The Business End
Yesterday something wonderful happened. I was driving along with Nathan and as we pulled into a parking lot, I noticed that an anhinga was waddling into the middle of traffic. Now, anhinga are not known for their flying prowess since they swim underwater to catch the fish they eat—then they have to stand on the edge of the canal or lake or whatever and face the sun with their wings outspread to dry off their feathers. This bird, however, was completely dry and was stumbling unsteadily into the street—a busy street with four lanes of traffic.
Now, there are many birds in Florida that prefer to walk rather than fly. We have several sandhill cranes that regularly visit our property to share the bird seed that I put out to attract cardinals, jays, and doves to come close enough so that I can photograph them. These stately cranes (they average 4 to 4½ feet tall and have feathers patterned across their broad backs that give them the appearance of wearing grey tuxedo tails) often block traffic in our neighborhood as they slowly proceed down the middle of the streets—with the deliberate, stately attitude of royalty surveying their domain. If they had hands, they would be doing the “Queen Elizabeth parade wave” as they progressed down the middle of the roadway. Herons are another bird that often waunder up and down the edges of the canals running through our neighborhood, looking for small frogs and lizards. Most entertaining of all are the groups of ibis that flock about our lawns in crazy-quilt patterns, probing for who-knows-what-tidbits-live-just-under-the-surface-of-the-grass by bobbing their heads up and down, poking the ends of their beaks into the ground—looking exactly like small, rounded sewing machines. I don’t recall seeing many ibis fly either.
But, back the anhinga, who by now was half-way across the busy street, waddling in a crooked path across the turning lane. I, of course, was now just half a pace behind the bird. My intention was to get it going fast enough that it would take off flying—a reassuring sign that it was healthy enough to take care of itself. The oncoming lanes of traffic slowed as they saw us quick-stepping across the last two lanes of the street. I finally decided to catch the bird and take him to the nearby wildlife refuge (where Nate and I had often volunteered) so that they could see if something could be done to help.
At this point, I was suddenly, and acutely, aware that this bird had an extra-ordinarily large wing span—one that seemed to be at least equal to my five-foot-two-inch height when its wings were fully extended. I also noted that the long, graceful neck ended in a very sharp, four inch beak. I noticed both of these details as I bent down and scooped the bird up into my arms. One wing escaped my grasp at the same moment that the bird turned the business-end of its beak toward me—wide open—and attempted to impale my face. (I find it odd, in retrospect, that I remember that at that moment I noticed that the throat was a pale, pearl pink with a sliver of long, pointed, pale yellow tongue attached at the back—fascinating.)
This is far from the first animal that I’ve seen, limping along where it wouldn’t normally want to be, and collected to bring home to nurture back to health. And when I have done so, I have always had the confidence that I am much bigger than the animal—and much stronger (at least at that moment). I have noticed, though, that without exception, this self-confidence does not prevent the animal from expressing its dissatisfaction at being brought into so close a proximity with a human being. This anhinga was no different.
I dodged the beak and tucked the errant wing under my arm, taking loose hold of its head, just behind the narrow scull and pale blue, lid-less eyes. (Actually, anhinga do have lids, but they only have a clear covering that protects their eyes while they are underwater—so all the while I was hold it, I got the feeling that the bird was staring me down.) Walking as quickly as I could—this time looking out for traffic—got back to the car, banged on the door with my knee, and startled Nathan who was playing his Nintendo DX and hadn’t even noticed that I had stopped the car and gotten out. He immediately opened the door and let me in and went around to the driver’s side. He is just as amazed by wild animals as I am, and stroked its wing softly. The bird responded by turning its head toward him, opening its beak wide, and trying to stab him. Weak as the bird was, it still had definite feelings about those who invaded its personal space.
We got the refuge, walked with the bird to the infirmary, and handed it over to the vet—apparently a new hire who hadn’t handled an anhinga before. She took it from me awkwardly and headed back to the “sick room” area. I filled out the paperwork and we left.
It wasn’t much of an adventure compared to scrambling up and over the boulders and down into the crevices of the Utah mountains (which we’d just done with Brent’s brother the week before) or as physically challenging as scaling the walls at one of the nation’s premier indoor climbing facilities (which we’d also just done the week before with my daughter and her husband)—but it was an exceptional experience. It was something that I’ll probably never repeat exactly again in my life. I will remember it for a long time.
Yesterday was a good day.
Looking up at the sky from the base of the tree in Minnesota--August 2009.
I love this small toad. It was the only bit of wildlife besides insects I was able to photograph.
The side of Susan's home--beautiful and peaceful. Stairs lead upstairs to her apartment and the front porch at the left of the photo runs the length of the main house.
Good art shot of Fever, the horse I road most of the time while I was there.
I love the texture of these yellow cone flowers. I've never seen anything like them.
Beautiful butterfly on the purple pom-pom wild flowers we found while riding one afternoon.
An incredible shot of a Monarch butterfly 
