven wolves in the Lamar valley, from what we later learned was a pack of twenty three. They were chasing a small herd of elk off of the ridge above us, on the right side of the road. Some of the elk went behind the ridge, while more ran right and left, but one cow headed at an angle down the mountain and out in front of us. There was a large black wolf that took on the task of killing her by himself.

She was running farther from the timber by the second and the wolf was inches from her heels. The elk ran up a slight incline and disappeared over the top where we were certain she had met her demise. Then seconds later she came back around the rise and was headed straight for us, and down the slope. The wolf hadn’t lost any footage, but the elk was still just out of reach. She sensed that the wolf was gaining and made a quick dodge downhill at the same second the wolf lunged for her. The wolf missed so the elk gained precious feet in her lead. Finally, she reached the road fifty yards in front of our vehicle and hit the frozen pavement with zero traction.

She slid halfway across the roadway with all four legs doing the splits before gaining her balance, then she bailed out over the edge of the road and landed in the river. She went a few steps away from the bank and turned to thumb her nose at the frustrated wolf.

We knew that was the most excitement we were likely see for the rest of the year, so we headed out of the park. We hadn’t traveled a quarter of a mile when an eagle glided across our path, as we rounded a curve in the same river. The eagle was in a dive and we witnessed the close encounter of the worst kind as the fish he was aimed for turned sharp and grabbed for a minnow as it left the water with a splash. The eagle missed his quarry but kept going for maybe an eighth of a mile downstream. It then turned back, aligning his glide path with the fish which was still feeding close to the surface: That was another first.

When the fish caught the 6-inch minnow, he had to figure out how to swallow it. Well, he opened wide and flipped his tail as fast as he could, swimming into the current. He managed to wash the minnow down a couple more inches. These fish have kind of a jointed, bony tongue that slides forward and back; and it is covered with teeth pointing back into the mouth. The fish would slide the toothy tongue back in his mouth and push the food down as well.

All the while this is going on, the eagle lined up with his quarry, dropped at a steep angle in the last hundred feet then skimmed just above the water. At the last second, he plunged into the water with both sets of talons open wide, reaching forward and submerged with the fish in a death grip.

It was several seconds later, while he was out of sight, below the surface. Then the water exploded as just the tips of his wing feathers broke the surface; then the eagles head came up and he gulped great breaths of oxygen. The fish was thrashing wildly and pulled the eagle under the water again. After a brief struggle, the eagle surfaced with the fish in tow and headed for the shore. It was swimming with its’ wings, taking huge flaps in the water to pull them along. The wings weren’t too efficient for swimming, but he was moving the fish at a pretty good clip considering he was in the fish’s element. The eagle reached a beaver slide and released the fish with one set of talons while he used the free leg to hop and pull himself and the fish ashore. The eagle was still walking using its wings like crutches until it could get cleaned up enough to fly.

The eagle devoured the lion’s share of the meal before the Ravens showed up and he left them to clean up the scraps.

Winters in Montana can cause the deaths of thousands of animals from the ravages of the weather or from starvation. As I grew older, I used to travel around the state and see herds of deer and elk pawing their way through snow a foot or two deep for an occasional bite of grass that had almost no nourishment, compared to the same grass in the springtime. When the snow gets crusted from freeze, thaw temperatures, the animals can expend more energy getting to the food than that meager supply of food they reach will ever replace. It’s almost a zero gain proposition.

The smaller animals will sometimes fare no better but for the most part they have advantages over their larger neighbors. Rabbits feed on weeds and grasses that can grow tall enough to be seen above the snow for easy access and more of the same grasses grow around the bases of bushes, willows, fallen trees or sage brush, which are very easy to get to. The smaller animals also burrow under the snow, below the crust, and feed at ground level. Add that to the advantage they have of being protected from most predators in their hidden habitat by that same crusted snow.

During the summer, sagebrush grows like umbrellas to form tiny hot houses. As the summer progresses, edible grasses flourish in the protected cover where cattle can’t feed, that helps creates a reserve of food for winter foragers.

