The Scrutiny of Eagles, by Walt McLaughlin

It's a hot, midsummer day in Alaska. Excursion boats cruise up and down the Lynn Canal. An amphibious plane sweeps in a tight circle directly overhead. The skies are abuzz with activity: planes, eagles, gulls and ravens everywhere. I sit quietly in camp and watch the show while eating breakfast. Sweating beneath a scorching sun, I strip down to a t-shirt.

What to do today? Thinking that I could run into fishermen on the point on such a beautiful day, I make plans to go out there. That means dashing off one last letter to Judy. If I encounter people on the point, I'll ask them to mail the letters for me.

After writing the letter, I make a quick journal entry. Only then do I notice the small boat motoring to the mouth of the Endicott River. Fishermen? No, it's not that kind of boat. A few minutes later, a gunshot reverberates through the valley. It's immediately followed by more gunshots. The gulls near the mouth of the river scatter. Ravens escape upstream. The eagles around my camp look on with apprehension, all eyes seaward.

What are they shooting at? My bewilderment turns into anger as it occurs to me that they might be using the birds as targets. Are those stray shots that I hear ripping through the nearby bushes? The fools probably don't even know I'm here. Or maybe they just don't give a damn. Suddenly the gunfire stops and the boat motors away. My anger becomes shame when I notice the nearby eagles staring at me, making the connection.

Shrugging off the incident, I stuff a few essentials into the small bag slung over my shoulder and grab my fishing rod. I strip off my t-shirt and stuff it in the bag, as well. Then I hike to the point, daydreaming about an encounter with like-minded others out there – some ecologically sensitive, catch-and-release fishermen. Perhaps I should remove the raven feather dangling from the bandana that's wrapped around my forehead. Don't want them to think I'm some kind of nut.

Pressed deep into the sand next to the river, two distinct sets of bear tracks. Very fresh. I squat down for a better look. A mother and her cub have passed this way recently. Are there two cubs? The thought of encountering them sends a chill down my spine.

Reaching the point, I waste no time rigging up my rod. The water in front of me is boiling with salmon. They are considerably more active and numerous than they were the last time I was here. Can't help but wonder when they'll swim up the Endicott.

Two casts, nothing. A large fish strikes my lure shortly after a third cast. The line snaps when I tighten it. Another salmon takes a second lure a few minutes later and runs straight out to sea with it. I lose my tackle again. When a third fish strikes, I tug the line sideways. As a result the salmon runs the opposite direction, following the shoreline northward. I walk with it, tightening the drag just enough to wear down the fighter. By the time the salmon is tired, we're both a couple hundred yards up the coast from where we started. The waves bring the fish to shore ever so slowly.

Now what? A quick snapshot of the fish, then back into the water it goes. Unfortunately, the salmon turns belly-up the moment I release it. So standing knee-deep in the Lynn Canal, I resuscitate the fish by gently moving it back and forth underwater. It escapes my fingers in slow motion, swims ten yards away, then rolls onto its back again. Now it's just far enough off shore where I can't do anything.

I feel reckless and irresponsible for having overplayed the fish. An adolescent eagle swoops directly overhead, assuring me that nothing is wasted out here. All the same, I feel more like a murderer than a sportsman. I collapse my rod and quickly leave the scene of the crime.

I do not feign remorse, having thoroughly enjoyed the fight. Still I wonder, while crossing the coastal meadow, whether there is really any difference between me and those yahoos who shot up the place earlier today. I should have eaten the fish, at least. But no, that'd be an unacceptable risk considering all the bears in the neighborhood. Yeah, I did the right thing, putting the fish back in the water. All the same, I avoid making eye contact with eagles when I get back to camp.



An excerpt from "Arguing With the Wind " – a narrative about my two-week sojourn alone in the wilds of Southeast Alaska.