My shadow.
I didn’t really feel like riding. I was a bit stiff and had been on my feet all afternoon, so when I found out my cycling partner couldn’t join me, I was rather relieved. But the day was sunny and warm, something that was becoming more rare as autumn crept closer. I really should go.
“I’ll just take it easy; to the coulee and back,” I told myself, “I won’t do the hill.” So off I went against the wind.
At the 13 km mark, I arrived at the coulee with the steep hill leering at me from across the valley. I’d come this far poking along at a gentle pace, so why not bother to do the hill? I mean, I was here anyway. So what if it nearly killed me, I’d have the wind at my back on the way home.
I wrestled my way to the top breathing hard, and then something happened. Maybe it was the endorphine rush, but a little voice in my head suggested I go all the way to Kessler Hall (10 kms distant, into the wind). “Are you crazy?” I asked myself, “You said you were going to take it easy.” Actually, I was feeling amazingly good and I still had the promise of a tailwind for the return trip. Okay.
Wading Snipes.
This route is one of those between roads. There’s really nothing on the road itself, it’s just a way to get from here to there, so traffic is minimal at best, and now that it was evening, it was non-existant. I love cycling when it’s quiet like this. Nothing but the steady whir of the wheels, the in and out of breath. A hawk crying overhead and every slough and dugout a harbor for water birds. Cows peacefully grazing, and me gliding by drinking it all in.
View of Kessler Hall, the blue speck off the road to the right near the horizon; my turn around point.
Over the next rise, the view; my turn around point. The wind at my back and a deep satisfaction. I made it. Now for home still 25 kms away.
A hawk on a fence post.
On the way home I see a hawk on a fencepost. That’d make a nice picture. I stop and set down my bike thinking an approach on foot would be better.
Approaching the hawk.
It’s still warm and the wind has subsided to a gentle breeze. I meander my way indirectly towards the hawk as a grazing animal might. I cross the road to the opposite side as if uninterested in my quarry. Each time I approach, it is always sidelong with my gaze elsewhere, disfocused on my true interest.
Each time I pause, I snap a few more photos. If he flies away, I want to at least have something.
But he doesn’t fly. In fact, the more I linger, the more complacent he becomes about my presence. After crossing the road, towards him now, I dip into the ditch and begin to climb the steep bank. The grass rustles around my feet, and yet, the hawk is undisturbed. I angle my ascent away from him to a point along the fence.
Steadfast hawk.
I can hear the grasshoppers singing. The hawk lets out a cry. I’m 10 feet away and I scarcely want to breathe. The moment lingers.
A car approaches. The hawk stirs, empties himself, prepares for flight. I look to the horizon assuming a serene pose. The car rushes past and leaves us. I and the hawk remain.
I speak quietly to my new friend. He continues his intermittent calls. I mimic him; and he remains. I step closer still. I’m 6 feet from his magnificent beauty and he pays me no mind. He looks down as if to find an evening snack poking about the grass. He looks away and cries out. A far distant answer echos a reply. He lifts a foot and tucks it into his feathers.
Reposed we stand together. I have come to a place of magic and I do not want to leave. The time is growing later and I am still a long ways from home. I thank my companion for the privilege of his company and quietly leave.
As I coast by him, he maintains his watch.
I pass a deer in the ditch and several other hawks sitting on posts who are quick to fly at my passing. I cannot help wondering about my strange friend who welcomed my company and if I will ever meet him again.
Hawk closeup.