Which reminds me; a few years back in the Bernice Creek area of Montana, I ran into a Forest Service crew cutting and burning sage brush in August, in a critical winter habitat for elk and deer, near Carlson’s Mountain and Bernice Creek. When asked what they were doing, the Supervisor readily informed me that they were clearing the sagebrush to give the elk access to more food in the winter. I invited him and the crew to look at something with me. I showed them the open area between the ravaged sagebrush clumps and asked what they saw. It was unanimous; they all saw nothing. I agreed, there was nothing there; the cattle had already eaten the available grasses in July. I told them to look under every clump of sagebrush you haven’t destroyed, and you can see abundant grasses. By destroying the covering vegetation, you are assuring that the cattle will eat everything the elk need to live. Come winter there will be even more of nothing for the elk to eat. YES! They continued to cut and burn the sagebrush; they were following orders of someone who didn’t have the common sense to make that call.

The brush cover can provide an abundance of food for deer and elk because the sagebrush grows high and thick enough to hold back the snow. When the snow gets deeper, the suns’ rays, which will get as low as 22 degrees above the Montana horizon in the winter, can shine under the branches of the sage brush, melting the snow and exposing more of the grasses. An additional greenhouse effect is caused by the sun reflecting off the snow, and the surrounding vegetation, to melt more snow around the sagebrush. In the middle of winter, green grasses can even be found under sagebrush that isn’t available to the grazers anywhere else.

On a late winter walk I witnessed an unexpected scene of Mother Nature taking care of her own. There were tracks and pawed out pits in the heavy snow where elk had been fighting the elements in an effort to stave off starvation. Most of the pits were pawed out around clumps of sage brush where there was ample food available. They were also feeding on the sunny, south facing slopes where the snow melting sunshine would be concentrated. Part way through the winter the sunlight can be concentrated enough to allow green grass to grow in those sunny spots, too. The elk were providing a future supply of food for themselves and others by clearing more snow in the areas where the sun could help grow more food for later foraging. Many other smaller animals took advantage of this exposed food and would also benefit from the efforts the elk put out. They were even helping the local carnivores by exposing the mice, rabbits, and such while they fed in the openings provided.

Next to the hillside being explored, was a draw forming a natural watershed which provided a small creek where the clumps of willows and bushes thrived. Several sets of moose tracks meandered through the willows and the disturbed ends of the branches showed where the moose had fed on that provender through-out the area that winter. Also noticeable were smaller Aspen like trees having a whitish colored bark, with lots of flaking patches of darker blemishes on the branches. These branches were loaded with what I assumed were seed clusters.

These clusters looked like partially nude pussy willows or malnourished caterpillars about an inch or more long but smaller than a pencil around.

What brought my attention to these trees and their odd little seed clusters, were a dozen or more birds; Quails, that were under the branches. These Quails were leaping, I mean straight up into the air, as they flapped their wings and plucked the clusters from the branches and then the Quail dropped back to the ground. There they proceeded to eat the prizes they had so easily obtained. The snow was covered with the scraps from their meals for several feet around the trees; the tracks of the birds tramping the snow added to the disturbance. This was going on for as far as I could see along the drainage with leaping Quail enjoying their lunch. I couldn’t see where any other species of bird had been taking advantage of this food supply. The food from just this source was enough to carry thousands of these birds through the Montana winters fat and sassy. Kind of gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling to know they had been provided for.

That brought to mind another time I had been lucky enough to witness a feeding anomaly, this time with Blue Jays. I would climb a mountain into good hunting areas in the early afternoon and then wait out the animals while they napped. I’d find a warm, sunny spot where I could kick back and sleep until the cooling, evening air woke me up. Then I would get up and hunt my way down the mountain with the animals below me. They rarely look back as they feed down the mountains and head for water. The biggest advantage to this approach is that they can’t hear worth a hoot if you are above them.

So anyway, I went to a likely spot and ended up under a large juniper tree, with some jillion dark purple berries so thick they made the tree look more blue than green. Yes, blue, the combined mass of purple berries made the green trees look blue.

I hadn’t been there long enough to fall asleep when I heard the damnedest commotion. I carefully opened my eyes and hundreds of Blue Jays, with wings fluttering loudly, at a cats’ purr cadence, landed in the same tree I had picked for my nap. They kept coming for what had to have been minutes until the greenish blue tree was so covered with the Jays it was now more gray than green or blue. The birds had been gorging themselves earlier to the point they were leaving purple droppings all over the area, including on my clothing. Many of the birds were treading air, hovering around the juniper until they could find a spot to alight, while others broke from feeding and started flying off to a different juniper.

