A Hawk Watch Reveals the Decline of Species

Its sculptured image adorns our coins and flagpoles and it appears on countless other logos we encounter every day. We see it so much that the picture of the bald eagle fades into the background of our minds. Yet its potency is not lost, only dormant. When a stranger learns you study birds, the instant question is, "Do you ever see eagles?"

Thirty years ago the answer might have been uncertain, for the glimpse of a distant migrating eagle was a rare treat for the most avid of watchers. Here in the East, bald eagles only nested on the wild rivers and shores of Maine and the Maritimes. Now many questioners have already seen an eagle themselves, for there are five breeding pairs on the lower Connecticut River and eleven active nests in the state.

Many more are migrating through our area as well. At the hawk watch site in West Granville, Tom Swochak and John Weeks of Westfield have been monitoring the passage of migrating hawks and songbirds nearly every day since September 1. They started out wilting under the late summer sun, and now they brave the biting winds of early winter. It was thirty years ago when we discovered this beautiful site, a bare ledge outcrop where wild blueberries grow with a commanding view in all directions.

There was a time when we would rejoice when a bald eagle came by once or twice a year. Now the watchers have to be careful they don't include the "local resident eagles" with their count of migrating birds. Tom explains to me that they have a pair of adults and one sub-adult that regularly soar up above the Cobble Mt. Reservoir or cruise to or from it on short hops.

We have to follow the path of every eagle, waiting for it to circle high into the sky and then glide off to the distant southwest, on its way to a winter home on the Chesapeake Bay perhaps. There many eagles will find open water and the fish they need to survive until spring.

There were several of us on the mountain recently, enjoying too few hawks moving past. A red-tailed hawk would appear near the northeast horizon, circling to gain height, drifted back by the stiff southwest breeze. When high enough, the bird would glide directly into the wind, riding it as far as it could until it skirted the treetops. With a such head wind they take many minutes to move by, but we have to follow each one to be sure it is migrating.

Occasionally a harrier would course by, but there are never many of this threatened marshland species, now almost as rare as the bald eagle once was. The sharp-shinned flight was dwindling down to a few, with the season total over 1000 birds. It was too few for this now-declining species, which hunts the dwindling numbers of tropical songbirds. The loss of habitat is affecting songbirds and hawks alike.

The bald eagle has recovered from its decline, and now we seek the thrill of seeing one ever yet closer. On the mountain that day we were gazing westward at a distant hawk, when someone looked behind us and caught a glimpse of a large bird close and overhead. We all turned at his exclamation and found an adult bald eagle, not fifty feet above us, and gliding slowly toward us to the west.

We watched in mostly stunned silence, with just a few murmurs of admiration and praise. Perhaps the bald eagle is a scavenger of dying fish, but there is no denying the majesty of that sight. It was just one of the local birds, but we did not complain.

The eagle was a live version of the images in our mind. The white feathers of the head and tail shone in the sun and the long, straight wings bore the brown barrel of a body onward effortlessly. The break line and nostril on the huge yellow bill were clearly visible, giving the bird a mysterious grinning expression. I imagined there was just a touch of disdain on that "smiling" face. If we save a wild creature from the ravages we ourselves inflict, then we are the ones who should be grateful.