“Pardon me, my slack is showing.” – me.

The past week has been a whirlwind of lumbering, heavy sweating, porch painting, lawn mowing, appointments, beer consumption, and generalized slack.

All of that is my way of saying that while on the outside, I may appear to have my finger(s) in the gaping chest wound of social media and unreadable content creation, I really don’t care much these days, which is a good thing.

I’ve included a post I wrote last week below, then didn’t publish. Read if you want or do not.

Hoping to get out before the heavy storms arrive later today, but if not, there’s always tomorrow. Or not.

Later.

Of Eagles and Bulldogs

I wrote the following last week. I then realized that I wrote, or at least THINK I wrote something similar, about a wildlife interaction a couple of months ago. So, I aborted. I have no photos that relate to the actual words other than a photo of Lola.

Sorry.

— Management

I was about 4 miles in and finishing up a back loop at Deerfield, known as the Covered Bridge Trail; as I briskly made my way back towards said bridge, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an immature bald eagle doing immature bald eagle shit (fishing) down in the river before it heard me coming and quickly took off over my head.

I could hear the flapping of its large wings above as water droplets fell onto the trail in front of me. I could also see that the maturing juvi was starting to turn “bald” with hints of white feathers on its head as it flew majestically (sadly, there really is no other word for it) above, following the winding river with mid-summer greenery flanking its banks. 

I was in awe.

The only camera I had was the small Fuji x70 ensconced tightly in my pack’s pocket; truthfully, I did not even attempt to grab it. I was too in awe and was content to stand completely alone and watch while talking aloud, “Holy shit, look at that!”

I’m not going to lie; my heel was aching, and my mind was distracted by the post-hike trip to Home Despot I needed to make for paint supplies and the actual task of painting the front porch that I promised myself I would start after. But for some reason, seeing that eagle boosted me, and with 4 miles already in my legs, I finished off the remaining mile in front of me with a spring in my increasingly painful step.

I have had multiple bald eagle sightings since I started my near-daily hikes last September, and it never gets old. For me, seeing a bald eagle is like a grizzly bear encounter without the potential paw-to-skull beheading. Somehow it represents that the forest is still wild, and we humans, despite our best efforts to pave over anything green and put up a Dollar General, are just upright walking passengers in nature.

Soon I was home, showered, and off to wander around Home Despot like the unskilled home improver I am to buy paint supplies. After paying, as I walked to my car, I saw a pickup truck in the lot with a cab cover completely wrapped with the image of an angry bald eagle flying with talons at the ready while American flags waved valiantly in the background. 

I then realized yet again that I look at the world differently. Of all my encounters with bald eagles, I have never thought they looked menacing or angry, just beautiful, even when on the hunt. And I’m happy that I am the kind of person who lumbers through life seeing nature and its critters first hand, rather than the sort who turns my vehicle into a garish, jingoistic clown car.

Don’t mess with a bulldog, you’ll get snored on.

As I drove home, I realized that eagles and bulldogs aren’t all that different (Hear me out, gahdamnit!). There are roughly 1.2 million sports teams with an angry English bulldog as their mascot. However, as the owner of two English bulldogs, I can tell you the only thing they ever get angry about is someone interrupting their sleep or forgetting the 2 PM feeding and subsequent post-early bird special treats. 

Later.

They often say, writing a blog post is like that about-to-be outdated meat in the back of the fridge (pooling blood water on the shelf, optional); you want to eat it before it goes full-rancid, but your brain is telling you it already is, so you shamefully, and Imodium-free for the immediate future, dump it down the In-Sinker-Ator and let it go to wherever the hell rancid, and potentially rancid meats dumped down drains go; I’m assuming Florida. I digress.

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