Those birds, from the second they landed, started eating the juniper berries ravenously, like hungry dogs, and almost stripped the tree in minutes. Then they all, as if on cue, began flying away by the hundreds. A couple minutes later I was alone while they were all feeding in another nearby tree, sixty or seventy feet away.

Naturally I had to taste the berries to see what the attraction was. They tasted like very bitter turpentine. I can only imagine that they had to serve some medicinal purpose for the birds because that could not be real food. Maybe it had something to do with the blue coloration of the Jays. Then again it could have provided a type of antifreeze to protect them from the extreme cold weather, who knows? When I looked it up there are a lot of uses for the berries in food, medicines and flavorings.

So back to my walk; out of nowhere it started to snow so heavily I couldn’t see twenty feet in any direction. There were flakes coming down as big as fifty cent pieces and thick enough that you could drink them. I leaned against the biggest clump of willows I could find, close enough to make a difference in how wet I got. I pulled my hoody up enough to shut out the snow and I was pretty comfortable in my shelter. It seemed like forever, though it was only fifteen minutes or so until the storm blew over.

I no more than got my hoody cleaned off and had uncovered my head when I bumped a branch and dislodged a pile of fresh snow on my head and down my neck. I cried foul and had to take my coat and shirt off before I could remove the snow from me, down my back and then, with the help of gravity, my pants; before I could get dried off. I got dressed again and kicked the bush, which alarmed a rabbit, that bolted right between my legs. It took the snowshoe rabbit about two seconds to be leaping at about thirty-five miles per hour. It had to be covering twenty feet in a single bound.

I followed it for a block or two and I could see the critter was slowing down. I knew that because he was down to about ten, then five feet, with each leap. He finally got it down to relaxed little hops and occasionally he would stop and nibble the top off of a weed or two.

I hadn’t seen him, but then I was lined up with a large, heavily branched fir tree that almost swept the ground, it was impossible to see through the branches. His tracks disappeared under the fir, so I figured that was the end of his flight. I got closer to the tree and started around it when I heard a high pitched, quavering scream and I knew immediately it was that of a rabbit in deathly peril. It was so shrill that it set up palpable reverberations in the cold air. Then before the first sound was gone, I heard a second scream, which was every bit as loud and clear, although different, than the first.

This was the boast of conquest, of triumph over some hapless creature. Something remarkably lower on the food chain, a bottom link, predator to nothing but the lesser flora, who had met his Goliath and perished. I made my way around the tree slowly; of a sudden I heard a loud Whoosh, Whoosh, when I could see past it but there was nothing to be seen. I stood there watching, waiting, listening but the Ka thump, Ka thump of my heart, echoing through my bones and muscles, was the only sound to reach my ears. The missing tracks came out of the other side of the fir tree and straight across a large opening. I followed those tracks most of the way through the opening when suddenly they just disappeared.

When you follow a trail, or track, it is wise that you don’t walk on those tracks because you will obliterate the trail you need to guide you. If you walk beside the trail it will remain, so you could go back to see if you got mixed up and are on the wrong trail. When the trail you’re following gets mixed up with other tracks you need to go back and look for something different about the tracks you want to follow. A lot of deer and elk have different length toes that might be on a different foot; left front, right rear, longer on the inside or outside and so forth. If you are following an animal and the outside toe is longer on the right front foot you know you can ignore a set of tracks with no long toes. So anyway, I lost the trail but after checking I found that I really didn’t lose the trail as much as it had disappeared: It wasn’t there anymore.

Then I went back for a dozen feet or so and followed the trail again but there was no mistake, the trail went no further; and here were no other trails in the immediate area. I leaned closer to the ground and studied the spot. I was rocking from side to side looking for a change in the light or shadows when I happened to look straight down into a tiny hole. I could see a droplet of blood a couple inches deep in the snow. It was in screaming contrast to the fresh snow but had sunk deep enough to be invisible unless you were directly above it. Then I noticed another drop of blood slightly ahead of the first; a couple feet beyond those I scouted out then found a third and final drop.

I stood up and collected my thoughts; as I looked around and almost missed the next clue. There to the right side of the tracks was the imprint of feathers impressed in the fresh snow; there was no shadow to outline the impression because the sun was almost directly overhead. It looked like someone or something had struck the snow with an open fan and left the perfect impression of the feathers that made it up. Then I looked to the left and sure enough there was a second imprint of feathers, both impressions had been made by wings belonging to the same bird that seemed rather large.

