My husband and I had been married only a few weeks, the second marriage for the both of us. I am a woman falconer practicing since 1974. I had acquired a hybrid female peregrine/prairie falcon "Desire" who had the habit of refusing ducks flushed under her. All falcons are not instantly game hunters. The falconer who had her had acquired from another. She simply did not like to deal with ducks which splash water on her and dive under the water they were on. She would not even 'dip a wing' when they were flushed under her in water. So she was transferred to me. . Ground birds such as pigeon, pheasant or quail were another story though. She was a hard stooper (diver) and hit them hard. I had permission to fly her the prior year in a cow pasture in Bradenton Florida. I told my new husband, who liked to hunt, but has never seen falconry hunts, about her and we were going to fly her at this field. Pete's family moved to Bradenton, Florida when he was 10 and he knew everyone it seemed. When we went out there, he ran into someone he knew nearly every time. I enjoyed that. I grew up in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. Many of us got out of that crowded mess full of bedroom communities, me included. I hardly ever remember encountering any high school buddies when I went out. This small town coziness I found very appealing.

We stopped at the pasture which bordered an industrial park since it was good, convenient, hard paved parking for us. We carefully crossed the fence and then proceeded to put "Desire" up for a flight on bagged quail. She was a strikingly beautiful falcon. Slate-blue back with the smoky salmon wash to the front of her feathers. She has never broken or bent a feather since I've had her. She always looks perfect. I put her up and she quickly knew the routine, circling around us as we walked the field. I let her fly some, then I released the quail. She stooped and smacked it hard, bringing it to the ground. She was not one to become carry to her prey and hide. (Which could turn an evening outing into a long search and rescue ordeal using the telemetry she wore.) She let me approach her and I transferred the already dead quail to the glove and started breaking in and feeding. Pete and I started to walk back to the truck. As we were walking back a grey pick up truck squealed to a stop in the parking lot. A macho cowboy jumped out and asked what we were doing. I answered," 'flying my falcon. Mr. Turloff, the landowner had granted me permission to fly here last year. I am starting up the fall season." This fellow starting mouthing off that he had a cow lease on the land and he was worried about us damaging the fence. My husband replied that he had cows too, and understood and respected fences. The cowboy had also mentioned he has found people picking magic mushrooms in the field. Cow pastures in Florida apparently are an ideal place to find hallucinatory mushrooms. Desire, the falcon, was a little nervous about the cowboy's sniffing, curious dog, some sort of hunting hound mix, which stayed in the back of the cowboys truck with a few terse commands from its owner. Pete and the fellow starting talking some. The fellow remained gruff and kept trying to intimidate us, but I had an ace in the hole: a falcon feeding on a freshly killed quail. I had started to notice a bit of discomfort in the 'cowboy' watching the falcon feed on the entrails. So, I made a bit of a show of it. As with most if not all women falconers, I baby talk all of my hawks and started dissecting the quail parts and hand feeding her on the glove, making sure he saw Desire eat the still beating heart of the quail. The morbidly curious cowboy was holding back his horror, and had a very green face, but I knew I had him good and continued to feed her, baby talk and all. (This is a falconer’s gory version of a making feeding time a game, like many parents do with their toddlers in the high chair. ) After Desire had finished feeding, I put her away in her transport box. The cowboy finally left. After my husband and I had gotten in our truck. Pete said, "I think I know that fellow. My dad bought a truck from that guy for real cheap." Apparently he had shot it with a shotgun out of frustration because it was stuck in the sand.

A few days later, I called the landowner, and unfortunately the prior year's permission for my use was rescinded. Letters asking for subsequent permission were ignored. Now a housing development stands on that property. The same property that I made memories of w flying my falcons and sometimes jumping snipe in the fall.