by Jana Barkley
Perhaps the older woman noticed how peaked she looked, for she relented. “I think there’s still some soup. Will that do?”
“Yes, thank you so much.” Glad the others had gone, she slumped forward and allowed herself the luxury of appearing as exhausted as she felt. “What the hell am I doing here?” she groaned aloud, and rested her hot forehead in her hands.
A chair beside her moved, startling her from her solitary thoughts. Her bleary eyes came to rest on a large pair of rough hands drawing on a napkin.
“You remember the road you came into town on? Continue on in the same direction. The road ends in a T intersection, see?” He tapped his pen at a point on the map he had drawn. “There, at the end of the intersection, is a gas station. That’s Hallelujah Junction. We’re meeting there at ten. Got it?”
She nodded, wordless, and glanced up to see a tall, blond man in faded blue jeans and an outdated but form-fitting shirt stand and start to walk away.
“It’s Hank…right?”
He turned around as if to say, “What now?” But he was not hard or remote as he had been when they first met. He nodded.
“Thank you.”
The waitress bustled in with the soup, and by the time Sam could look around her, he was gone. Thankful as she was for his intuitive grasp she needed help, her raw nerves rankled with embarrassment. Had she appeared that way to everyone, and were they all merely tolerating her? Maybe, but even so, it had been nice of him to pick up on it.
She stared down at her chicken soup while the run-down, tavern-like restaurant closed around her. The portion was small and not likely to assuage the gnawing hunger that threatened to make her sick, the kind of sick she hated because it could render her unfit to function in the morning. The thought was enough to make her attack the soup and ignore her feelings of inadequacy. Nothing was going to keep her from this hunt tomorrow.
The past three months had taught her the difference between who she was and who she had assumed she was. Major illnesses could wring you out to nothing and leave you grasping for reference points until you were left with only the base matter of yourself. What you did with it—what she would do with it—Sam purposed as she gulped down spoonfuls of soup, was up to her. The rest was nobody else’s business. Six months, a year? Everyone lived with no guarantee of how much time they had on this planet. There was no difference between these falconers, who’d left without introducing themselves, getting killed in a car accident a year from now and her not beating the odds. She, however, had the unfortunate advantage of prior knowledge about what might go wrong, and might was the operative word here. Her doctor had said staying positive helped in the recovery of those who survived and had gone on to live full lives. She was counting on it.
The warm soup worked its magic on her weary system. Glancing over the table, she pocketed handfuls of cellophane wrapped crackers and dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. Now all she had to do was locate the dump of a motel she’d found on the internet and get some sleep for tomorrow.
Lure: The irresistible object swung by the falconer to call a game hawk back
Chapter Five
The cell phone alarm rang, strange and foreign in the bleak morning light of the retro-style cabin she’d rented. From the look of the place, she could have fallen through time and landed in the fifties. Sam’s stomach demanded attention, and she was happy to give it.
After a short foray through town, Sam turned off the main drag and down a side street where she spotted a diner surrounded by trucks and SUVs. Bingo. She could tell from the moment she walked in this was the place the locals frequented. Always a good sign. She parked herself at a table up front as the sign at the entrance instructed and commenced to consume the largest breakfast she’d had since—well, it felt like forever. The days of watching her waistline were lost, like so many aspects of her old life.
As she stood at the counter paying her bill, a tall, thin man who seemed familiar joined her, waiting for his turn to pay.
“Weren’t you at the restaurant last night?” he asked. He was the one who had announced the morning meet-up time.
Sam smiled. “Yes. I’m Sam. Mary Kate invited me.”
He stuck out his hand and she shook it.
“Mike,” he responded. “So, have you ever been on a hunt before?”
