Winding north over back roads heading to Lake Burton, the speedometer of my car keeps to the obligatory slow speed limits, but my heart races ahead. Expectations are high. For I know what I shall find. This place has me trained now. Languid rolling mountains in flawless fellowship with emerald waters. And over those waters, the scent of a bonfire wafting through the air, curling down the lake, just as the mist will do tomorrow at dawn.
Especially enjoyable, the smallish wooden sign nailed to a tree off Lake Burton Dam Road. PRAY, it suggests. Like I’m not already. Is it even possible to lay eyes on this place without one’s soul surging upward in a swish of gratitude?
But where is the fun, if known expectation can’t be turned on its head, further enlivened? Such was the case this summer during a family afternoon of boating. The kids - three of ‘em, ages nine and under - had worn us down with what seemed like the one-hundredth wakeboard run. We, the parental authorities in charge, had finally exerted veto power, demanding a lunch break. Off to La Prades. An hour later, full, refreshed and recommitted to the day, we clamored back down one of those long docks, piling into our oldie-but-a-goodie bow rider.
Suddenly at the top of her six-year-old lungs, our daughter shrieked. Shattering the afternoon peace, she hollered, “Bald Eagle!”
Snapping to attention, I whirled in the direction her pointer-finger furiously jabbed. Eyes flashed to the sky, even as my mind zoomed in the opposite direction. No way. She mean a hawk. Maybe a really big hawk.
But the unmistakable vision, a mere thirty-five yards away begged to differ. Fresh from his hiding place high in the trees, a speeding form raced like a black and white dive bomber. Ebony wings stretched themselves from the biggest raptor body I had ever seen. A fierce white head lead the charge in a nose dive toward the unsuspecting lake. Like a scene straight out of Animal Planet, the creature deftly changed motions at the last second. Propelling underside forward, feet and talons smashed through the surface. Spray erupted wildly. From the restaurant’s patio a chorus of voices sang out in unison.
“Bald eagle! Bald eagle!” yelled half a dozen people at once.
Perhaps distraction got the better of him. Performing under pressure always a tricky dish no matter what species. In a flash the eagle rose back into the air, empty fisted. Some lucky spotted bass or trout left shaken but alive, free to swim another day. Mesmerized, every head turned in the direction the bird flew. Remembering that for once, the camera was aboard, I lunged for it chaotically, managing to snap a shot. We watched, soundless now, as this iconic raptor elegantly lifted himself higher and higher. His black silhouette pitched vividly against the cloudless, chalky-blue sky.
Euphoria at such a spectacle ran high through the children. My husband and I more quietly, more deeply moved.
“Remember this,” their father told them. “You’ll probably never see it again in your lives.”
But then again, perhaps they might.
After speaking to Mr. Jim Ozier with the Georgia Department of Natural Resources, I learned the American Bald Eagle has been on the dramatic increase here in Georgia since 1980. Conservation laws, restoration work and a ban on the pesticide DDT have helped the bald eagle recover from near-extinction.
“This year we counted 143 nesting pairs,” Mr. Ozier told me over the phone. “Georgia’s eagles stick mostly to the coast, but we do hear reports of sightings in the Lake Burton area.”
Of course they do. And really, what’s so unexpected about that? If tired of the usual haunts, an eagle succumbs to wanderlust and happens upon Rabun County, he like the rest of us, would be enchanted. And if, on a lazy afternoon, the mood strikes to do a little fishing, undoubtedly the choice local would be our beloved Lake Burton.
If while enjoying Rabun County, you spy the unexpected, let the Georgia Department of Natural Resources in on your find. Mr. Ozier encourages the public to report all sightings of American Bald Eagle nests and pairs. Contact him at jim.ozier@dnr.state.ga.us or call 478.994.1438
