frankie evans & the great heron rescue

---

thirty-one & counting

Scott and I celebrated our 31^st wedding anniversary on the 16^th of July. Most years we (our three girls included) like to honor the occasion by spending a warm summer’s eve kayaking lazily around a local pond. It’s become something of a family tradition, but not because it’s the way Scott would prefer to spend the day. He’s pretty happy and chill once he’s actually out on the water and bobbing along in his colorful little boat, but the prep work to get there and back again makes him extremely grumpy (loading five kayaks, unloading five kayaks, parking a trailer loaded with five kayaks in a nonexistent parking lot, etc.). Honestly, he only does it because it makes me so happy, and I love him for it. Or at least I do once he’s finished growling at everyone.

This year, however, I kindly gave him a choice. Kayaking could be postponed until another day if he’d rather embark on a relaxing hike through the woods instead. After giving it little to no thought, he promptly chose the hike. And I agree that it did seem like it would be much less of an ordeal, on the surface anyway. The only equipment he’d need to pack for this adventure was a full water bottle, and we’d be home by lunchtime where a fresh pot of soup awaited him. It seemed like a no-brainer, and he probably thought he got off remarkably easy. In retrospect, however, I can’t help but wonder if he’d rather we’d wrestled with kayaks instead.

The day was lovely and the hike started out nice enough. Our youngest has a thriving YouTube channel where she connects people to nature through the avenue of birds, and that morning we’d set out with the intention to finally capture some audio of the magical Hermit Thrush.

Photo credit of a Hermit Thrush: by Rick Wunderle from Pixabay

The first time I ever heard a Hermit Thrush sing was several years ago while hiking at this park. I instantly froze in my tracks as the light and mystical sound reached my ears, making me feel like I’d somehow entered another dimension—of fairies perhaps. I found the tinkling sound of chimes through the treetops to be thoroughly enchanting and wondered what special little bird could create such wonder. I’ve never heard another song that can compare to the beauty of this one, so every year since then we've made a habit of returning to bask in the song of these tiny and unassuming birds.

This year was no exception, and we started to hear the faint musical notes the moment we stepped from the car. Following the trail deeper into the woods, the song only got louder until we eventually found ourselves in the midst of a mesmerizing trio. With two perched on one side of the trail and one on the other, the magical bells echoed through the canopy above us from birds I’m never lucky enough to spot. Even more beautiful and inspiring than usual, those moments set the happy tone for our celebratory hike. The beginning of it, anyway.

crayfish & damselflies

The heat and deer flies increased as the morning wore on, but as we made our way around the pond we were cheered by the knowledge that our favorite resting spot lie just up ahead. Sometimes, when it’s just the girls and I out hiking, this spot is actually our destination. We’ve been known to sit on this little bridge for at least an hour while kicking our feet in the stream, listening to the water talk, admiring the shiny-blue damselflies, and searching for elusive crayfish.

Before we reached it on this day, however, two of our girls motioned from up ahead to be quiet and approach quickly. Apparently, there was something we wouldn’t want to miss. Eagerly fast-walking to reach them, I wondered if it could possibly be as mesmerizing as the Hermit Thrush serenade had been.

Catching up, we found a regal Great Blue Heron close to shore, perched on the branch of a long-dead, beaver-felled tree. His wing was held out in their goofy sunning position, and we marveled at how close this reclusive bird was allowing us to get. Whispering excitedly, we watched him with our usual awe.

listen up

Our hikes are, as a general rule, peppered with awestruck moments like these. I expect to find something incredible each time we head out into the woods, and I’m very rarely disappointed. And if you were to ask me what’s the No. 1 secret I’ve discovered in my 50+ years on this planet, I’d tell you this: enchantment is everywhere. Literally, everywhere. All around. All the time.

From hopping toads so tiny they’re almost invisible, to soaring Osprey, to brightly colored mushrooms peeking out from beneath the bed of forest debris—it’s everywhere you turn. Granted, on the surface that may not seem like an earth-shaking revelation, but I promise you that it has turned many heavily depressing days into absolutely magical ones. And it can transform a simple walk in the woods into an awesome adventure. But the tricky part is that you have to remember how to see again—not only with your eyes, but with your heart, too.

