A few years ago, I spent a glorious three-day weekend at the beginning of summer hiking around in the forest up north. My last day there, some faint noises and an unexpected flash of color from off the side of the trail led me to a tiny fledgling, newborn and nearly blind. It had apparently fallen from its nest, and was now dragging an injured wing.
A nature-lover since the school camping trips of my youth, I recognized the bird as a very rare -- indeed, endangered -- species. I had seen the species in books on occasion, but in person only a few times at a distance. As a fledgling it was unremarkable, brownish gray feathers with a few streaks of bright color that had attracted my notice. I knew though what it could grow into, and I was seized then with a desire that it should grow, that this injured fledgling, rare and precious yet alone and forgotten, should have the chance at becoming full-grown. I gently scooped up the fledgling in a nest of pine needles and returned to my car, holding it close against my chest.
My first step was directory assistance. Placing a few calls with my mobile phone, however, I learned that none of the nearby animal shelters or hospitals would take this fledgling. If it were an adult bird, fully-grown, maybe; if it were some other species, more popular, certainly; but an injured fledgling, however rare...I sensed they just didn't want the risk of it dying on their watch. Well, "if you want something done right..." and all that. I picked up a cage, some seeds and a water bottle on the way home, and welcomed the bird into my life.
Or at least, I tried to. It was tough going at first, for both of us. I did happen to know a specialist who was able to give me advice in stabilizing the injured wing with a gauze wrapping, but I worried constantly for the first week that I was causing the fledgling greater injury. It proved a worrisomely finicky yet voracious eater, too: it soon had me digging in the dirt of my backyard morning and night for all manner of long worms and odd comma-shaped grubs. In-between I had a job I loved that kept me busy, but a random word or comment could distract me with thoughts of the bird at any time. The odd hours I kept during the summer seemed to influence it, as it often remained silent all day only to jerk me upright with its calls for attention just as I was beginning to drift off to sleep late at night. Some few visitors to my house it welcomed with affection -- the quieter, more considerate sorts -- but most it treated with a cool disdain. I actually had to remind myself not to treat those friends with any disdain of my own, just because they didn't understand my obsession.
Because oh, as it grew under my care, it became a stunning sight. No longer a fledgling, it had burned through a progressively larger series of cages over the months as summer turned to fall. When its new growth of feathers came in, and the browns and grays were replaced by a brilliantly vibrant pattern of red, white, orange and blue, it was like a living flame. The gauze wrap was long since removed and while it might always favor one wing over the other ever so slightly, it seemed quite capable of flight when I let it out of its cage to exercise (invariably a messy proposition). It was enormously satisfying to see it grow, but it also became clear (I thought) that it had no further need for me.
It was then that I placed another call, this time to the forest warden. I explained that I had a bird to release back into the forest, and asked what that entailed. The warden had a number of suggestions, training to ensure my houseguest was able to survive on its own once in the wild: I realized my self-appointed task was not yet complete. That bittersweet work took the balance of the winter, knowing that our ways would soon be parting but understanding that I was doing my best to prepare it for the world outside my door.
And so it was that the following spring I returned to the forest. And so it was that I released the bird that I had spent so much of my time nurturing. It was my gift back to the forest that had given me such pleasure all my life; my gift back to fellow nature-lovers. Most people will never see it, many will not recognize it for what it is. But every now and then, I get a post card, or an e-mail, from someone who saw it during their own journey in the forest: "we recognized it because it favored one wing over the other" they say with a wink; "we saw it foraging for odd comma-shaped grubs"; or "we recognized it because we heard its call just as we were falling asleep in our camping bags." The best note I ever got, though, was from someone who said they saw it nesting. I had done my part to ensure that the species, so very rare, had a chance to live on.
MattD