Pastor, you heard about what happened. That deputy didn’t quit easy.
* * *
“Seriously, Deputy, you want me to tell you again?”
“Yes,” he said. “Tell me again what happened with the bird.” His eyes didn’t move.
“It glowed and disappeared, just like I said the last two times. You were there. You saw it.”
“Start from the beginning.”
I was hiking up Mount Ketala, on my favorite trail. I’d done it a dozen times before. It was a rare cloudless day, and the surrounding cliffs glowed in cool sunlight. I was at the overlook above the gorge when, out of nowhere, this falcon came at me. Flapping and twisting hard. Right above my head.
I cowered, thinking it was about to attack. Its wings and tail spread wide. My heart was hammering, and then I had this sudden impression, clear as anything, that it wanted to land. A peaceful calm came over me. I still don’t know where that came from. I straightened and held out my arm.
It landed. Its talons didn’t hurt as they tightened on my arm. It was lighter than I expected—about a pound.
It just looked at me with piercing black eyes. I stared back trying to figure out what I was supposed to do. Its feathers had a faint musky scent. A hood of dark feathers wrapped its head; a black slash ran from each eye like war paint. It was a peregrine falcon, no mistake.
The whole thing felt weird somehow, unnatural, but I wasn’t afraid.
That’s when I saw the metal. A small piece sticking out of its head. Like a small nail or a fish hook. I reached for it, slow, thinking maybe I could help.
That was a mistake.
The moment I touched it, the bird reacted. Its talons tore into my jacket. Wings beating, it pulled away, then settled back again. There was no blood. Not mine. Not its.
That’s when I understood. It wanted help, just not from someone who didn’t know what he was doing.
I started down the mountain, and it stayed with me. Like I was its perch. I tried to look casual, in case we ran into anyone—like, doesn’t everyone hike with a raptor on their arm? I prepped myself with: Dude, this is the most normal thing in the world. Luckily, we didn’t see another soul.
All I could think about was getting to Dr. McFadden, you know, the veterinary surgeon in Redstone County. I worried about how the bird would handle the truck. I didn’t have a hood. I figured it would just have to stay calm.
When we reached the truck, it hopped onto the passenger seat like it knew what to do.
At the clinic, Molly’s eyes went wide. Her face drained of color. She muttered something about getting the doctor and nearly tripped over her chair on the way out.
Dr. McFadden came in, took one look, and told Molly to call Ruth Halvorsen, the rehabilitator. He took the bird gently and headed for the exam room.
When the bird realized I wasn’t following, it raised hell. Flapping. Squawking. When the doctor stopped, it settled. It never took its eyes off me. I had this strong sense it wanted me to stay with it. After a couple more tries, the doctor sighed and motioned for me to come along.
He hooded the bird, sedated it, then anesthetized it. A small mask guided its breathing. He explained what he was doing. Stabilization. Imaging. Evaluation. He told me that in cases like this, the final decision belonged to the rehabilitator, based on his assessment. I understood. At least I thought I did.
After the X-ray, everything changed.
“Removing it may kill the bird,” he said. “Leaving it may kill it more slowly. How we proceed isn’t up to me.”
“What do you mean, not up to you?” My chest was tight. “What happens now?”
“It’s Ruth’s call,” he said. “Our obligation is to minimize suffering. If this bird dies on the table, I can’t justify putting it through that. And you need to understand—this is out of your hands, too. Peregrine falcons are federally protected.”
I stood there, listening, while something inside me kept getting louder. Hotter.
I didn’t plan it. I just moved. Grabbed the bird and ran. I heard him shout to call the sheriff and Fish and Game.
I tore out of the lot, tires squealing, the bird still hooded on the seat.
Deputy, I’m not a hero. That whole drive, all I could think about was my screwy life. Losing my wife because I wouldn’t quit drinking. Losing job after job because I never felt good enough. I earned two degrees and I still felt inadequate. Being alone because I never made the effort. I ended up in church, but nothing seemed to change. I didn’t feel different.
Hiking and faith were the only good things I had left.
On the way, I prayed. Over and over. “Lord, I don’t know why this bird came to me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how this ends. But I’m choosing to trust you.”
“All right,” the Deputy said. “Get back to what happened next.”
I was about a mile from home when you and the wildlife officer caught up to me. Lights flashing. I slowed down but kept going. I can only imagine what the neighbors thought.
The bird was awake by then. I took off the hood, opened the door, and set it on my arm.
You both told me to hand it over and get on the ground. You said I was under arrest. Unlawful possession of wildlife. Interference with permitted care. Taking a federally protected bird.
I understood. I really did.
But the bird kept looking at me. And I knew what it wanted. I reached for the metal, pulling slow and careful.
You were both there. You saw it.
The falcon began to glow. Slowly at first, just around the edges. Then it became a dove surrounded by golden light. It lifted from my arm. Glowing brighter, larger, until it soared into the air and disappeared.
“Tell me again: what it said to you.”
It said, ‘What you’ve done for me, do for yourself. Remove the lies from your head.’
“And what does that mean?”
“I don’t know, Deputy. But I think it has something to do with my thoughts on that drive.
“Prove to me this wasn’t some trick. What did you do with the falcon?”
I’m no magician. What you saw is what happened.
“I can’t put that in my report.”
“Let’s talk,” the wildlife officer said to the deputy, and they stepped away.
“You’re free to go,” the deputy said. “We have no evidence. The object of the investigation no longer exists.”
Back home I kept thinking about what the dove said about removing lies. Lies I’ve been telling myself. That’s when I knew—I couldn’t do this alone.
* * *
That’s the story, Pastor.
He leaned back, quiet for a moment.
“That is quite a story,” the Pastor said. “Let’s start by figuring out what lies you’re carrying. Tell me about ‘not being good enough.’”