Off Hours: Walking in Time

By James C. Hess | Member

Technical writing embodies opportunity and embraces challenge—the opportunity to excel in communicating clear, concise, and complete information through structure and organization, and the challenge of demonstrating the value of such efforts.

But such pursuits come with stress, and the need for an outlet becomes an absolute.

Several years ago I was in a situation where success was commonplace. But the afterglow was short-lived because of those who failed to comprehend my worth.

Needing a reprieve, I consulted with a friend who offered an interesting proposal: Fresh air and physical exercise. All I had to do was carry a pair of binoculars and watch some birds.

Initially I declined. Bird-watching was for . . . older people. As I thought about it, though, I decided to do it, and excitement was mine when I was told which birds to look for: Aquila chrysaetos, the Golden Eagle.

The first trip to see the bird of prey was physically demanding. Before long I had sweat in my eyes and my heart was pounding. As I dropped onto a boulder to rest, a shadow passed overhead. I twisted around and watched as a Golden Eagle circled, the sound of the wind rushing through the wing tips.

For the next decade, I made pilgrimages to see the eagles and watched as they defied gravity by riding thermal currents. I smiled when a small white head was seen in the nest and was sadden when I learned the weak did not survive, recording it in a notebook that accompanied the binoculars and a camera.

At the height of my delight, I was informed my efforts were no longer needed.

Two months later I was contacted by a group who knew of my work and asked to resume my pursuits on their behalf, involving another nest at another location.

The first year at the new site one chick was born and successfully fledged. The second year saw two chicks, which survived to adulthood. The third year the experience changed dramatically.

As one year became the next, winter arrived, bringing snow. The trail I followed was buried, and the terrain seemed impassable. The temperature read zero. There was no wind, the sky was cloudless, and the whiteness of the snow suggested infinity.

After a mile’s worth of snowshoeing, I paused. A breeze from the mountains made desiccated yucca shiver, producing sounds like glass chimes.

Then something heavy beyond the rise crunched the snow. In the relative quiet the sound was amplified, and my pulse quickened. I took a dozen steps toward the rise and paused. The snow crunched again and a deep huffing followed. Common sense tried to get my attention, but insatiable curiosity won. Advancing a dozen steps at a time, and stopping to listen, I eventually reached the back side of the rise.

Over the years I have made an effort to read cautionary tales about self-styled outdoor types who failed to respect nature’s wrath and paid the ultimate price. As I considered my situation another huff was heard. I took a deep, quiet breath and resolved to proceed.

At the top of the rise there was fresh track in the snow, initially parallel to me, then perpendicular, leading away. I followed with it with my gaze and saw the cause.

Bison bison, the American Bison.

We stared at one another. Momentarily it resumed pushing at the snow to get at the grasses that protruded.

The land I stood on was once home to Native Americans. Evidence of their presence exists in teepee rings a few miles away. The land I was on was once home to pioneers who came for opportunity and sought challenge. Remains of their presence are found throughout the property—fallen fences of barbed wire and rotting cottonwood.

In this place, histories converged in the form of the great beast before me, its hairy pelt dark against the white snow.

I took a step toward it. The great head came up. I stopped, trying to recall if a bison would charge. One large eye glanced toward me as I reached for my camera. I took the shot.

It slowly raised and then lowered its head again, as if nodding in approval.

As it did a familiar cry in the sky, I looked up and saw the Golden Eagle. Experience has taught me that the appearance of the great bird indicates plans for the next generation are underway, that the future awaits all.