Photo credit: Art by Jordan Rae

frankie evans

Like we did as we gazed, thoroughly smitten, on this majestic heron. My birder quickly dubbed him “Frank” based on the throaty, gruff “fronk” squawk that they make (the Evans part comes later). You may find it strange that we’d waste the time to christen a random bird we’d never see again, but we have a habit of naming everything. Literally, everything. And if the critter is a regular part of our lives (like our resident groundhog), then they’re going to get a host of nicknames too. Trust me, it makes perfect sense. And by the end of this post, you’ll be glad we named Frankie Evans too.

.

After a several minutes of love-struck gazing, however, a feeling of unease started to creep in. I didn’t address it with words, but my birder was feeling the very same thing. This was unusual behavior for these dinosaur-like birds, and I decided that I couldn’t leave until he’d taken flight and we knew that all was well. So I slowly and deliberately took a step forward, followed by second and then a third, until my approach finally prompted a response. The big bird tucked in his wing, turned around on the log, and prepared to take flight. Fabulous, I thought, ready to breathe a sigh of relief. Look at that; he’s perfectly fine. Stretching his wings, Frankie jumped off of the log, but instead of soaring gracefully up into the air, he crashed abruptly down into the water.

The five of us watched dumbstruck and horrified as he thrashed, doing his best to keep from drowning. Clearly all was not well, and we silently watched as he finally got purchase on the log and crawled back out of the pond. It was then that we noticed the big, ugly fishing lure attached to his wing with the hook buried somewhere in the flesh below. He hadn’t been sunning; he was injured. And we realized that the only reason he’d let us get so close was because he’d been unable to get away. He’d had no choice. And in an instant, our magical moment took an unexpectedly dark and sad turn.

Once he was firmly back on the branch, we quickly jumped into action. My oldest girl took to the trail, determined to hunt down a park ranger. My youngest girl took to her phone, determined to hunt down a bird rescue. She first reached out to her friend who rehabilitates birds, who then put us in touch with someone at a local bird rescue. This all unfolded agonizingly slow as we impatiently waited for return calls, all while keeping our eyes either glued helplessly to this equally helpless heron, or scanning the trail for the return of our oldest—hopefully with help in tow.

scissors & a net

Eventually we caught sight of our oldest making her way back along the trail with the beach manager close at her heels. When I saw that all he carried in his hands were a small child’s fishing net and a dull pair of scissors, my first thought was something along the lines of: Great. Those look utterly useless. I figured there was no way that either of these “tools” would actually come in handy, but I would soon find myself humbled. Thankfully for Frankie, this beach manager had the foresight to grab all that he had at his disposal, and eventually he would even give us the shirt off his back. Literally. This dude may not have arrived with much, but what he did have ended up saving the day. Three times over.

Around the same time as their return, we received confirmation from the bird rescue that they would take this heron… provided we could catch it. Which, on the one hand, filled us with elation. But which also, on the other hand, filled us with dread. Great Blue Herons stand 3½ feet tall and are in possession of a 7-inch-long dagger of a beak. A beak that effortlessly pierces prey, so our skin (or eyeballs) didn’t stand a chance against this weapon if Frankie, in his fear and pain, chose to use it against us.

But it wasn’t a question of if we were going in after him, just a matter of how. Because the moment we understood this bird’s plight, he became our moral responsibility. Our other option was to leave him there—suffering. And I doubt there was a single one of us who considered that a reasonable option. Obviously, our success wasn't guaranteed, but we couldn't walk away without trying. And besides, the silent thought running through all of our minds was: But what does this mean?

