DORREEN YELLOW BIRD COLUMN: Spring brings about renewal
Late in the day March 21, reporters from the Herald headed for the Red Lake Nation. I was driving. We were listening to reports of the Red Lake shootings, changing channels as one station left us and we picked up another.
It was my first trip to the Upper and Lower Red Lakes since full winter. I really enjoy that area -- the trees, the lakes and especially the birds, bears and other animals. But this trip would be different and more difficult.
However, in spite of horror and sadness that I would experience, I found the land -- the new birth, the budding and growth in the woodlands -- soothing and comforting.
That day, the tall wetland grasses still were brown and bent a little from the weight of winter snow. Bare-limbed trees lined the highway like ghostly specters of what we would encounter ahead. When we came to the "T" on the road where state Highway 1 runs directly into Red Lake, I could see an endless white expanse. Fissures were forming across the icy water, a sign the lake was ready to break into ice chunks.
During the next few days, I traveled back and forth between Bemidji and Red Lake as we covered stories for the Herald. It felt strange to feel the joy of the land's awakening and yet sense the awful loss on the reservation.
I came home to Grand Forks a few days later, then returned Saturday for funerals. I wanted to offer my condolences to people I had come to know in the past eight years. My sister rode with me. After we had extended our sympathy, we turned to that backroad again.
As we rounded a curve, in front of us and on a bare-limbed tree that stood only a few feet from the road, was a very large bird. I didn't see a white head, so I knew it wasn't a bald eagle. Bald eagles are common in this area. In fact, they have been seen spiraling toward the heavens in Pipe ceremonies held for the Red Lake people.
This wasn't that bird.
When we came along side the tree, I realized it was a golden eagle, but one of the biggest I've ever seen. My sister nearly dropped her Pepsi and scrambled for the binoculars in the back seat.
The eagle took to flight. Its wing span was amazing. It reminded me of one of those computer-animated birds you see from the age of the dinosaurs. It seemed too big to lift off the tree, but it did and headed into a forest of trees. My sister finally got focused on the bird, but already it was returning to the woods.
We were excited at that chance to see this grandfather eagle.
When we came out of the foothills of the woodlands, we heard and saw calling, flitting and, I thought, smiling by hundreds or even thousands of geese. They covered the field like layer of new snow.
My sister now is alert to birds and bird watching. We spotted another large bird, but half the size of the golden eagle. It flew up as we reached a spot beside it.
I couldn't get my bird book out fast enough to see what it was. I knew it was a hawk. I was straining my eyes to see markings, when suddenly it seemed to turn its head like it was looking back at me and dipped its red tail.
"Thank you, grandmother redtailed hawk," I said out loud.
My sister gave me a strange look, then focused the binoculars in my direction.
High in the sky, thousands and thousands of birds in lazy Vs filled the sky. I wanted to jump out of the car and yell, "Welcome back" at them. But I knew my sister probably would drive away without me if I did.
It was healing, soothing and wondrous to see life in the sky, trees and fields that day. And I thank those bird spirits who brought this message of life when there was so much sorrow.
Mitakuye Oyasin -- we are all related -- Red Lake Nation.
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Last updated on April 04, 2005