I was curious to learn for myself how far an eagles wings really spread. I am a carpenter by trade, so I measure a lot of things. My hand will span, from the tip of the thumb to the tip of the little finger, 8 inches and my arms tip to tip 74-1/4 inches. From my nose to either middle fingertip is 37 inches. I wear a size 10-1/2 but my shoes are 12 inches long. And my…oh, excuse me, but you can see my point.

I aligned myself up with the outer end of the imprint and scratched a line in the snow far enough away from the wing markings that I could measure between my marks instead of over the pattern I wished to preserve. Keeping that in mind, I lay in the snow so that the tips of my fingers on one hand were even with the first line I had drawn. I marked the snow clearly on the other side of my snow angel and got up to check the results. I confirmed that mine was short of the eagle’s span. I added a hand span or 8 inches to the first measurement, but I was still short. I moved around and lined my foot up with the feather imprint and there was a difference of about one inch, mine being the longest. The eagle had a wingspan of almost exactly 85-1/4 inches; over 7 feet from tip to tip. Now I would have liked to verify if it were a bald eagle or a golden eagle, but I could only leave that to conjecture because there was nothing to confirm the choice either way.

As I contemplated the sight and thought of different details, I saw that there were more of the same wing imprints several feet ahead of the first. I moved closer and saw that the second impressions were softer, not as deep in the snow as the first were. I didn’t disturb anything, for fear of losing some important information.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for at first but then it began to dawn on me; I knew the original set of imprints were deeper in the snow. At first thought I figured the eagle was closer to the ground, when he grabbed the rabbit and left, so the impressions were deeper. The problem was that didn’t answer all the questions I was dwelling on in my mind. As I mulled this over, I realized the depth of the wing prints had more to do with weight than altitude or proximity.

Then I felt my muscles contracting as I visualized that I was flying and trying to push myself into the air on flat ground. I wouldn’t only have to use air to lift off, I would need to push on something more substantial.

I could see that there was nothing keeping the eagle from pushing on the snow, or the ground for that matter, to get their initial lift. It would be like me getting up from the prone position by spreading my arms and pushing myself up. Lift could be increased exponentially by pushing on the ground instead of just the air, for the first couple of wing beats. In that manner, the bird could increase his lifting capacity and rise into the air that much sooner.

How many of us have seen an eagle, or an osprey, catch a fish and end up under water? They burst out from below and go across the top of the water flapping as hard as possible to gain altitude. They sometimes take several thrusts before they are out of the water and flying in the air.

I recalled a time a friend of mine, Micky, and I went hunting. During the course of the day, he shot a deer next to an old road that wasn’t more than a double trail: A couple ruts in the grass. He returned to camp too late to mess with the deer that night. The following afternoon we drove back to retrieve the deer and found that birds had laid claim to the lion’s share of the kill.

I was driving past the kill site and discovered there were two eagles that had come to dinner. One was on a knoll about a dozen feet above the road, which took to wing at our approach. He turned and took a huge leap into the wind then turned a full 180 and rode the wind down and over my Suburban. He didn’t have enough altitude to go over the rig so he turned and flew over the hood.

The second eagle was so absorbed in the free meal that she didn’t know how close we were until I stopped beside her and got out of the Suburban. After a few aggressive screams and flapping of her wings, she started to hop up the knoll her mate had flown from, with flapping wings spread wide to boost her forward progress.

I stayed about five feet behind her as she kept looking over her shoulder to access the danger I posed. The 12-foot hill was probably fifty to sixty feet from the road to the top of the rise, as the eagle walked, before she would reach the summit.

To make better time she was hopping on both feet and then skipping or taking single steps. She was also pushing herself along with her wings against the brush and ground. There was a good stiff wind blowing across the flats that wasn’t noticeable in the draw. When she reached the top of the knoll, she opened her wings and hopped into the breeze. She didn’t fly forward but turned back sharp on me and rode the wind like a glider pilot. With a powerful thrust of her wings, she came straight back into my face. Her departure was not unlike a hobo catching a train. She matched her momentum with the wind and went along for the ride.