Herons are hugely significant to both Scott and I. They appear in strange and unusual ways right before a large—and often unexpected—shift unfolds in our lives. Like the time when one flew down the middle of the road, directly in front of Scott’s car as he drove along, just days before Scott made the scary decision to leave his secure job of twenty-five+ years. Or the time I sat in my bedroom chair, hopelessly depressed and confused, and the immediate answer to my silent plea was to have a heron fly slowly by my bedroom window. That mesmerizing (and shocking) flight signaled the first steps that I was to take on the journey that, four years later, brought me here. It took me years to fully decipher the message, but still. I knew it was significant, and I wasn't wrong.

translation please

Over time, I’ve translated the message of the heron to mean this: Have patience; change is coming. Typically, those changes have been very good and very welcome, but was the message the same if a heron drowned in front of you? If a magnificent bird was brought down by a rusty hook and some plastic string? If we tried to help, but ultimately failed? And on our anniversary, no less? I didn’t know how to translate this message—no one did—but the foreboding thoughts were there all the same.

There was no time, however, to ponder the mystery of this particular heron message. Not knowing how long Frankie had been trapped there, we felt like there was no time to spare, and despite being sorely unprepared for this type of emergency, we looked to our birder for advice and then quickly formulated a plan. One person was to grab Frankie’s body, while the other person would secure his beak. It sounded straightforward and easy enough until I remembered how impressed I'd been with their speed and strength the time I watched one hunting and spearing his prey. With the same beak one of us would now be holding. Right next to our eyes.

Not sure which side of the tree trunk the heron would jump from once he saw us coming for him, two of us started to wade into the pond on one side of it and two of us on the other. The pond was gross and stinky, as ponds generally are. We couldn’t tell how deep it was through the lily pads and murk, so we had no idea of the underwater landscape. Turns out, it was slippery as heck (which is excessively slippery, if you were wondering), disturbingly spongy, and dropped off so quickly that I almost immediately lost my footing. My birder and I had kept our sneakers on for fear of more fishing hooks, but my eldest and the park manager had chosen not to, for better footing I presume. Picking our way over hidden branches and through pond weeds, we carefully made our way towards the now panicking bird.

Frankie jumped in on the side of my oldest and our park helper, and began thrashing and flapping frantically in an effort to escape us. My daughter was able to rather quickly get her hands on him, which was when we realized that he wasn’t only injured, but also trapped; the fishing line that was still attached to the fishing lure was wrapped tightly around a branch coming off of the tree trunk. Thankfully for us, Frankie either knew that we were his only shot at survival, or else he was in shock; either way, he made no move to attack us as I handed the dull and “useless” scissors to my birder and she began to vigorously saw through the fishing line. Once free, we made our way—slowly and carefully—back out of the slippery pond and as soon as I was able, I wrapped a hand around Frankie's beak.

At the water’s edge, my middle daughter (who’d been studiously filming the event as it unfolded), moved in to put a calming hand on Frankie’s head as he finally began to fight to free himself, realizing the new predicament he was in. He responded much as her chickens always have, and as the Reiki that I offered slowly washed over him, he quieted almost instantly. Birds may not understand English, but he clearly understood our energy. He decided, tentatively, to trust us. For the moment, anyway.

Just before stepping back onto land, I allowed myself a brief moment of wonder, smack dab in the middle of chaos. Looking into Frankie’s gorgeous yellow eye, I realized that I’d probably never be this close to a Great Blue Heron ever again. For just a split second, I allowed wonder to wash over me (a.k.a. enchantment). Here I was, not only touching but attempting to comfort the very bird that had comforted both Scott and I when we really needed it. The moment passed quickly, but I think we all felt the awe before the spell was broken and we were finally able to step up and out of the stinky murk.

You can clearly see the lure on Frankie's back

Things were awkward heading back as my eldest and I tried to navigate a very narrow trail together. Because Frankie had quieted down, my grip on his beak was gentle and light, but at one point our jostling pushed him to make a desperate bid for freedom. Pulling back quickly, his beak slid from my hand and with a loud squawk (FRONK), he lunged towards my face. Twice. In rapid succession. But even though he could have hurt me, he didn’t. Why not? Only Frankie Evans knows the answer to that, but I can't say I'm not grateful for his mercy. I rather like my eyes in their sockets. Where they belong.

