Lord of the Air
Zen in the art of finding bald eagles

By Robert Winkler
About the Author

ith the arrival of cold weather, I proposed to a friend that we compete to spot the first bald eagle of winter at the Saugatuck Reservoir in southwestern Connecticut. The loser would buy the winner a case of beer. We would proceed on the honor system, but there could be no doubt about the identification. A huge bird of prey soaring in the distance—merely a probable bald eagle—would not count.

When my friend declined my wager, I thought it might be because he felt outclassed by my greater experience with birds. Time, however, would humble me. By early December, he had already seen four bald eagles—two adults and two immatures, distinguishable by differences in coloration—compared with my total of zero.

I visited all the places where my friend had seen eagles, and, to my further chagrin, found none. Stretching for 4.5 miles and covering 868 acres in the towns of Weston and Redding, the reservoir is the area's largest body of water, but even here a bird with a seven-foot wingspan is no needle in a haystack. With a white head and tail sandwiching a dark-brown body, the adult bald eagle is, in Roger Tory Peterson's words, "all field mark." Yet this unmistakable feathered giant continued to elude me.

To explain my inability to find eagles that winter, I have a plausible enough theory. These fish-loving raptors visit Connecticut when advancing winter freezes their watery haunts to the north, showing in numbers by early December. They may remain into late March, but if enough ice forms, blocking access to fish and causing waterfowl to desert, and if no deer carcasses are available, the eagles seek prey or carrion farther south.

The Saugatuck Reservoir, large and, in places, deep, normally has considerable open water long after smaller and shallower Fairfield County reservoirs become solid ice. For years this characteristic has made the Saugatuck a magnet for a few wintering bald eagles, but the warmest winter in memory had left other bodies of water more open than usual. Not confined to the Saugatuck, the eagles could roam in minutes to another reservoir miles away or perch for hours on a riverbank, hidden from prying binoculars.

Not only was this a plausible theory; it was also a convenient rationalization for a frustrated eagle watcher. Still, January had arrived, and I had not yet seen an eagle. Never had I gone so deep into winter without finding one. Some winters I have seen eagles on almost every visit to the reservoir, and once I had six in view simultaneously.

I resolved to set aside a day for birding the reservoir and would not stop until I found the species known to science as Haliaeetus leucocephalus. The night before, I did a ritual cleansing of my binoculars and spotting scope. Then, I disassembled the monopod I use to support my scope and cleaned the leg sections, washed and dried the nylon collars, and regreased the threads.

The next morning, armed with a special permit from the water company, I was at the dam one-half hour after sunrise. The air was cold but still, broken only by the caws of reservoir crows, and in the white pines near my vantage point, the light tapping of a downy woodpecker.

I checked all the favorite eagle perches: the spreading dead tree on the south end of the big island, the conifer groves jutting into the reservoir's east side, and the hemlock-covered sides of the hill above the dam. First with binoculars, then with scope, I did a 360-degree pan of the woods. Not forgetting the sky, I scanned clouds and infinite blue.

Repeating this procedure, I worked my way up the reservoir, stopping next at the wide "bay" south of Godfrey Road. The wind blew lightly from the north but carried no eagle into view. Farther along, I pulled into the boulder-strewn parking area just above the big island, a reliable observation post for eagles—that is, until that winter. Binoculars around my neck and scope slung over a shoulder, I then walked the hiking trail between Valley Forge Road and the narrow channel at the reservoir's midsection.

There were other birds: blue jays and a red-bellied woodpecker, buffleheads and a probable pied-billed grebe, a red-tailed hawk, and an unexpected great cormorant that slithered from the water like a feathered reptile. I stopped to study three large birds soaring above a distant southern ridge, but their wings were uptilted, not "spread-eagled" almost flat against the sky, revealing them as turkey vultures.

Returning to my car, I continued to Redding, where the northern third of the reservoir lies. From the next turnoff I chose, a downhill trail winds through the woods before looping past the water. During the walk, I convinced myself to change my inner approach to this eagle quest.

Nothing was wrong with my outer approach: I had put myself in the eagle's domain at a time of day when it begins to hunt. But like the hundreds of motorists who pass the reservoir on Route 53 every day without seeing eagles, my thinking was out of tune with the wild. I was focused like a laser in a world where discovery comes by peripheral vision.

Looking at a tree, you hear a sound and want to see the bird that makes it. You stare hard and hear the sound again, stare harder but don't see the bird. From the sound, it must be right in front of you, but the branch is empty. If, however, you pull back and broaden the view to include the whole tree—even throw the scene out of focus—suddenly, in the corner of your eye, you see the bird. It was there all the time, yet you wonder, how could I have missed it?

These thoughts helped loosen my perceptual bonds. Crossing a brook, I began to feel the reservoir rather than just see it. With each step toward the water's edge, my tunnel vision widened and the reservoir opened to me further. I became less conscious of being an outsider. A left turn off the trail brought me through a small stand of pines. Here, I calmly accepted that today I might not see any eagles. I would stop trying so hard.