Here it came. He was sizing her up. Since her first meeting with Mary Kate and the others at the Scottish games two months ago, Sam had devoured any book about falconry she could get her hands on. Websites, like the one for the California Falconers Association, dedicated a whole section to what it took to become an apprentice falconer. All references stressed having enough time to fly your bird. The other and most unknown factor of her experience was falconry was about hunting with a bird of prey. Falconers were not pet-keepers. If you were afraid to take a life in the field with your hawk or falcon, then falconry wasn’t for you. Unlike a wild hawk’s prey, which might live while it was being eaten, a falconry bird’s prey was dispatched with precision to stop its suffering and then fed to the raptor.
Reading between the lines of everything she had researched since July, she knew she had to make a good impression, hard and fast.
“No, I’ve not hunted before, but I’m an experienced marksman. My father taught me to shoot, and I’ve had hunter safety training. I also grew up working with horses and small farm animals.”
“I take it you’re wanting to become an apprentice?” He paid his bill and glanced sideways at her.
“I know I have a lot to learn, but I’m ready to try. I passed the Department of Fish and Wildlife exam last week.”
He turned around and gave her a big smile.
Now she was getting somewhere.
“So you’ll be looking for a sponsor, then,” he said, leading the way out of the diner to the parking lot. “Well, good for you.” His compliment sounded sincere. He reached his truck and unlocked it. “You know where to go?”
“Hallelujah Junction.”
“Good enough. I’ll see you there.” He turned and got into a large blue truck with a camper shell. Bumper stickers on the back spoke of membership in the California Falconers Association. Shaded glass made the images behind the windows indistinct, but she thought she could make out two large boxes the size of pet carriers. He had birds back there.
Sam’s heart leapt into her throat. She jumped into her own vehicle and followed him out of the lot and onto the main street heading out of town. Hallelujah Junction was only a few miles down the road. Right next to the gas station where everyone was to meet was the on-ramp for the 395. She glanced down at Hank’s makeshift map on the passenger seat. She could only hope her frazzled appearance the night before hadn’t affected her ability to talk one of these individuals into taking her on for two years as her sponsor. No one was obligated to become an apprentice’s teacher. Those who took on the role of mentor did so for love of the sport and to pass on the traditions of falconry. Even though falconry from ancient times was a hunting sport, part of its tradition was to conserve habitat and prey species. Falconers, Sam came to learn, were at the forefront of understanding and educating the public about the role of raptors in their natural environments. There was no pay and often it could be a frustrating endeavor for both student and teacher. But without this two-year relationship, there was no other way to get those state and federal falconry licenses, and without those, you couldn’t get a bird.
Her conscience gave a familiar twang of discomfort. She couldn’t see past the next six months. Was it fair to pull someone into a two-year commitment without giving him the full picture? Risking rejection because of her medical concerns was unacceptable. Even if someone took her on with full knowledge of her illness, she would rankle under the kind of supervision that would include keeping tabs on how she was feeling. This sickness was hers alone and not open to anyone else’s scrutiny. Her pursuit of falconry would be on her terms, which meant an even playing field. No handicaps, no favors, no pity.
Peopl
e gathered around Mike’s blue truck. She got out and headed their way.
Mary Kate, standing next to the couple Sam remembered as Karen and her husband, John, grinned as she walked up. “Told you she’d make it. She’s got it bad.”
“Good to see you guys.”
“You’ve met Mike?”
“This morning at breakfast,” he said, turning to join them. “She tells me she passed her test.”
Congratulations came from all around, and Sam felt a little self-conscious, but happy.
The directions Mike gave were simple: north on the 395, past a couple of small towns, and into the heart of the Fort Sage Mountains, where thousands of acres of Bureau of Land Management property were at their disposal. There were no power lines with transformers that could kill a hunting hawk, and jackrabbit and cottontail were so plentiful everyone’s bird was certain to catch something. The only dangers Mike warned them about were golden eagles and a stray ferruginous hawk that had been spotted. Given the wide visibility of the terrain, its gullies and washes scattered with waist-high sagebrush, they could feel pretty safe about spotting the larger predatory birds. The ranchers around the area knew they were coming and would not be out hunting with their guns. It was the perfect environment for a hawking party.