But as I was instinctively jumping back to save my face, all I could see was how close this bird still was to my daughter’s face as she resolutely kept her hold on him. Reaching back to our park helper for the second time, I now snatched that “useless” net from his hand and slipped it quickly over Frankie’s head. Firmly re-grasping his beak even though he continued to grind it at me in frustration, I was determined to not repeat that scene again. Hoping to settle him back down, we covered Frankie's head with our park manager's t-shirt, and I commenced talking to him in my ridiculous and rambling "animal" voice. I've found that when animals are scared or in pain, they tend to quiet down with mindless chatter spoken in this singsong tone. Thankfully, it worked on Frankie Evans just as it's worked on our goats, guinea pigs, dogs, cats, and birds over the years: like a charm.

happy anniversary, scott

It was on this endless trek back that I finally thought to ask our very friendly park manager his name, to which he answered: Evan. Couple that with a later strange synchronicity concerning the name Evan, and you now know how Frankie acquired his middle name. To better fill the minutes of what had suddenly become a no-longer-fun anniversary hike, my family turned to a string of jokes. Silly banter. More singsong Frankie-speak. And made light of a situation that didn't feel at all light, which is generally how we deal with intense situations such as these. And even though we’d never met Evan before that day, he fit in with us and our energy seamlessly. I’m not sure what kind of an impression we left on him, but he left a firmly positive one on us. I'm grateful for his shirt, his net, and his scissors, but maybe he wishes we'd gone kayaking that day instead, too.

Back at the beach, our next step was to transfer Frankie safely into a box. This went fairly smoothly, minus the part where we had to free him from the netting he held tightly in the tip of his beak (and for the second time, those dull and useless scissors came in handy). Folding Frankie up accordion-style, we managed to get both his long legs and his long beak neatly into the box.  From there, we made our way to the drop-off location where he would be picked up and driven to the rehab for emergency care.

Waiting for someone to arrive, I started to feel uneasy again. My birder and I held the box between us and we hadn’t felt any movement for a while. Had we saved Frankie Evans from his tether only to have him die en route to the “hospital?” We told ourselves that he was just calm inside the darkness of the box, but it was with great relief that we were able to finally hand him over.

As I made my way back to the car after the transfer of our precious goods, Scott continued to watch as the gentleman who’d taken the box from us brought Frankie Evans to an enclosed porch. We assume he must’ve opened the box once inside, maybe to see if all we’d just handed him was a dead bird. One minute this man was peering down into the box; the next minute a Great Blue Heron silhouette appeared through the screen. Gorgeous, regal Frankie Evans had seen an opportunity to escape and had taken it. The accordion bird stretched himself back out to his full and commanding height, and that’s the picture we took with us as we drove away. He’d be fine, we all laughed. I mean, clearly that bird still has life left in him.

expect the worst

Two endless days passed as we waited for word on Frankie Evans. Finally, my youngest reached out and received a sobering message in return. The necrotic tissue around the wound was fairly extensive and things weren’t looking good. They’d keep us posted, but the unspoken message was abundantly clear: expect the worst.

But we instead remained hopeful and positive, albeit impatient, as we waited for another week to pass before checking in. This time the message deflated us all: they'd been unable to save him. And just like that, Frankie Evans was no more. There would be no recovery. There would be no release. And there would be no happy ending. Frankie Evans was dead.

I was angry. Like, really angry. Not about death because that’s a natural part of life. No, what angered me was the fact that Frankie Evans died a pointless and ridiculous death because a human being was careless. Or lazy. Or stupid. Or maybe all of the above. This wasn’t the first time we’d seen a hook attached to a heron in this park and, sadly, I assume it won’t be the last. But it should be. Because it could be.

