Redtail Tag

It swooped into my peripheral vision with no warning.  A dark streak that startled me out of the trance I sometimes find myself lulled into by the sound of the hay rake and the smell of the windrowed hay.  Suddenly my hypnotic routine of raking the field was transformed into a game of tag as the Redtail hawk darted after field mice scurrying to get away from the tires and rotating teeth of the farm equipment passing over head.

After an unsuccessful attempt to latch mouse with sharp talons, the hawk launched itself into the air, just seconds before my tractor would have blocked his takeoff.  No small bird, this hawk had my heart racing as I watched it soar to a nearby electric pole to watch my circling rounds with the rake.  His piercing eyes seemed to be watching me, and there were moments when I felt like I might be its prey if a mouse meal didn’t come soon.

While my mind told me that was far fetched and hawks avoid people and are not aggressive toward humans unless threatened, my senses made every nerve tingle when I passed below his lofty perch, expecting at any second to feel the rush of his wings and the sharp sting of his talons on the back of my neck. Too many fiction books of murder and mystery, I kept telling myself as the hawk seemed to gain courage with each pass of the tractor.

As I made the next round, my keen-eyed observer was no longer at his post.  I started searching the sky to see where this hunter might strike from next.  As I came around a bend in the field, I was startled when brown and white feathers leaped up from between the front tires and  a four foot wingspan slapped the air around us a bit more heavily than before.  The unfortunate mouse was clutched tightly by the hawk as he lifted upward and vanished out of sight.

I kept watching for the hawk to return as I finished the field and began to wonder if this was the same Redtail hawk that has kept my father and me company over the years as we work the fields on our home farm.  I had read that their lifespan sometimes reaches twenty years.

As a child, my fascination with birds of prey grew as I watched them circle high in the heavens, far above my horse and me as we spent hours traveling the countryside.  Silhouetted against the sunshine, I’d find my breath taken away by their beauty and majestic flight.  The rays of light made their red tail feathers glow against the sky's blue and white backdrop.  I began to learn the differences between the hawks that floated on air currents high in the sky, and those that darted between tree branches as my horse and I cut through the woods.

I read about Hawk Mountain in Berks County and the annual migration of eagles, hawks, vultures and falcons, and convinced my parents to make that migration to the mountain near Kempton each year to gaze at these creatures through binoculars.  With hundreds of other people, I sat on cold rocks with my thermos of hot chocolate for hours on end, hoping to have a chance to see an eagle fly through on its way south to another continent for its winter home.

The sun was almost setting on that chilly mountain top on one of our many visits, and my parents and I were about ready to give up our vigil, when a hush came over the crowd.  Everyone’s lenses turned in unison, as silently and stately, a bald eagle approached from the distance.  We stood transfixed as this national symbol seemed to show off his majestic presence to the final band of bird watchers on that cold, October evening.  He held his flight pattern to an eye-level elevation so we were looking straight at this regal eagle.

No one breathed or uttered a sound as he swept past in just a few moments, with feathers fluttering ever-so-slightly against the strong winds that carried him without a flap of his wings.  The sun was spotlighting his white head and tail feathers, striking against his dark brown body, and glinting off his golden beak, as both he and the sun began to disappear into the horizon.  This Kodak moment was indelibly captured by my mind and is pasted in my memory book of childhood highlights.

I borrowed Maurice Broun's book, Hawks Aloft, from our local library and read it cover to cover.  I was delighted to receive my own copy of this book as a gift from my daughter, Emilie, this summer to read again and remember his literary lessons that made an impact on me and the rest of the world long before Emilie was born..

Once targets of shotguns and rifles, Broun's advocacy resulted inbirds of prey being protected by law.  Misguided bounties haven’t been paid for their lifeless bodies for a half century.  The population of these feathered predators, almost decimated at one point in the mid-1900s, has rebounded so that they are no longer a rare sighting but a common occurrence.

Pennsylvania’s Rachel Carson helped to point out the effects of DDT on these birds when I was young.  The removal of this pesticide was controversial back then, and many disagreed on the need to protect this important part of Mother Nature’s food chain. As someone who appreciates the companionship of our Redtail hawk, and who has marveled at the magnificence of a eagle in flight, I am happy that farmers, hunters and other environmentalists allowed these birds to survive.  They keep the rodent numbers in check, along with other prey that sustains their fledgling families each spring.

As I was clipping an old pasture field, I watched as my Redtail companion flew away with a long snake dangling from his clutch.  It would be lunchtime for a nest of downy-feathered future hunters.  These hawks and their offspring may keep my daughter’s children company as they plow and plant and harvest the same fields where my father and I have watched our Redtail friends and have been watched by them in return.  It’s been a wonderful partnership as we chase small animals their way, and they chases away the monotony of farm work and give us a reason to look heavenward more often.

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