Then two things happened in the next second: First, I had to hit the dirt to keep from learning what an eagles kiss might feel like. Second, it was in that moment, seeing the fans in the snow, that I saw a mental picture of the initial flap of her wings as the eagle started flying. She, too, had pushed off from the ground, the literal earth, to get the necessary lift, because of being in such close quarters. Although I didn’t realize what had happened until I was reading the signs left by the other eagle which caught the rabbit years later.

I was satisfied that I had learned one of the things a bird like this could do to utilize its’ strengths and overcome its’ weaknesses.

The Eagles Scream

The female bald eagle had ranged miles beyond her normal haunts lately. It was getting more difficult for the eagles to hunt close to their nest sight because there were so many humans building in the Vancouver area and surrounding communities, they could find no solitude. The eagles frequently had to evade gunfire even though it was strictly illegal to harm or harass birds of prey. Problem is, it’s next to impossible to catch someone shooting at the birds, with millions of potential suspects around, without the proverbial smoking gun.

It was also getting difficult for the predators to locate smaller prey animals as the spring vegetation abounded helping to hide the smaller animals, living at these lower elevations.

This eagles’ spring hatchlings ate voraciously and the tiny morsel our female carried in one taloned foot would be only a few bites for a greedy chick. As she neared their nest site, she could see the male eagle, her lifelong mate, landing with a prize larger than normal, food for the hungry chicks.

Her entire life had been spent in competition against other predators, so she had no problem recognizing the snarling, snapping half grown coyote. As her mate landed on the nest, he maintained his long taloned grasp on the back and neck of the still living predator, turned prey. The coyote made futile attempts to reach the chicks to defend himself but could only watch as he was disemboweled in a matter of seconds. He was still alive, as the eaglets fought over the liver then ripped open the diaphragm; although mercifully beyond pain.

Then she casually watched the coyote’s angry eyes as the life-blood ebbed out of them. The chest cavity filled with blood and the birds shared a drink that was hard to come by in the top of a tree a hundred feet in the air. The larger female chick tore a long strip of meat from the diaphragm. She tipped her head back, with a flippant nod, and helped the morsel slide down into her gullet with jerky, gulping motions.

Soon the male parent squirmed to free his talons from the recently deceased coyote. He had ripped a few mouthfuls from the exposed flank before he engaged the younger male in a tug-of-war over a hind leg. The only thing the adult received for his efforts was the coyote’s hind foot, which he swallowed. Then he hopped once and with a sweep of massive wings, plunged several feet down beside the tower with an audible whoosh, whoosh and flew away.

The female eagle had circled in a holding pattern, while this drama played out. Then she swooped close over the nest and dropped the rabbit, leaving each chick to fend for itself and returned to the hunt. One each male and female eaglet watched with eyes larger than eagles were supposed to have as the female provider soared away. The females parting scream never reached the ground at the base of the Trojan Nuclear Power Plant near Rainier, Oregon, upon which the nest was built. The din of traffic on the highway below, however, easily carried up to the chicks.

The youngsters were finally getting usable flight feathers in anticipation of being airborne. The larger female chick was flying by spreading her wings into the strong updraft along the side of the tower. She would hop up a few inches and then just float stationary. If she started to lose her balance or control, she would simply reach down and grab something in the nest with sharp talons to steady herself. Her wings were still shaky, and her body wavered from side to side, but she was flying.

Some unusual occurrences, perhaps it was the minute gamma particles zipping through the genes of two generations of this family of eagles, which had finally accomplished Darwin’s gruesome expectations for survival of the fittest. There were genetic mutations that had already rendered them larger than any known eagles for millions of years. The eaglet’s wingspan had already approached that of their oversized mothers and they still showed promise of several more inches of growth. Their mother’s breast muscles bulged larger than those of an adult turkey and she had the flight strength half again that of a normal eagle. Talons too were oversized and were capable of spearing larger prey with the snapping retraction of heavy tendons and leg muscles to drive them deep, like the maw of a shark with stiletto teeth, through the vitals of unsuspecting prey.

The male parent, craving sustenance himself, noticed a flight of pigeons landing on a nearby roof and desired the easy meal. He silently swooped lower to align his point of attack with the stationary pigeons when an unseen guy wire caught him about midway on the left wing. He spun in a half turn and tumbled to the roof, rolled, then impacted the parapet wall on the side of the roof and startled the pigeons roosting there: They scattered like a bomb had gone off. The bone in the eagle’s wing didn’t break but a joint was hyper-extended which severely weaken the painful wing. He was too injured to fly home and that night’s rain had taken its’ toll on the weakened bird. The morning sun helped to warm and dry him somewhat. By late morning he tested his strength with tentative flaps of his wings. Then he hopped up on the parapet wall and dove recklessly over the edge. He fought the fall as hard as he could and finally started to level off while scant feet above the ground. He slowly gained altitude and made his way back to the perceived safety of the nest where he collapsed close to unconsciousness.