I’ve had another week to settle down since receiving the news, a week in which I realized something. Something profound, even. While Frankie’s recovery would indeed have made this saga a triumphant success, even without it this story is still a glorious victory (minus one fisherperson whom I would very much like a heated word with). Because while this story may not be one about delaying death, it will still always be a story about compassion. It’s a hardcore win for the kindness of the human soul and our ability to live from that place—even if only for a few hours.

Especially when I think of Sheida and her Congress of the Birds rehabilitation center. She and her staff/volunteers work tirelessly to give sick, injured, and abandoned wild birds a second chance. They care, deeply, about something other than only themselves, and their lives reflect that every day in the work that they do. Frankie Evans, and all wild birds that find themselves blessed enough to land in Sheida’s care, are lucky birds indeed. Sheida and her team make this story a success.

And when I think about Evan, our friendly beach manager. When he couldn’t get a park ranger to give us a hand, he willingly jumped in to help even though, like us, he’d never had to wrangle a wild heron before. He not only showed up, but he didn’t hesitate to wade into the muck for the sake of this injured bird. He was calm, helpful, and cheerful throughout the whole tense ordeal. When we got back to the beach with Frankie Evans, I realized that neither Evan nor our eldest girl had taken the time to even pause and put their shoes back on for the long trek back over roots, rocks, prickly pine needles and whatever else littered our path. But when I expressed my concern, he only brushed it away with a laugh. Evan makes this story a success.

And when I think of my daughter’s friend Thalia, and her husband Jamie. Both of them were there when we needed help, replying to our somewhat frantic messages and paving the way for us to get in contact with Sheida at the rehab center. They inspire us all the time with their love of and commitment to the birds. Their property is a native, resplendent habitat for our feathered friends. Thalia and Jamie make this story a success.

And when I think of my girls, not hesitating to do what we felt needed to be done. Our safety wasn’t guaranteed, but they forged ahead anyway. They’ve taken their own paths through life, often down unconventional roads, and I’ve encouraged that willingness to not only think but live outside of the box. That takes courage, and I applaud it. But what I applaud even more? When something needed their help—help that they were able to offer—they gave it. Without pause. Our three girls make this story a success.

And Scott. On our anniversary. During what should have been a quiet hike. I can’t help but laugh a little bit when I think about Scott that day, because I feel like he was in as much shock as Frankie Evans was. He watched in disbelief as we all, without any weighing of the risks, stepped into that yucky water. And sure, maybe he was the only one not getting his feet wet that day, but he was our willing and patient chauffeur. And he may not have risked one of his eyes for this particular bird, but every day he makes the commitment to help all birds. By not eating them. Scott makes this story a success.

thanks, frankie evans

Prior to my realization that this is a success story no matter how it ended, I’d been caught up in thinking about how I’m currently looking at a future in which two of my daughters won’t have healthcare because our government has decided they aren’t worthy of it. They don’t fit within the guidelines of what a true and deserving American should be. And honestly, I’ll probably fall into that category myself.

But I believe, emphatically, that our human contributions come in all colors—colors that can’t neatly be labeled, defined, and confined. Our government and leaders may not find them deserving, but I know better. I know we give what we’re capable of giving, and together we complete one glorious and well-rounded whole. Without people like my undeserving girls, the world would be a much darker (and hella boring) place. A place I wouldn't want to live in, and certainly a place I wouldn't want to return to.

To me, “worthy” looks a lot like the people that came to the aid of Frankie Evans that day. People that embody what a kind, giving, and loving human being looks like. People who are brave, compassionate, and caring. Money plays no part in my assessment. Nor does power, prestige, or how many hours they work in a week. Originally, I wasn’t even going to draft this post, let alone share it, until I could confirm that our mission had been a success. Until I could end this with an inspiring video of Frankie Evans being released back into the wild. I wanted a majestic shot of him spreading his wings and flying gracefully away into the sunset. And if I couldn’t get that? Well, then maybe there would be no novella of a post at all.

But then I changed my mind, as I'm prone to do, because even without a triumphant release this story is still a win. Bittersweet, but a win. For kindness. And love.

And I’m just honored and humbled that Frankie Evans allowed me to be a part of it ♥