A Congregation of Eagles

My Dad had a thing about eagles. Those who knew him might say that's an understatement.

Our town, on the Illinois River, is located in the middle of a primary Bald Eagle winter nesting area, although most residents didn't know that until my Dad came along. He began watching, and admiring, the eagles during the first winter he lived there. His fascination grew until soon he was acknowledged as the local "expert" on the magnificent birds.

He began counting the eagles, on his own, and kept scrupulous records of numbers and dates. Starting in September, every Wednesday morning at dawn he would watch the flyway between roost and river, counting the adults and immatures as they came off the nests to feed. He joined the National Bald Eagle Foundation and other preservation groups as a way to learn more about eagles. Soon he was reporting his count findings to the Audubon Society for inclusion in their national database. He recruited others in the community to assist him. Often he would take friends and visitors out to "see the eagles" along the flyway, but he was very protective of the roost itself. Only trusted friends and family were invited up into the hills to actually see the nests. Even Dad would not go there when hatchlings were present, for fear of spooking the adult birds.

After my mother died, Dad met his second wife at a Bald Eagle Conference in Minnesota. Their friends, knowing how they met, showered them with eagle-related wedding gifts--plaques, pictures, woodcarvings, etc.

In March, five months before he died, he got an extraordinary phone call. "Charlie, I just saw the darndest thing. There are about 500 eagles sitting out on the ice on Billsbach Slough. You can see 'em from the road." Dad had never counted more than 80 or so, even at the peak of the season. There were other roosts in the area, of course, and perhaps they had gathered to begin the migration North. I'm reluctant to assign any spiritual or symbolic reason for this gathering, and I'm certainly not saying they came for a final farewell, even though something inside me wants to believe that. But, at the very least, this congregation was a testament to the conservation efforts of Dad and others; and I'm grateful that he lived to see the American Bald Eagle come off the endangered species list.

A few days after his funeral, I went out to the cemetery, just to meditate and to be close to Mom and Dad. A car pulled up, and a young man got out. "Did you know Charlie?" he asked. "I'm his son" I replied. "Hi, I'm Dan and I live just up the road," he said. "I saw Charlie's truck pull in, and I've got something I need to tell you."

"I liked your Dad...a lot. He always treated me more like a friend than just some kid. We used to go count eagles in the winter. Once he took me up to see the nests, close-up, and I found an eagle feather. He asked if I was going to keep it. He said he didn't mind because he knew I hadn't hurt an eagle to get it, but that I should know it was illegal to possess it. I kept that feather anyway, hidden in a drawer, for many years. I came back after the funeral, when no one was around, and I brought it with me. I don't want too many people to know this, 'cause I might get in trouble, but I left that feather down in the grave for your dad. I hope that's OK with the family."

I could do nothing more than nod as the tears welled up in my eyes. But I can answer him now, on behalf of the family. "Yes, Dan, that's more than OK. Thank you, and God bless you..."