The smaller, male chick turned his head, tipping it first one way then the other, gawking while stretching his neck out in an effort to identify the object that had fallen into his nest. His parent, unfamiliar lying at such an awkward angle, had aroused his curiosity. It was the more aggressive female who pushed him aside and tore the first chunk from her fathers exposed throat. She had severed the jugular vein and mercifully, death was only seconds away. The male eaglet soon joined the fracas to still their parents’ violent convulsions as his wings flapped and he flopped around like a chicken with its’ head cut off. This morsel lasted into the following day when a work man below, Dan Hale, noticed one of the chicks as it returned to the nest after its’ maiden flight. For some reason, these eagles looked larger than any he had ever seen. He had seen two of these eagles in the air at the same time and one of those were noticeably larger; or smaller. That wasn’t his problem though; he just had to send them packing.

Management at the Trojan facility had waited since the nest builders had returned to set up housekeeping high atop the reactors cooling tower. These eagles had given them nothing but problems since last year when they built their nest on the cooling tower. The environmentalists obtained a court order that the eagles could not be molested in any way. It was ordered that no one could go within fifty feet of the nest. Then members of this group would maintain a constant presence around the tower to see that the eagles weren’t bothered when they returned to the sight of last year’s nesting.

The judge was caught off guard and signed the order to be effective for a predetermined one year of the signing date. The lawyers involved with the case made sure the court battle went on long enough to carry over into next year’s breeding season. Then the eagles would have smooth sailing for another year when they returned to the aerie to lay eggs. They not only came back but the eggs had already hatched, and the eaglets were learning to fly. The only thing good for the power company was that when the environmentalists tried to take the case back to court, the judge ruled they were attempting to duplicate an order that was already in effect. Furthermore, the eagles would already be out of the nest before the original order expired and there would be no eagles at the sight to protect.

The judge said protecting a pile of sticks wasn’t in anyone’s best interests. He also opined that the eagles were being exposed to the discharge of fumes from an active nuclear power facility, with undetermined results. He went on to say that a whole lot of eagles managed to find nesting sites for a few millions of years before we started to build them multibillion dollar home sights for a two dollar pile of sticks and rubble.

Finally, management at the nuclear power plant would take measures to assure there would be no third generation nests were built on this tower. Before the week was out the judge had signed an Order allowing the removal of the nest. Within a week of that date the birds were gone for the most part and Dan Hale had climbed to the top of the tower with a fireman’s pike pole lashed to his back. His orders were to remove any trace of the troublesome eagles and their nest.

The tower was a structural marvel. It rose 499 feet into the sky to create its’ own sunrise and sunset in the Columbia River Gorge. It was 385 feet across at the base and stood on a total of 88 towering legs, 42 inches square and 41 feet high. The tower resembled a stubby beer glass, inverted with the bottom removed and stood on those legs like a colossal insect. The structure was made of concrete and steel and weighted more than several aircraft carriers. Stairs circled the outside of the tower for maintenance access and the top of the tower was often out of sight where one could climb into the clouds.

At the top of this colossus, Dan had donned a safety harness and tied a twenty-foot safety line to the stair railing and walked carefully to the nest.

Far below stood Ernie Smith, Warden for the U.S. Department of Fish, Wildlife and Parks; Charlene Hurst, of the National Wildlife Federation; and Dr. Suzy Wong, Biology Professor from the University of Oregon. They were also joined by five employees from the Trojan facility, including Superintendent Rick Carson, to witness the removal.

Dan could see them from his perch looking like tiny cockroaches far below and smiled to himself. The smile was almost wiped off his face when the female, screaming eagle dove within scant inches of where he laid. He had prostrated himself to avoid the glistening talons aimed at his face before the eagle dove. To make matters worse, it had almost driven him over the edge of the tower. The eagle made several more attempts to eject the interloper before Dan finally drew the pistol, he carried for just such a contingency. He fired three shots of the blanks the pistol was loaded with, before the eagle finally flew away. Now Dan was pissed and tore into the shit encrusted branches and mud with a vengeance. This job was going to be a pain in the ass; the nest had to weigh most of a ton. Removing it with a sharp stick wasn’t the brightest idea out of the instruction manual.