“Where’s Hank?” John asked.
“He went on ahead to fly Gally,” Mike said. The others nodded, aware of why he needed to fly this particular bird without the rest of them.
Mary Kate leaned over, anticipating Sam’s question. “Galileo—Gally for short—is a male peregrine falcon—what we call a tiercel. He’s not something we’d fly in a group.”
“Falcons are typically flown alone in early morning or late afternoon. Some ‘long wingers’ like to fly using thermals to get lift during the middle of the day, and others avoid them out of fear of losing a falcon that has soared too far.”
“That tiercel wouldn’t let a thermal keep him from finding Hank,” Mike said, smiling. “He’s too old and too smart to go looking for something better than what Hank can give him.” Shutting the back of his truck, he grinned at Mary Kate. “Even if he did decide to wander off, the two of them have been together so long I don’t think either of them would know what to do without each other.”
“How long has he had him?” Sam asked.
Mike stopped to ponder. “Let’s see…I’ve been flying birds since…” he gave a dramatic shrug that made the others laugh, “oh, about thirty years or so. Hank was in this before me, but not too long. We started as teenagers, you know. He pulled Gally from the wild when it was still legal, before the DDT problem. And later he gave him as a breeder to the Peregrine Fund for a while. Aw, he’d be the best one to ask.”
“I wish we could see him fly,” said Sam.
“Well, maybe Hank’ll take you out sometime,” said Mike, coming back to stand with them.
Sam looked dubious.
Mary Kate laughed. “Sam’s seen Hank when he was not at his personal best.”
Mike gave a knowing look of amusement and then motioned for them all to load up.
“Follow me, hon. I’m in the green minivan.” Mary Kate trotted off to her vehicle, and Sam hurried to the SUV so as not to be left behind.
The weather remained clear and cold, and Sam gave up on sunshine altogether. She was thankful she’d worn her thermals. There was still no snow, but the temperature was getting there, and everyone was betting on it tomorrow.
After driving through a small town sporting nothing more than a cluster of faded buildings in need of fresh paint and mobile homes that had to be decades old, the line of vehicles turned off the highway. They followed a gravel road, which emptied out onto bumpier dirt roads, making Sam glad for the four-wheel drive. The trail crested over a large hill, and miles of flat, sagebrush plain spread out before them. The “roads” through this sagebrush desert were long, snaky, dirt bike paths winding on with no end in sight.
Crawling forward, the line of vehicles kicked up a fine layer of silt-like dust that made visibility difficult if they got too close to each other. The dirt was powder fine, giving the whole valley floor a whitish cast that strengthened the impression it went on forever, blurring the line of where slate sky met the indefinite horizon. They climbed higher along the edge of the nearest mountain, the valley expanding wider and farther to the left beneath them. Coming down the ridge trail, which emptied out into the vast flatness, they turned onto a dirt road with deep ruts from past rains and tire tracks. The SUV bumped and jerked more than Sam was accustomed to, but she was comforted to see the little truck hold tight to the path as long as she followed in the tracks of the more experienced drivers.
A voice from her past admonished her for taking such risks, but she laughed out loud, recognizing it as her mother’s and then hers with her son. It had kept her safe—too safe—so nothing bad ever happened, and nothing interesting, either.
She thought of Jason, her twenty-two-year-old son, who was finishing college and on the fast track to a corporate career in finance. He was so much like what her ex-husband and she had wanted him to be. He still came home on the weekends to do laundry while he attended school nearby. His father, now living in Chicago, had offered him a chance to interview for a position in his company after graduation next June. His reaction to her news about her health and the possibly bad prognosis had thrown him into a tailspin, and now it was a constant battle to convince him to strike out on his own.
