In the Beginning

A Close Encounter of the Diurnal Raptor Kind

(or "An Unavoidable Meeting")

     October is a month of transition.  Things change during October.  The jet stream brings in cold air from the north, deciduous leaves begin a slow but magical transformation into vibrant colors, and jackets come out of the closet on a more permanent basis.  Where I live you can even see snow frosting the very tips of the mountains, often in the very earliest days of October.

     For me, the transition into fall has always been a favorite time of year.  Really, it's inexplicable.  But that's okay.  Explanations aren't always necessary.  One transition in the fall of 2013 brought new life in a time when everything was either dying or going dormant.  And that's just what I needed.

     May 26th of 2013 I was laying on a hospital gurney in the emergency room of the clinic in Yosemite Valley connected to an EKG machine unable to catch my breath and feeling like my heart was going to beat out of my chest.  My hands and feet were numb and I was having an incredible adrenaline rush that would not go away.  I was 36 years old, believing I was having a heart attack, and wondering if I was going to make it out alive.

     Diagnosis: panic attack.  If any of you have been there, you can surely empathize with the confusing whirlwind of emotions I was having.  You may also understand the level of self-analyzing and self-reflecting that it leads one to do.  To say that my knees were taken out from under me is a complete understatement.  I was lost.

     Over the course of the ensuing months I felt directionless.  Anxiety controlled everything I did.  I would feel anxious waking up, about getting ready for the day, about my kids going to school, the conversations I would have with my wife, etc., etc., etc..  I was relying on a medication to take away the feelings of anxiety.  Even that made me feel anxious.  I was in a downward spiral of fear and depression completely unsure of the future or where I was going to end up.

     One wise man had a tidbit for me that gave some insight into how I could move forward into a pattern of healing.  He asked me about the times in my life where my mind could not be freed to wander into uncontrolled worry or fear.  He asked me to think about what I was doing during those moments and to consider why they were free from those feelings.

     I pondered this for some time.  I reported to him that I felt none of those feelings when I was involved in activities that required my full and total concentration.  He agreed, then asked me why I thought that was.  I confessed that I didn't know.  He said that it was due to that fact that in those moments I was "living in the present".  Mildly confused, I asked him what he meant.

     "Those are times when you have no thought in your head about anything other than what you are doing then and there.  You are completely present and concentrated only on the immediate circumstance".  Again, I pondered.  As his words sunk in I realised that what he was saying to me was that the anxiety I was experiencing was based on a fear of things I had created in my head, but had no foundation in reality.  I was allowing my mind to wander down imagined paths which terminated in a convincing conclusion without rationale.

     A light had been turned on in the darkness in which I felt encapsulated.  But how could I stop the runaway thought trains that worried me and had brought me to this point?

     Another wise man, who hosts a weekly radio program in my area, presented an acronym on his show for the word "fear": False Evidence Appearing Real.  Brilliant!  This idea was in direct accordance with my previous conversation.  I spent the next few months in deep introspective thought.  Through this time I recognized the many patterns in my life which had contributed to the episode in May.

     Through all of this I found myself spending more and more time in the mountains.  They have always been a breeding ground of peace and tranquility for me and often times afford the stillness required to effectively quiet my nerves.  It was one such time, while I was strolling a footpath surrounding an alpine lake near my home, that a chance encounter began a transition into a real path of healing.

     I am a photographer by trade.  On this day I brought along my camera for no other reason than  simply hoping to photograph something and get my mind off everything.

     While I wandered, taking in the crisp mountain air and listening to my shoes crunch in the freshly fallen snow, a Stellar's Jay flew briskly by and perched in an aspen tree near the trail.  It's not uncommon to find a variety of birds at this lake, but today would prove rewarding.  I lifted my telephoto lens, targeted the bird, focused, and released the shutter.

     I followed this bird, and its companion which arrived shortly thereafter, into the forest and away from the trail.  Though I was not then aware of it, this was a metaphor for what was happening at that very moment in my life.  These birds effortlessly flitted about under the canopy of trees.  I followed, snapping image after image, until I could no longer see them.

     I made my way back to the trail and wandered some more.  It was then that another piece of the transitional puzzle fell into place.  A middle aged woman and her boyfriend were coming the opposite direction on the trail, both sporting a pair of binoculars and speaking a vernacular foreign to me though I recognized the English tongue.

     She raised her binoculars to spot something near the shore of the lake.  "Belted Kingfisher" she whispered to the man beside her.  I peered toward her point of focus, but couldn't see anything except trees and water.  I mustered a little courage and asked her what she was looking at.  "A Kingfisher perched in that tree down by the water's edge" she said pointing in the same direction as before.  I had no binoculars, but did have my 200mm lens.  I aimed, released the shutter, then looked at the monitor on the back of my camera.  There it was!

     I was captivated!  I couldn't recall ever seeing such a bird as this.  The woman and her boyfriend shared some information about this bird and how it hunted fish from shallow freshwater sources like this lake.  All the while I could only concentrate on this amazing sight.

     The couple and I eventually parted ways with a friendly salutation and I made my way through the snow down the slope to the water's edge to see if I could get a closer shot of this interesting bird.  I slogged away, head spinning with thoughts of how I could get an incredible shot of a Belted Kingfisher, my mind on nothing else.

     There, squatted in the melting snow and run-off on the shores of the lake, my fall transition was about to come to fruition.  It was there that the conversations of the past months I had with those wise men was coming into full meaning.  I wasn't thinking of anything but how to get that shot, that one shot of a Belted Kingfisher that would be National Geographic worthy.  No fearful thoughts or doomed feelings were present.  No careening thought trains were derailing my mind.  I was focused and totally in the moment.

     Out of the corner of my eye a shape formed and came low along the surface of the water.  It was headed directly toward me.  I froze still under the pine tree that I was using for cover.  Broad wings spread and slowed the speed of a massive bird that alighted in the tree directly above me.  I looked up to meet the gaze of a BEAUTIFUL female Osprey staring down at me as if to say: "Welcome to a new world".

     I couldn't raise my camera.  I could only observe.  For a moment that seemed like hours I watched as the piercing stare of this magnificent bird studied its surroundings.  The thought came to me that I should take a photograph, if I could.  I cautiously raised my camera and snapped a shot.

     She lifted off with ease and grace from the tree and began a low banking patrol over the surface of the water.  I was spellbound.  As far as I was concerned there was nothing else going on in the world.  I just watched.  The Osprey made a left bank and the sunlight lit up her plumage against the blue sky.  Through the camera I could see that she had her gaze fixed on me.  I wondered if she was aware of what I was experiencing and how I would never be the same from this point on.

     For the next hour I watched this bird unfold the story of a world outside of my own head.  She hunted fish, diving from perches in tall trees near the edge of the water.  Then, taking them off to some other location to eat, she would disappear.  Eventually she would return and watch from another locale for a while.

     I resigned to the idea that I would need to be heading home soon.  As I walked along the footpath to my car I felt something I hadn't felt in a while.  Peace.  The world felt like an okay place to be.  I was renewed.

     When I started my car I wondered if I would ever have an experience like this one again.  The engine noise broke the silence of the mountains.  I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road only to spot the Osprey atop a pole nearby continuing her story in this serene mountian domain.

     One more time, I stared at this bird with nothing else on my mind.  Finally, I lifted my foot off the brake and slowly rolled forward to go home.  I was changed.

     I have yet to see the same Osprey.  I believe that she was a harbinger for the fall transition that birding would bring for my cluttered mind.  That time near the lake will burn forever in my mind as the start of my healing process.  On that day I found therapy for what I suffered with. I alone, in due time, will understand its full merit.