Day 281

Golden eagle with handler.

10 eleven-year old children and their teacher, all tired, smelly, sitting on the long Chewonki porch, waiting to get on the bus to go home to their families, after two and a half days of camping, of rain, rain and more rain, of arguing, of learning, of singing,of cooking, of carrying water, of living in close proximity to one another in tents, a little tired of one another, quiet for once, waiting.

One of the liveliest kids suddenly disappears down the other end of the porch, and two others follow.  The weary teacher gets up to go and retrieve the errant trio, only to see what they have been attracted to, an amazing bird, a huge golden eagle, sitting on the arm of his handler/keeper.  She rushes back for her camera, telling the others to follow her, and they all come alive to see this sight.  They all ask intelligent questions and listen respectfully for the answers.  The eagle was shot and so his left wing is useless, he will never fly.  He weighs eleven pounds.  His eyeballs are the same size as ours.  She tells them that at this time of year he gets rather agitated because he feels that deep desire to follow his instinct to migrate, so she takes him for long walks, which he seems to rather enjoy.  She moves her arm so that he has to flap his wings, and the left one does not follow the perfect rush of the right, which also swishes the cheek of the aforementioned lively kid, which he will later say was the high point of his camping trip.

Eventually our camp counselor calls us to come and eat, as she has brought all the ingredients for us to make our last lunch sandwiches before we get on the bus.  We slowly tear ourselves away from the magical creature.

Sunrise at low tide.

The weird marks on the sand are tracks from men who collect blood-worms for bait.  They work every time it is low tide, whether it is dark or light.  Amazingly tough work, bent over continuously, and cold, very cold.