An Eagle Escort

Seen from the air, Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula is a carpet of trees, interspersed by lakes and streams. The canopy is so dense, that you cannot imagine yourself alone in a canoe—far from the throngs of the salmon-besotted fishermen lining the shores of the Kenai River—winding through this maze of wildness.

But now I am in my canoe, the fishermen long behind, and that same community of trees that I marveled at from the air, now reveal their individual character—stately Sitka spruce, standing tall and proud, claiming their space, sometimes embracing massive boulders with their roots; sun-spangled aspen, clacking rhythmically in the crisp autumn breeze; and paper birch, peeling and bleached white, casting a battalion of lengthy shadows in the late afternoon sun.

A bald eagle perches high in the tufted apex of a cedar, and as my canoe draws near, it swoops down, as if guiding me forward, alighting on a treetop far down the lake—repeating the process over and over as I approach. Thus, I am escorted on my journey, as if a spirit animal were leading the way. Finally, the magnificent bird soars off, leaving me alone and strangely bereft, as if to remind that companionship is ephemeral, and only I can determine my ultimate destination.

Solo, Chapter 7