The Diving Falcon

She thought about the peregrine for two days. The way it had folded its wings. The instant from perch to gone. She wanted to know the shape of it, not in her head but in her body. So on the third morning, before the visitor lots had started to fill, Polly went looking for the bird.

Hun tenkte på vandrefalken i to dager. Måten den hadde brettet vingene sine på. Øyeblikket fra å sitte til å være borte. Hun ønsket å kjenne formen av den, ikke i hodet, men i kroppen. Så på den tredje morgenen, før parkeringsplassene for besøkende begynte å fylles, gikk Polly for å lete etter fuglen.

She found a peregrine near El Capitan, on a ledge perhaps four hundred metres up. It was a male, smaller than the female she had seen with Tomas, slate-grey on the back, barred white on the chest. It was eating something. She did not look closely at the something.

Hun fant en vandrefalk nær El Capitan, på en avsats kanskje fire hundre meter opp. Det var en hann, mindre enn hunnen hun hadde sett med Tomas, skifergrå på ryggen, hvit med striper på brystet. Den spiste noe. Hun så ikke nøye på hva det var.

She perched on a manzanita branch about fifty metres away and waited.

Hun satte seg på en manzanita-gren omtrent femti meter unna og ventet.

The peregrine finished its meal, wiped its beak on the rock, and looked at her. It tilted its head. Then it stepped off the ledge.

Vandrefalken avsluttet måltidet sitt, tørket nebbet på steinen, og så på henne. Den vippet hodet. Så trådte den ut fra avsatsen.

It did not flap. It folded its wings against its body, like a leaf pulled into a stem, and dropped. Polly watched it accelerate. The bird went past the half-mark of the cliff face in maybe two seconds. Then it pulled its wings out, banked, climbed away, and was gone behind a buttress of rock.

Den slo ikke med vingene. Den brettet dem mot kroppen, som et blad trukket inn i en stilk, og stupte. Polly så den akselerere. Fuglen passerte halvveis ned klippeveggen på kanskje to sekunder. Så trakk den ut vingene, svingte, klatret bort, og var borte bak en klippefremspring.

A peregrine falcon in a dive can reach 380 kilometres an hour. That is the fastest movement of any animal on Earth. To dive at that speed and not be knocked unconscious by the air, peregrines have a third eyelid that closes over the eye to keep the wind out, and small cones in their nostrils that act like the cone in front of a jet engine, slowing the air entering their lungs. They are built for the drop.

En vandrefalk i stup kan nå 380 kilometer i timen. Det er den raskeste bevegelsen av noe dyr på jorden. For å stupe i den hastigheten uten å bli slått bevisstløs av luften, har vandrefalker et tredje øyelokk som lukker seg over øyet for å holde vinden ute, og små kjegler i neseborene som fungerer som kjeglen foran en jetmotor, og bremser luften som kommer inn i lungene. De er bygget for stupet.

Polly was not built for the drop. She was built for short bursts and accurate landings. She knew this. But the curiosity was bigger than the knowing.

Polly var ikke bygget for stupet. Hun var bygget for korte spurter og presise landinger. Hun visste dette. Men nysgjerrigheten var større enn vissheten.

She flew up the cliff to the ledge the peregrine had used. She stood on it. The drop opened below her, almost vertical, dizzying. The valley floor was a long way down. Air rose past her in cool waves.

Hun fløy opp klippen til avsatsen vandrefalken hadde brukt. Hun sto på den. Stupet åpnet seg under henne, nesten vertikalt, svimmelhetsskapende. Dalen var langt nede. Luft steg forbi henne i kjølige bølger.

She folded her blue-teal wings against her green body. She tilted forward. She fell.

Hun brettet de blågrønne vingene mot den grønne kroppen. Hun lente seg fremover. Hun falt.

It was not a peregrine dive. It was a parrot in too much hurry. She wobbled. The wind got under one wing and tried to tip her. She corrected, lost the line, corrected again. Twenty metres in, she opened her wings and pulled out of it in a loose, embarrassed arc.

Det var ikke et vandrefalkstup. Det var en papegøye i for mye hastverk. Hun vaklet. Vinden kom under den ene vingen og prøvde å vippe henne. Hun korrigerte, mistet linjen, korrigerte igjen. Tjue meter inn, åpnet hun vingene og trakk seg ut av det i en løs, flau bue.

She landed on a pine branch a hundred metres below the ledge. She breathed for a minute. Then she did it again, smaller this time, from a lower perch. Then she did it a third time, lower still.

Hun landet på en furugren hundre meter under avsatsen. Hun pustet i et minutt. Så gjorde hun det igjen, mindre denne gangen, fra en lavere avsats. Så gjorde hun det en tredje gang, enda lavere.

By the time the sun was overhead, she had made eight short dives and one decent one. None of them were a peregrine dive. All of them were a little better than the last.

Da solen sto rett over, hadde hun gjort åtte korte stup og ett anstendig. Ingen av dem var et vandrefalkstup. Alle var litt bedre enn det forrige.

From somewhere higher on the cliff, she thought she heard the peregrine call. She told herself it was probably not laughing at her. It was probably just the wind.

Fra et sted høyere opp på klippen, trodde hun at hun hørte vandrefalken rope. Hun sa til seg selv at den sannsynligvis ikke lo av henne. Det var sannsynligvis bare vinden.