The Eagle Who Longed To Walk

High above the gray granite peaks of the snow swept Rocky Mountains an eagle soared. To someone on the ground, the eagle would seem only a black dot in a blue, blue sky. But the eagle would see that person in clear detail. As everyone knows, an eagle's eyes are sharper than any other creature's.

Gary was a golden eagle. Of course, Gary wasn't really his name, since eagles don't have names. If they did, they would have names like Eeee or Awwk, because eagles don't have big vocabularies. But we shall call him Gary to make him seem more human. Gary, you see, had a very human problem.

Gary envied the creatures of the ground. On the ground, walking creatures went wherever they wanted. Though Gary could land almost anywhere, he could stay only long enough to eat. Once grounded, he needed a long runway to take off again. On the ground he was as clumsy as he was graceful in the air.

Gary, of course, had no idea he felt envy. He had no subscription to Psychology Today to tell him so. He had no social workers telling him his angst was borne from resentment toward a mother who threw him out of his nest as soon as he could fly. In all this he was blessed, though he didn't know that, either.

Gary did know he wanted to walk. There were so many places down there he could go. Wherever Gary looked, he saw animals prowling the prairies, meandering across meadows, wending their ways through woods where Gary couldn't spread his wings. They marched up mountains and strode through streams. Everywhere Gary gazed he saw something stepping along. Gary wanted to be like those creatures.

Now, Gary didn't want to be one of those creatures. He was perfectly happy as a golden eagle. He liked the solid feeling of air pushing up against his wings. He loved looking down at his mountain range. He adored long, whistling dives toward a glistening river; the sudden, breathless splash at the end; the full, meaty feel of a writhing trout in his claws. He knew eagles had special gifts and he took joy in his.

But Gary knew that if he could walk, he could do things no other eagle could. There might be more air than ground, but the ground was much more interesting.

So Gary soared high above the gray granite peaks of the snow swept Rocky Mountains wishing he could walk. His wings barely twitched as he rode his windy highways. He gazed at the sparkling silver streams, the black-green pine forests, the grass-green prairies and the flower specked meadows. He soared and he gazed and he wished.

Suddenly, as Gary flew over one of the meadows, he thought, "Why not?" Anyway, if eagles thought like people do, it would have come out as "Why not?" With that, Gary circled and glided, glided and circled, down, down, down, to a perfect landing in the quiet meadow.

An eagle on the ground is not a feared hunter. An eagle on the ground is food. Gary knew this first hand -- or first talon to be perfectly accurate. Once Gary was feeding on a dead bear he found. As he enjoyed his lunch the crows and magpies showed up, keeping a respectful distance from the fearsome eagle. The puma that came along, however, wasn't impressed by the gleaming golden-brown bird. Gary left feathers in the mountain lion's claws. Gary knew, there in the silent meadow, that he could be someone's lunch.

So naturally, Gary was nervous. Although he picked an empty meadow and although he landed in the middle so he could see anything coming, Gary felt vulnerable. On the ground his keen eagle vision was blocked by tall grass and short bushes. Gary turned his head this way and that, that way and this, watching for hungry predators.

Still, Gary didn't forget why he was on the ground. He was going to learn to walk. Gary tried a few steps, eagle fashion.

Nope. That wouldn't do at all. Though his steps were sometimes long, stiff-legged strides, other times, his wings puffed out like an unzipped coat in the wind. Since eagles only walk while getting ready to take off, whenever Gary tried to turn a corner, he tried to open his wings. He didn't know he had to move his wings for balance just as walking men must swing their arms.

All afternoon, Gary hopped and flopped around the meadow. All afternoon he tried to walk without flapping his wings. By the end of the day his legs were tired, but he could walk around the meadow pretty well, even if he did still jiggle his wings a bit.

The next morning Gary's muscles were stiff and sore. His legs stiff from all the unaccustomed walking, his wings and chest sore from all the unnatural holding still. An eagle has to eat, though, sore or not. So Gary launched from his aerie and began circling his favorite trout stream. Flying soon worked the kinks out of Gary's wings and chest. A meaty stream trout and tasty mountain perch quelled his hunger.

Gary found a fire road men had cut through the forest. He picked a straight stretch and practiced running touch-and-goes to work the kinks out of his legs. By midmorning, with the sun halfway between horizon and zenith, Gary was ready for a walk.

Gary was curious about a mountain trail. The trail tracked through forest and meadow, field and stream. Gary had seen every kind of walking animal use the trail; wolves, deer, cougar, men and bear all padded along the path at some time. Gary knew where the trail started and where it ended. Since neither place was very interesting, Gary figured there must be something about the trail itself luring all those creatures. Gary decided to walk a stretch of trail where it crossed a creek.

Gary's whole experience with streams involved fishing. He'd splashed into many streams grabbing a trout or a perch or, sometimes, a salmon. He came in fast when he was fishing, pulling up suddenly to grab a fish in his talons. If he didn't pull up, then hitting the water was just like slamming into wet rock. The idea of actually walking through water was a strange one.
Gary had watched many land animals walk through the water as if it didn't exist. If he could walk across the steam, he thought, that would prove he was as good at walking as any ground-bound creature.

The trail was warm under Gary's feet. He stood briefly, twisting his neck, checking for danger. Bravely he headed for the cold, clear, clean creek. Gary could smell the fresh fast freshet flowing in front of him. He hopped off the bank, spreading his wings for balance. He stepped into the water. It was cold. Another step and the water was up to his leg feathers. Gary's next step took him into the swiftest and deepest part of the stream.

Too bad eagles know about neither avian physiology nor physics. Unlike land animals, birds are extremely light for their sizes. Even their bones and feathers are hollow. Had Gary known that, he probably would have guessed what happens to an eagle stepping into a swiftly swirling stream.

Gary didn't walk across. The current swept him away, bobbing and spinning like a chip of bark. Fortunately he floated. He couldn't take off from the quick creek, but his wings slapping the water increased his surface contact, spreading his mass out over a larger area, keeping him afloat.

Luckily, the stream soon got wide and shallow. He struggled to the bank. In the blazing mountain sun he dried quickly. Soon he was circling safely among the clouds.

As Gary soared high above the gray granite peaks of the snow swept Rocky Mountains, he didn't dwell on any deep moral. Were he to do so, it is obvious what that moral would be: "If your talent lets you soar, then walking is for the birds.”