As I came out to the water, I felt the electric charge of other living things. Below this point, the largely empty surface of the reservoir stretched for miles. But here, finally, there were hundreds of birds splashing around and filling the air with quacks and honks.

Roughly 200 mallards and 25 black ducks swam just north of where I stood, close to my side of the reservoir, many with heads under water and tails tipped up. Thirty-five Canada geese and a few buffleheads floated in the middle, and a string of common mergansers paddled along the opposite shoreline.

Twelve more honking geese flew toward me from the other side of the reservoir, not in V-formation but one next to the other. This line of geese blocked my view of a bird that followed them, which for a second I took to be another goose lagging behind.

When they banked to the left, the geese unmasked the bird in their wake: an adult bald eagle. With an admiring nod, I welcomed this noble winter visitor to the woods and waters of southwestern Connecticut.

The eagle turned with the geese and  followed them closely, passing less than 200 yards in front of me. It undoubtedly saw me standing on an exposed rock, but it did not let on with even the slightest veer from its course. Honking anxiously, the fleeing geese knew that eagles sometimes prey on their kind, though in this eagle's leisurely flapping I saw no intent to kill. Considering its size, I judged it to be a male bald eagle, which is smaller than the female.

This lord of the air sailed north along the shoreline. Up went the large flock of mallards and black ducks. They divided their number into smaller squadrons to create confusion and ready themselves for evasive action. The eagle, still trailing the geese, ignored them. When the geese took a hard right turn across the water, the eagle let them go and continued straight toward the top of the reservoir.

Soon the ducks returned, chattering among themselves as they wheeled close by me before sliding into the water. Normally they would not come so near, but my threat was nothing compared to the danger they felt from above. I sensed their apprehension as the eagle, reaching the reservoir's northern rim, turned and slowly circled in our direction.

For a minute I lost sight of him; then suddenly he materialized directly above the largest concentration of waterfowl. Ducks and geese frantically took to the air, zooming this way and that. Again, the eagle showed no reaction.

I wondered whether this was a hunting tactic designed to exhaust the prey before attempting a kill. Perhaps this seeming lack of interest was a ruse that would change to a deadly surprise attack once a victim let down its guard. But would an eagle strike with a man this close? Perhaps I was the reason he would not show his talons.

At or near water, all was commotion among hundreds of water birds, yet high above, the majestic eagle soared alone, tracing elegant circles in the clouds. The benevolent despot was, for the moment, overlooking his realm. He did not know and would not care that his image graces the Great Seal and the postal truck. He rises above all human matters, coming and going in silence, allowing us only a glimpse before disappearing beyond the horizon.

After lording it over the other birds a while longer, the eagle moved south along the opposite shore, flying quite high. When he reached the expanse of water between the channel and the big island, he pulled back his great wings and rocketed down, finally displaying his predatory side. I thought he had a trout in his sights, but when he abruptly came out of the dive and resumed soaring, I knew the target had vanished.

By now this grand bird was a mere speck in my binoculars. I drove the four miles back to my starting point at the dam and viewed him from another angle. From a distance, he was two great wings, his white head and tail invisible against the clouds. Beyond him I saw other specks—large birds, maybe even other eagles. If they allowed me, and if I allowed myself, I would see them another day.



By winter's end, I had seen four bald eagles at the reservoir—two adults and two immatures. Late in the season, the reservoir finally froze, and a big snow came, the white-laden trees camouflaging even adult birds, if any remained.

One evening, as I walked along Valley Forge Road on the reservoir's west side, no cars passed for an unusually long period. In the depths of pure winter silence, I listened for the eagle's call, but heard only a cawing crow, the mournful honk of a Canada goose, and the profound echo of shifting ice—an eerie, elastic sound.

In some dark recess, amid giant trees and frigid air, feather-cloaked nobles of the reservoir sleep.

Related article: The Bald Eagle's Comeback

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A message from Robert Winkler

Jeff Brush/Connecticut Post (used with permission)

If you enjoyed this essay, I know you'll enjoy my critically acclaimed book, Going Wild: Adventures with Birds in the Suburban Wilderness (National Geographic), which expands on many of the short pieces I've posted here. Why do I write about birds? Because they represent the wild in all its glory. They're numerous, diverse, intelligent, talkative, and beautiful; their power of flight never ceases to amaze; and they're the most conspicuous class of wild animal—even in the suburb, they're just about everywhere. Whether you're a beginning or advanced birder, a fan of nature writing, a curious suburbanite, or a reader in search of that rare bird known as a good book, Going Wild could very well change how you view your world. So get your copy now, or buy one for your favorite birder or nature lover. Best deal on the Web: brand new, perfect copies $5 each (69% off) at National Geographic Books.

"Juvenile Bald Eagle" by Louis Agassiz Fuertes (c. 1900; watercolor)
"Great Cormorant" by Christiaan Sepp (date unknown; Sepp lived from 1700 to 1775)
"Adult Bald Eagle" photo by Mike Lockhart/USFWS
Text and photo ("Bald Eagle Menacing Crows on a Frozen River") Copyright © 2000 Robert Winkler

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