As Sam sat taller, straining to see the ruts in the road ahead through the clouds of dust enveloping her bouncing vehicle, she regretted never taking her son into untamed places like this. Risking discomfort, getting dirty, maybe even lost—what a different picture he would have of life if he saw his all-too-perfect mom at a loss in less than perfect circumstances. She remembered his face during their last conversation, before she’d left for the weekend. Hell, he’d practically called her crazy when he had found out where she was going and what she was planning to do.
Well, maybe she was crazy.
Slip: Releasing a hawk to fly at flushed quarry
Chapter Six
The trucks and vans pulled off the main path, single file, and parked to the right. Sam grabbed her hat and gloves and went to meet Mary Kate and the others, who were gathered around Mike’s truck.
Mike had parked his truck next to a black SUV that had arrived ahead of them. Walking closer, she saw a series of compartments lining the opened back of the rig, and mounted inside was a perch where a hawk or falcon rode during travel. A thin man in blue jeans, a faded flannel jacket, and a worn baseball cap walked around the side of the vehicle and turned to acknowledge them. It was Hank, and on his glove was a bird bearing the classic, dark head coloration of the peregrine falcon. His long fingers unfastened a tiny silver tube trailing an ultra-slim piece of plastic from the bird’s leg, while it focused on its meal, something covered with feathers from the look of it. The falcon paused from his breakfast to eye them, then returned to tearing at the meat held in the glove. So, this must be Galileo.
“How’d he do, Hank?”
Hank scratched his face, which was ruddy from the morning cold. He sported a slight blond beard, evidence he’d not cared to shave that morning.
“We had a couple tail chases on starlings—mostly clowning around today. I wanted to get him out and stretch his old bones. He took a good pitch once, though. I was glad to see he still has the moxie to do that and stoop to the lure. He got his breakfast before you came up.”
Though he answered Mike’s questions and turned to face the group, his eyes never left the falcon. Gally finished his food and did something Sam had only read about while studying for the falconry exam: he rubbed his beak back and forth on Hank’s glove to clean his beak, which was called feaking. This was a happy and contented bird, fresh with exercise, and full of food. Sam smiled in spite of her earlier resolve to keep her excitement at bay. Gally roused, shook himself, and flared his feathers out before he smoothed them all back into place. It
must have been the signal Hank was waiting for, because he reached for a leather hood and placed it in front of the falcon’s head. To Sam’s surprise, the bird didn’t balk or try to pull away from it. Rather, he pushed his beautiful face into the hood as if he had been waiting for it. Using his teeth and his free hand, Hank pulled the straps at the back of the hood, closing it around the falcon’s head and put him back on his perch in the traveling box.
“What’s that?” Sam whispered to Mary Kate, pointing to the long antenna device Hank had removed from the falcon’s leg.
Hank preempted Mary Kate’s response. “Telemetry. You’ve heard of radio tracking or radar?”
Sam nodded, nervous at his direct response, and at the same time piqued with herself for being nervous.
“These birds can fly for miles out of human eyesight. He can see me, but much of the time I can’t see him.” He reached into the bag strapped across his chest and pulled out a stuffed leather dog toy in the shape of a duck, which was tied to a string. “If I swing this lure, he’s supposed to come back. If he doesn’t, then I grab this and go looking for him.” He dropped the leather duck into the back of his rig and reached for a device resembling a gun in a holster. The device opened up into a collapsible antenna, like a television aerial you would have seen on someone’s roof decades ago, but smaller. He held out the small silver tube and long plastic antenna he’d taken off the falcon’s leg. “As long as he’s wearing this transmitter, I’ll have a pretty good chance of finding him.”
“So, what are we flying today?” Mike called out. “We’ve got four, no five, Harris hawks?” He scanned the group, and several agreed, including Mary Kate.
“Hank,” Mary Kate called out to him, “have you got Remo with you?”
“What do you think?” He gave her a grin without bothering to look at her.
“Yeah, yeah,” she groused.
“Guess you Harris hawkers are up first,” said Mike. “There’s lots of jack and a wash full of cottontail holes straight ahead.”