Elusive Chickadees, a Proud Hawk, and Lessons from God All Part of a Wander in the Wilderness

Friday, Apr. 07, 2017

Sunday morning found me under cloudy skies heading to the Bell Canyon waterfall. For the first time since the year started I had an entire day free of work and study: I had taken the final for my theology class the night before, and no work events were scheduled, so I intended to wander through the wilderness without worrying about the clock. The household chores could just wait.

I was in Bell Canyon primarily because someone said they’d seen a Cooper’s hawk there, and I wanted to add a photo of one to my collection. That morning at the trailhead, however, the first thing I noticed was the gray light, which boded ill for getting decent shots.

Determined to enjoy myself anyway, I headed up the trail. No sooner had I left the parking lot behind than a rufus-sided towhee went “chwink” in the brush. I turned my head toward the call, and that little black bird with the distinctive red sides was kind enough to pose atop a shrub for a photograph.

“OK,” I told God, “It’s not a Cooper’s hawk, but I have checked another species off my list. Now I am just going to be open to whatever else the day brings.”

Which, as it turned out, involved a lot of misses. At the lake there was only one Canada goose and a couple of mallards, despite the fact that according to one of my fellow hikers, the day before it had been filled with waterfowl. A woman heading down the trail told me that she frequently sees mountain goats on the west side of the canyon, but even though I looked and looked, I didn’t spot any. Then a group passed me and said there was a moose at the lake.

A moose? What moose? I’d walked slowly by and hadn’t seen any moose. 

Yet another disappointment came in the form of a large patch of slick snow covering the final stretch of trail to the waterfall. Wary of slipping and falling and breaking my camera, I turned back, although I had wanted to see the waterfall because I’ve never been there.

On the way down the trail I found chickadees flitting through the pines, and saw a flash of yellow that indicated a golden-crowned kinglet, but none of them paused for more than a moment, and I need at least a moment and a half to focus the lens. 

Then the occasional droplets from the sky turned into a heavy rain, and a blister developed on my heel. Deciding that capturing the birds on film could wait for another day, I turned my attention to getting home. I did, however, keep the camera out, because I held onto one tiny hope that despite the downpour I might still get one more decent photo.

That hope, small as it was, diminished with every step until it was only because I just couldn’t muster the energy to stop and undo and unzip and reorganize that I didn’t pack the camera away. I trudged wet and cold down the trail. Then suddenly, around the next bend, I saw a light-colored blob perched high on a snag. That blob soon transformed itself into the breast of a Cooper’s hawk.

A Cooper’s hawk! The reason I had come to the trail in the first place! I swung up the camera and took one, two, three frames, perfectly metered and focused, as you can see. 

Walking on with lightened heart, I realized that photo wasn’t the only gift God had given me that day. I had the opportunity to lay on a granite stone next to the rushing creek and muse about the words from the Lenten retreat the day before, at which Cecilia von Bertraub said we need to spend time with God, and Dominican Father Sergio Serrano asked in his homily whether Jesus will cry when he comes to my funeral, as he did at the death of his friend Lazarus.

Do I treat Jesus as a friend? I did ponder this question throughout my walk, when I wasn’t busy failing in my attempts to take pictures of birds. After the success of the photo of the hawk, it occurred to me that my pursuit of my faith is very similar to that day’s trek: Sometimes God calls my attention as clearly as did the towhee. Sometimes he gives other people moments that I want, but he offers me different meaningful experiences. And maybe I will miss chance after chance after chance, but our God is the God of second chances, and he will keep presenting them until we finally get it. 

The final lesson of the day was embodied by the Cooper’s hawk: Even when all hope is gone, God will remain, perched high above, waiting to swoop in and reward us for calling him friend.