Several hours later there was a pile of sticks and miscellaneous detritus large enough to fill a couple full sized pick-ups: All of which was scattered on the concrete below. Once the big chunks were no longer falling, Ernie and Suzy busied themselves examining specimens to see what specimen examiners see, occasionally being hit by the smaller, falling specimens. Fish and Game had ordered Ernie Smith to supervise the incineration of all the material from the nest sight. Meanwhile Suzy had been bending his ear for the past few hours about what the discovery of this family of over-sized eagles could mean to the field of ornithology. Ernie finally relented and told Suzy Wong he could not allow her to take any of the material with her, but they would bag and tag specimens of her choosing. He would warehouse the items they collected until she was able to obtain clearance to take those items to the university labs for analysis.

Charlene Hurst from the Wildlife Federation had given up her vigil after only a couple of hours, begging off because of a severe pain in the neck. Two of the tower employees had also opted to return to work along with Rick Carson. Rick asked to be advised when the task was completed. Dan Hale could see the remainder of his audience rubbing sore necks down below. He secretly wished the beggars’ heads would fall off; he had a few hundred pains of his own and still wasn’t half done with his task. Dan whistled to warn his audience, he was removing some larger chunk of material that could hurt if it hit anyone. He leaned over the edge of the tower to remove an accumulation of sticks encrusted with white, shit streaked mud, which was adhered to the wall. He ripped the clump loose with his pike and uncovered a palm-sized, white ball, partly visible but still encased in the remaining crud. Using the pike for a lever he poked and pried around the ball until he had exposed enough of the object to get a firm grip on it. He tore it loose and turned the soft-ball sized object over in his hand to determine what he was holding.

He jumped with a start, lost his balance, and plummeted over the edge of the tower. Dan fell straight down until he was at the end of his rope, for lack of a better term. The safety rope was actually tied off a dozen feet to the side of where Dan fell. Causing the taut rope to jerk across Dan’s face snapping his head back and made plastic surgery a strong possibility, if he survived this mishap to worry about it. The rope ripped his hardhat off along with half of the brow above his right eye; breaking his nose in the process. Then he was jerked violently toward the stairs where the rope was attached to the stair railing. He dropped further as he swung back underneath the steps until he felt the bone crushing impact of his head against steel. The hand grasping the glistening ball hit the steps at an awkward angle, broke two fingers: actually, several little carpal thingies and pulverized the white object he had gone to so much trouble to retrieve.

He impacted a sharp corner of one of the steps just above his left ear with violent force. His skull was ripped open from where the corner of the step entered; tearing the scalp and a chunk of his skull, the size of a hardball, back with it. The large bone fragment and several inches of scalp were draped over his left ear as he dangled from the end of the rope attached to the harness at the center of his chest. All the observers were looking up as the drama played out; they were frozen in fear as they watched all the violence that had been brought upon Dan in such a short amount of time. They saw the delicate pirouette of Dan’s solitary ballet as if in slow motion as it replayed in their minds. The observers let out a collective sigh of relief when they realized the rope had held and Dan wasn’t coming all the way to the bottom of the tower.

For several seconds, none of his gaping audience registered that Dan might have been injured. Ernie Smith, using his ever present pair of binoculars, took a closer look and voiced an alarm over the ever increasing, crimson cascade on the side of the tower, testimony to the severity of Dan’s injuries. The errant flap of scalp and bone gave the appearance of Dan’s head having been twisted askew by the sudden force of his mishap. Ernie considered the possibility of the rope being around Dan’s neck, but his slight spin showed Dan from a new angle and Ernie saw that his neck was clear of the rope.

Rick Carson who had recently been called back to his post contacted the 911 dispatcher at 13:13 hours and it was just nineteen minutes later that the Coast Guard chopper out of IL Waco lifted off, moving fast. Rick’s second call was to The Bitch. Kimberly Kathryn Sheehan had worked in the plant for four years. Every self-respecting stud that ever laid eyes on her had dreamed the dreams that the sight of her could bring.

She played, she laughed and she teased with all of them but