Close Encounter with the Primitive (prose version)

Fifty-five degrees in February deserves our close attention so yesterday I went hiking in the woods. Maudslay State Park stretches for some miles along the southern banks of the Merrimack River in Newburyport and on a day like yesterday is full of folks walking their dogs or simply strolling along on a Sunday. But I like to hike in its further limits where few people go.

The paths I walk lead to quiet meadows, unknown woods; run along still-frozen swamps, up the ruins of once landscaped hills; and finally follow the river for an extended stretch until you reach the limits of the park itself. And there I stopped to read an orange sign posted on a tree informing the few who reach that point the land beyond is a tree farm: there is absolutely no trespassing.

I didn’t have time to think about that though because in that same tree twenty feet above me there was a sudden rustling noise. Looking up I saw a bird --an eagle!-- depart its perch (probably bothered by my disturbance below) and wing its way over the river. Awestruck, I watched him fly.

And wanting to get a better view, I quickly moved down a small slope towards the edge of the river bank. But the ground was still frozen beneath pine needles and I slipped. My feet flew into air and I fell, then slid down the slope and off the bank onto the thick ice that still remains on the river shore.

My left hand between thumb and index finger had been punctured and was bleeding. My right hand had twisted when I tried to catch my fall. It felt sprained. My backside hurt from both falls and I was drenched from the melting ice. But still I watched the eagle circle low above the river, turn and fly just over the trees above me.

That’s one version of the story. If I were a "primitive” man raised in a different culture, there would be another. In that one, I would tell of my encounter with an eagle and how it’s power lifted me from the earth. I would describe my ecstasy of circling over waters with my eagle brother, my arms spread out in mystical flight. And I would end with the eagle flying over the trees, its power receding from the river bank, and my returning back to earth. Stunned but delighted.

My hands hurt as I type this. My left hand bears a small bandage and my right hand appears slightly swollen at the wrist. My back is still a little sore. But my spirit still thrills with that memory of a time in flight soaring with the primitive.