Swensday Stuff

Bald Eagle
Swen Nater

When I was in my thirties, I was hiking alone in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Ignorant about how quickly it gets dark in the mountains after the sun goes down, I could not find my way back to my camper and had to settle for the night. I circled some large rocks and built a campfire to stay warm. I got comfortable, lying down with my head supported by a rolled-up sleeping bag, the flickering light revealed a half-dead bird just yards away. It was a Bald Eagle. I was well aware it was a protected bird but the fact it was destined to die, supported by the hunger pangs in my stomach, allowed me to rationalize. So I plucked that bird, put a stick through it, barbequed it beautifully, and had a very tasty meal.

Just moments after my last bite, a forest ranger happened by. I was relieved to see him; I would not have to spend the night in the forest. However, when he noticed the white feathers on the ground, he said, “Did you just eat a Bald Eagle?” Confident but a little concerned, I told him I had and that I had a very good story that he would  surely accept. He didn’t allow me to tell the story and, instead, said, “You’re coming with me. We’re going to lock you up so far, you’ll never get out.” I pleaded once more but to no avail. I spent the night in jail.

The next morning, the ranger took me to the courthouse in front of the judge. The judge said, “So you killed and ate a Bald Eagle last night.”

I said, “Yes, Sir; I did. But I have a very good excuse for doing so.”

The judge was more understanding than the ranger and allowed me to speak. I told him the whole story. After I finished, he said, “OK; I’m buying your story and I’ll let you go this once. But before you go, I want you to tell me how Bald Eagle tastes.”

I replied, “Well, it’s somewhere between a Spotted Owl and a California Condor.”

After my parole, I never went hiking again. And, if anyone were to ask me what Bald Eagle tastes like—it tastes like chicken.