Excerpts From The Life Of A Logging Camp Kid

Episode Four: The Great Bald Eagle; Three Ways

Eagles are seagulls with a good hairdo.
Douglas Coupland

The Bald Eagle. America's national animal. I have spent many a ferry trip up Alaska's Inside Passage, only to feel the ship tip sideways as a horde of tourists rush to the railings to wax poetic in their exclamations over just spying the almost mythical creature. Regal. Dominant. Majestic. These are common adjectives used to describe the great raptor. I, due to my Alaskan upbringing, have a different perspective when it comes to our national bird.

Pet Control Extraordinaire: There were no animal control problems when it came to life forms under twenty-five pounds in any of the Alaskan towns that I lived in. Bald Eagles are especially fond of cats and dachshunds. In fact, I would be willing to bet that they would choose a tabby over any species of fish. Perhaps plucking the fur from Whiskers is some sort of sick Darwinian revenge for the act of poultry plucking that we humans engage in. One never knows what goes through the minds of animals.

An example of a bald eagle's pet control efficiency occurred in a trailer court that we had to dwell in on Prince of Wales Island in Southeast Alaska. Housing was scarce on the island, especially in the town of Craig, and all my parents could find for us to live in was a twenty-five year old travel trailer with a twelve by sixteen wannigan [1] attached. Our neighbor across the street had an assortment of felines, but the management of the trailer park never had to tell her to keep the population down. It seemed like every time I opened our front door to step outside that two toddler sized raptors were enjoying a cat buffet.

Power Line Integrity Inspector: This particular part of my remembrances brings me no joy. My grandfather was a lineman for the local power company, and one of his most cherished pictures contained four grown men holding up a female bald eagle. Her wingspan measured ten feet from tip to tip, and her size dwarfed the four not small men suspending her. The picture was a tad morbid because she was as dead as the power line that she had smacked into as she dove toward the ocean for a tasty bit of fish product. One time I kicked open the back door of my grandparent's trailer only to stumble upon the electric-frozen remains of a tiny bald eagle. His wingspan only appeared to be about four feet, and he even had a chunk of salmon clutched between his talons. I knew better than to touch him however, and rushed in to have Grandma call our local tribal representative. The feathers of that majestic bird belonged only to the Native Americans that inhabited the land, as was their sacred right.

Highway Patrol Bird: In our logging camp we had thirty-five miles of sandstone road. It was as hard as stone when it was dry, which was about 2 days a year. The rest of the time it was the consistency of wet concrete mixed with grape jelly; plus a dash of gelatin thrown in. We also had thirty plus miles of pristine black sand beach. There were no police; no rules at all, and most weekends and summer days could find many of the camp's inhabitants ripping around on various forms of ATV's. For some reason there was a surplus of three-wheeler ATV's. An even stranger coincidence is that none of them had operable brakes. Oddly enough, that fact never stopped us from riding around at break neck speeds, often without any form of safety gear.

One day we were flying down a chunk of our black sand beach in one of the available Suburbans, I believe we were going around fifty miles per hour, and to the side of us flew Kevin. He was driving the Orange Crapper, a three-wheeler that totally deserved that name, as we had to burn the carbon off of it's spark plug to even get it started most of the time. Kevin had the throttle buried and was swerving too and fro beside of the suburban as we hollered out the window with a prodigious amount of encouragement and a fair bit of insults. For us, seeing an eagle was like someone from Down South seeing a robin, crow, or seagull; boring and common. So when a flock of them started flying parallel to us, we didn't get too alarmed. Thankfully for Kevin, that day he was wearing a helmet. I think it was a dare.

Apparently, Uncle Sam's majestic squadron did not like Kevin's bearing or demeanor, and no less than six of the giant birds suddenly swarmed him scratching and screeching at his terrified form. The helmet was a sparkly purple one from the nineteen eighties with some sort of roaring feline on the side. Maybe the eagles didn't like their ancient enemy on their patch of sand. John hit the brakes and as we skidded to a sideways stop I said a silent prayer for Kevin to be delivered from his raptor judgment. The only thing louder than the screams of the eagles was Kevin's terrified bleating. The Crapper was at maximum speed; so he changed tactics. He frantically downshifted and started swerving erratically. This did not dissuade the eagles, in fact they began tearing at Kevin with a much greater flourish. I was starting to wonder if they were going to join forces and remove him from our presence for good, when as suddenly as the attack began it ended. The sanctity of Kevin's underwear cleanliness had ended as well.

Now that I think of it, a diverse nation such as America could have picked no finer national symbol.

[1] A wannigan is an addition to one's abode. Typically they are not large in square footage and most have a loft. They are usually small in size, multiply like rabbits, and are often constructed out of rough cut lumber. This lumber was most likely procured from your buddy's saw mill in trade for some smoked salmon and a case of beer.