The early years of a bald eagle’s life is spent in free and glorious exploration, winging its way across vast swaths of greater North America. Indeed, it is my belief that “free and glorious exploration” should be key components of all young creatures’ lives, avian and human alike.
—Tiberius Shaw, PhD
Early the next morning, we are all sitting in something called a Wisconsin Duck. It’s this weird vehicle that’s open on the sides and painted army green. The point is, it can go on land, and then drive right into the water and float. That’s what we’re about to do.
Ludmila says the main reason people used to come to the Wisconsin Dells was because of the Wisconsin River, which flows through a gorge near here, past some narrow cliffs. It was a good fishing and camping spot, so it got famous. The town grew and got really touristy. Nowadays, she says, most people don’t come for the river. They come for cotton candy, the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Museum, saltwater taffy, and especially for the waterparks, where you can get soaking wet, indoor and out, summer and winter, in every possible way.
I don’t like getting wet in any possible way. But later, after this Duck ride, which is for me (because they say that sometimes there are eagles on the river!), we are going to a waterpark for Joel and Jake. I’m trying not to think about it. I’m too busy trying not to feel sick from the smells of exhaust, along with a stinky rubbery poncho the lady next to me is wearing, on this hard bench seat.
The Duck rumbles along some bumpy side roads while the guide, who is also the driver, shouts stuff. I’m kind of excited, because I’ve never driven into a river before. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll see that eagle for Dad. I have my eyes peeled. I’m hyper-alert. I’m ready.
“Stop looking like such a dork,” says Joel.
I ignore him.
Our guide’s a big, solid old lady with short gray hair and lots of small earrings up and down her ears. She puts the engine in neutral, then shouts over the noise about what’s going to happen. Like we can’t already figure that out. “This boat you are sitting in,” she yells, “is an original amphibious unit from World War II. Prepare to be amazed, as this incredible vehicle is about to drive into the water!”
We’ve barely prepared our amazement when we lurch forward and kersplash, we’re floating, and the sound of the motor in the back goes from a grrrrr to bloop-bloop-bloop. I look at Davis and she looks at me. The lady in the stinky rubber poncho smiles—I quickly look down. She takes out her phone and twists this way and that to snap photos of the water. Some people are halfheartedly clapping. Why? The boat just did what it was supposed to do.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” says the tour guide, “we will head upriver for a leisurely ride.”
There are about twenty passengers, silent in the morning fog. Everyone’s eyes are on the tour guide.
“Folks, you are riding in a very special vehicle, created in 1942 by General Motors to navigate the harbors of European cities that had been totally obliterated, turned into rubble, in World War II. They needed a way for supplies to be brought from land to boat, and boat to land.”
“Thank goodness things like that don’t happen anymore, eh?” says the rubbery-smelling lady next to me.
I tell her, “But they do. A European city was obliterated in the 1990s. It was Sarajevo. I don’t know about whether they needed boats, though.”
“The vehicle you’re riding in today has a 115-horsepower Cummings diesel engine. The six-wheel drive, ten-speed transmission has a power transfer for water propulsion, and a tiller line connected to the rudder. In fact, if you would all turn around, you will notice that the construction of the Duck’s very special amphibious motor has been raised several inches to accommodate the new higher caliber . . .”
Yada yada yada. Everyone twists around obediently to look behind them at the motor—
Except me. I don’t turn around. My eyes are riveted dead straight ahead.
Right behind the tour guide’s left shoulder where no one else can notice it—because they’re all turned around looking at the engine—is a real, live, bald eagle. I am not kidding. I do not kid. He is there like a sign. Like a symbol. That symbol that he is. He is there for me, and for Dad.
I whisper to Dad, even though I know he can’t hear it: “He’s here! The eagle from our list! He came!”
He is perched on a pine branch overhanging the murky green water, a postage stamp come to life. He cocks his head, showing off his powerful golden beak and a piercing eye. He is a thousand times more fabulous-looking than any photo or drawing. I can see each individual feather overlapping down his velvety brown body. He bends to preen a feather on his shoulder. He looks like the Master of the Universe.
And still, no one sees. Because they are all too busy being interested in the horsepower of the gas engine from 1940 something whatever transmission speed whatever at the back of the boat. Unbelievable.
“The Duck can go fifty miles per hour on land, and six knots on water!” the tour guide exclaims.
“Ooh, uh-huh! Ah!” people say to the cloud of blue motor-smoke back there.
I try to get Jake’s attention, but I don’t want to unlock my eyes from the eagle. And Jake’s looking the other way. I am still the only one who has noticed.
Bald Eagle. CHECK!!!!
You know, it has to be said: bald eagles are not as noble as some people think. They’re kind of lazy and nasty, and would rather steal a fish than catch one themselves. They’ll eat carrion—that means dead animal meat, like roadkill. And they’ll even snack on garbage. They cheat and trick and bully other birds—so in the “appropriate US symbol” department, they come up dubious. In the “cool-looking” department, of course, they score big.
In the “Dad’s Someday Birds List” department, they’re a home run.
The eagle turns his head and glares right at me. Then, he lifts off the branch and disappears back into the woods. There is only the slight sound his wings make:
Luff.
And he is gone.
I would have thought I had dreamed it, if I didn’t see the heavy branch still bobbing up and down from where he was perched. I close my eyes and try to imprint his image on my brain, those thick yellow talons, that head! I want to sketch him later. What is it like to be as strong as that?
“You missed it! There was a bald eagle, right there!” I lean over and tell Davis when the tour lady stops talking.
“Uh-huh,” says Davis. She smiles at me like I just said “Nice weather we’re having.”
“No, really,” I try again. “He was right there! You were all turned around to see the motor.”
“As long as you’re happy, Charlie,” she says.
Sometimes my sister is infuriating.