When Loneliness Dogs Me, I Get a Little Wild
Solo Hiking at 70
Mature Bald Eagle on the South Fork of the Snake River, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
Winter loneliness often nips at me like a puppy chasing a pant leg. On days I can’t shake it off, I grab my camera gear and head to a nearby wild place for a hike. Only a few old fishermen know about the trail along the river south of town.
No one knows it’s where I go to talk to an eagle.
My route to the river takes me past the forgotten farming community of Woodville, frozen fields, and remnants from the last century sinking into the sagebrush.
Forgotten farm equipment on the road to Woodville, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
The country road hugs the curves of the Snake River for a few miles. It’s a soothing drive on any day. At the last bend, a dirt lane drops off to the riverbank. One December day, I parked at the top of the trail, rested my tripod and camera on my shoulder, and walked into an approaching snowstorm.
Where have you gone, my old friend?
I go to the river to see an old friend, a mature bald eagle. She’s what we call a resident. Year-round, she hunts her territory from the top of an old-growth cottonwood tree. Year-round, I seek her company. Two old gals sharing one more sunset.
Talking to an eagle, South Fork River, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
I placed up my tripod below the cottonwood and waited about half an hour. She always appeared by late afternoon. I wasn’t worried my presence would keep her away. I had spent hours earning her trust. When I first spotted her a couple of years ago, I would walk well past her on the trail as if I had no interest in her. Then I’d turn and approach her one step at a time. Eventually, she stopped flying away at the sight of me.
That afternoon, when she didn’t appear, I picked up my camera and walked on. Perhaps my connection with the eagle lived only in my imagination and my need to feel less alone.
Is the universe listening when I cry out?
At the end of the trail, I set up my camera below a power pole serving a nearby farm. I’d often seen hawks perched on top, scanning the fields for a mouse. It wouldn’t be another portrait of my old friend, and I may never meet her again in this realm. But loss has taught me life only moves forward when I do.
What happened next reconnected me to a world where I finally fit in.
A Juvenile Bald Eagle’s snowy landing, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
A juvenile eagle dropped out of the storm clouds with snowflakes clinging to her feathers. I took several shots as she swooped in for a landing.
I rarely see a young eagle and was delighted to be in the right place at the right time.
Or was it more than chance?
I want to believe with all my heart the universe will meet me halfway when I reach out. Yet time and again, I’ve stumbled over self-doubt and routed my way around shame.
It’s the same old story. Being human, I weigh and measure worthiness, both mine and others.
Eagles do not.
From the young eagle’s coloring, I guessed her at about two years old. It would be another three years until her crown turned the recognizable white of a mature bald. She would hunt alone without a mate until then.
A young eagle’s pose, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
She stared down at me long after I had enough images, posing like it was picture day in school. She never turned toward the river to scan for a fish nor flexed her wings for flight.
Was she lonely too?
I could have stood there with the young eagle until the sun disappeared on the far side of the river, at ease again with my place among Earth’s kith and kin.
Instead, I picked up my gear and headed back to my Jeep. My new friend only had an hour of daylight left to catch supper. I’d best leave her to it because that’s what friends do.
Thanks for walking with me,
Kris
