The map placed the Word Center for Birds of Prey on Boise's outskirts, among scattered suburban-style housing. But the map paid no mind to the unique perch upon which the facility sat.
On an isolated, steep hill which separated Boise from the desert-like Snake River Plain, the Peregrine Fund and its World Center for Birds of Prey . Its windswept top sheltered a handful of buildings, several outdoor enclosures for birds accustomed to harsher conditions and a half-constructed California condor habitat.
I never tired of the bald eagle's majesty, but the rest of the quartet was just as interesting- the Ornate Hawk-Eagle from Central and South America perked up its wild head plumage as a I walked past, the Gyrfalcon squawked and playfully jumped between perches, and the Bateleur Eagle. The center doesn't nab wild birds for display; none of them housed there can live in the wild anymore, so they become education birds.
The most striking was the peregrine falcon brought out by a handler. The bird produced a startling array of sounds when introduced, which the handler said was part of a greeting ritual and the anxiety of mating season. The bird gave an advanced battery of clicks and squawks; the handle said the raptor had not seen him yet that morning, resulting the noise.
At 14, this was an old male falcon, but one with an interesting story. Raised by the fund when it still bred peregrines for release, he had trouble grabbing his food as a chick; upon release, he crashed into a tree. Because his eyesight was so bad, he couldn't survive in the wild anymore. This near-sighted boy can sympathize.
Instead, they turned him into an education bird, who outlived most of his wild brethren. Along with the state motto, "Esto perpetua" ("Let it go on forever," or as I inaccurately like to think of it, "Long may you run"), a peregrine falcon graces Idaho's state quarter thanks to the Peregrine Fund's efforts to save it. Due to the mountain bluebird, isn't even the state bird (although has been named the state raptor), but this falcon effectively serves as a symbol of an important bird species which escaped endangered status.
On urging of a friendly docent at the center, I headed south to the Snake River Canyon and the Natural Conservation Area which surrounded the river. For nearly a half-hour, I traversed miles of barren desert, tumbleweeds and the occasional crow the only signs of life beneath the howling, tempestuous wind. At times, it felt as if approached the edge of the world; what life existed here needed steely determination.
Up to the first overlook, the great gouge in the terrain offered bare hints of its existence. The green plummet down to the Snake finally broke up all the brown. I didn't catch sight of any large raptors, just a few small hawks diving for prey among the scrub.
When the road ended at Declaration Point, I could either turn around and descend the canyon. After passing the decommissioned damn, the paved road gave way to gravel-filled ruts on the flood plain, which also held an immense field of boulders larger than my car. I rumbled through, careful not to get lost on the numerous side paths which crisscrossed each other and quickly roamed away from the main road.
Below those steep walls, the cataclysm from the Ice Age grew apparent - only a magnificent force of water could move such massive stones. The canyon was not without life; the birds I couldn't see from the overlook were evident here. A rousing chorus of bird calls from the craggy cliffs above the river.
Although it might have been wishful thinking, the loudest of those calls sounded stunningly similar to the bald eagle's at the Peregrine Fund. With no way to search for the eagles in the canyon - those bluffs towered at least 300 feet over the flood plain - I finished the canyon drive and roared across the desert back to Boise.
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