Images of Eagles

I pulled out my camera to photograph the sixth bald eagle I had seen that morning on the river. It was a smooth gesture—the small camera sliding out of my life vest pocket. I hit the on button. As the lens emerged so too did a wave. I leaned, and with one hand took up my paddle that rested across the cockpit. Somewhere in those movements my camera flew out of my hand and landed with a definite plop into the water. I watched as it spiraled through the turbid water and out of sight toward the bottom of the Hudson River. I had owned the camera for less than a month.

Sigh.

There will be no photos for this blog post. No photo of the landing at Malden, where the water treatment plant nudges the town dock and a sign tells of the British who anchored offshore before burning down a few mansions along the river. There will be no photo of the abandoned ice tower, or the abandoned brick yard north of Malden, the beach a spread of bricks. And, there will be no photos of eagles one through five, three of them mature with their white heads and dark bodies and two immature, a more scruffy look.

But that doesn’t mean that the eagles weren’t there. I have to content myself with the images I hold in my head, the one eagle low in a tree, lurking, until I drifted too close. And the pair high up, sitting erect before taking flight across the river. Eagles have returned along the Hudson River. This isn’t news, as the return of the eagle has been celebrated by removing it in 2007 from the Endangered Species List. For a while, the situation for the eagle was dire: in the 70s there was one breeding pair in New York State; it wasn’t until 1997 that a pair bred in the Hudson Valley. Now there are over a dozen nests the length of the estuary. This summer it seems I can’t be on the river without seeing an eagle. They are always a welcome sight.

OK, I can’t help myself. Here is a photo taken by Peter of an eagle from the Saugerties Lighthouse.

Smaller, and less majestic, were the spotted sandpipers. They fly with a wingbeat that appears to hold a momentary hesitation. And once a sandpiper lands it walks about in sandpiperly fashion, while continuously bobbing its tail.

After my disappointment at losing my camera, I decided to head home. I was two hours north on the river and looked forward to an easy return with the outgoing tide. It was hot out, but with a breeze that kept me cool. I wanted to cross the river and head home on the eastern shore. The river is about three quarters of a mile wide at this location. A haze cloaked the far shore, and my view both north and south. The river seemed empty. But the river was not calm. The wind had really picked up from the southeast and that met the current to create big waves that crested mid-river. There were white caps. I decided not to cross, and hoped the river would calm before I had to.

I headed south clinging to the western shore. It’s remarkably green in this section, with houses that nudge the shoreline. But I wasn’t focused on the sights, only on my forward movement, which was painfully slow. I wished I had brought my anemometer with me to measure the speed of wind. I made a guess that we were at a level 5 on the Beaufort Scale, partly because that is my favorite level. A fresh breeze. “Small trees in leaf begin to sway; crested wavelets form on inland waters.” Actually, I thought it was more than a 5, as the cottonwoods on shore shook with the wind, a lovely sound, if only I did not have to fight the wind.  

At the Saugerties Lighthouse I pulled onto the sandy patch that appears at low tide. I slipped out of my boat, grateful for a rest. Two older couples sat on the benches under the mulberry tree. The one told me that this wind is a constant in the summer, “comes right out of the southeast every day.” Since I paddle the river every day I can say that the wind doesn’t come out of the southeast every day. Some days are dead calm. And rarely are the days as rough as they were this morning. Dock, who lives on the river in Glasco, was visiting the Lighthouse as well, and had arrived on his small sailboat (he seems to own dozens of boats, many with remarkable set ups that allow him to paddle with his legs). “It’s rough out there,” I said by way of greeting. He nodded. “They say it will be a ten today,” he replied. Dock knows the river. He is slender with a grey beard, that makes him look river-wise. So I didn’t doubt that ten, but I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. If ten miles an hour then that would make it a 3 on the Beaufort scale. A gentle breeze. No, this was stronger than that. And it couldn’t be a ten on the Beaufort scale, as that is a storm when trees are uprooted.

But--ten sounds big, and so were the waves.

I scanned both directions through my binoculars, looking for a barge or tanker on the horizon. Two big boats had overtaken me on my return and I hadn’t been aware of them until they were abreast  (I was well outside of the shipping channel). But the wind had masked the rumble of the tug’s engines. I saw a boat in the far distance but was sure I would make it across before it arrived. Fueled with adrenalin, I dug into the water, shoveling my way across the river. My boat slapped down in the trough between waves, and water splashed into my boat. Twenty minutes later, when I slid onto the rocky landing in Tivoli I was grateful to be home. I had travelled two hours north and had taken three on the return.

The river had my camera. But I had sore muscles and this small tale after a long morning paddle.