Susanville
June 30, 2009 – 10:50 pmI killed my cell phone alarm on the second chirp. I’d already been awake for an hour, watching the light change behind the window shade. I layed there twenty minutes more.
There’d been some drama regarding whether or not I’d be allowed to see Jeff. He recently earned the priveledge of a job assignment; a clerk position working for the prison guards. I didn’t want to jeaporadize anything for him, but I’d driven all the way from Portland, Oregon and it’d been six years since I’d last seen my childhood friend. I poured some coffee and steered my truck towards the state prison in Susanville.
My grip on the wheel was tight. They had to let me see the lad? I was mumbling to myself, something about rational human beings and empathy. And that’s when the bird caught the corner of my eye. I slammed on the brakes right there in the middle of Highway 36, a thin stretch of lonely blacktop winding through giant Sequoias. I threw the transmission into reverse then slowed my truck so I was parallel with the enormous raptor.
Staring at me from a fence post was a bald eagle. His yellow beak curved into a downward scowl as he ascessed me. It was 7:15 a.m. and the rearview was devoid of oncoming vehicles so I just stared back as my truck idled in the middle of the highway.
The guard at the visiting center took my ID and instructed me to place my dollar bills and locker key into a clear plastic bag. I traveled with a van full of visitors on Father’s Day. Then it was a series of electrified cyclone fence gates and rifled guards staring me down from the tower.
The bear hug I received from Jeff brought a quick flash of the eagle. I knew he’d somehow played a hand (talon) in this reunion’s success. Jeff and I drank cream sodas and talked non-stop until our four and a half hours expired. I got the details of that pivotal night and we caught up on music and he told me about his 4.0 G.P.A. and the approach of his Associate of Arts degree. He told me that his wife of nine years had driven up from Sacramento the previous weekend to ask him for a divorce. He gave violent details of prison life and spoke of God’s hand at work and his guitar and heroin and his new passion for drawing Celtic knotwork.
But our visit was over and the harsh reality of a sixteen-to-life sentence was suddenly undeniable. I wanted to walk out of there with him, grab our fishing rods and run the length of Deer Creek until sundown. But he was he seperated from me as other prisoners were seperated from other visitors. I exited the pennitentary and savored the taste of my freedom for the first time.
The sublime beauty of Plumas National Forest embraced my Nissan 4×4 and the lump in my throat dissolved as I drove back to the family cabin in Chester, California. And six years of sadness flew away with that eagle.
