I searched the sky in the United States for twenty-three years and never saw a bald eagle. The day I arrived on a wilderness island in the Inside Passage of British Columbia, I saw twenty-three of them. It was the height of summer. A vast school of herring ruffled the sea. Each eagle swooped down to grab its prey. Dropping. . .seven feet of wing. . . dropping. . . twelve pounds of bird. . . tilting. . . diving. . . then descending like a parachute. Stab stab. A few flaps to gain altitude. . . then wings out, herring wiggling, they rode a thermal up to their pine perches and nests. With wings folded and snow-white heads set between square shoulders, the eagles emanated fierce pride and regal command.

One morning I saw two eagles soaring high above the sea. One dipped under the other, flipped over on its back, and held its legs up. They locked talons. The top eagle swung over; the other tucked its wings and was catapulted straight up. Then they locked talons and flipped over each other, turning cartwheels, and tumbled down to the sea. A few yards from the water, they parted and climbed up to where they started. They did it again. A nuptial display.

In early spring eagle couples prepare the nest for the birth of their young. The female usually lays two eggs, and both parents take turns incubating the eggs for five weeks. When two eaglets are hatched, one usually is the aggressor, pecking and scratching the other, encouraged by the parents, who give it extra food. The battered and hungry eaglet either endures the harassment or dies in the nest.

The first flight usually takes place when the eagle is ten weeks old. Eagles have to learn to fly. They are guided by instinct, but they have to learn what their feathers can and can't do in the wind. The maiden flights are breathtaking -- the young eagles shake, wobble, and roll all over the sky.

While fishing near the island, I saw an immature eagle on a rock close to the sea. I thought it peculiar that the eagle was perched so low. The next day I fished the same spot, and the eagle was still there. I beached the boat, grabbed the salmon landing net, and slowly approached the eagle. She hopped away dragging her left wing. I cornered her against a boulder. She flapped her good wing, leaned back on her tail, shot out her talons, opened her beak, and hissed. I gently netted her; then into the boat and back to the island.

I released Kwee Kwa (native Kwakiutl for "eagle") in the strawberry patch -- a long run enclosed in mesh net. Kwee Kwa stood on her injured wing, blinking her eyes. I tossed salmon guts into the run. She stood on the guts and ripped them with her beak. I gazed into her round, yellow eyes -- small suns that beamed a brilliance.

At dark I crept into the run and slowly approached her. She seemed blinded by the darkness. I was able to probe the injured wing. Through a gaping hole I saw two broken bones, smaller holes throughout the wing, and clotted blood. A shotgun wound.

I called a doctor in Alert Bay, the nearest town. He said he'd see what he could do. The next morning I put the eagle into a crate and went to the hospital. The first step was to x-ray the wing. I put Kwee Kwa on her back and grasped her ankles. The technician stretched the injured wing out full-length and took a picture. All the while she was still, except for the wild pounding in her chest. The x-ray showed a broken radius and ulna just above the elbow.

The doctor came in, scanned the x-ray and said, "If we immobilize the wing in a wrap, the bones might mesh." We wrapped her wing against her torso and then decided to attempt a penicillin shot. I was certain the eagle would hit the ceiling. A nurse held a cloth over Kwee Kwa's eyes. The needle entered a large thigh vein, and the doctor slowly pushed the thick fluid in. She didn't flinch. I put her into the crate, and we went back to the island.

For the next two days, she devoured a big salmon, dashed back and forth, and furiously flapped her good wing whenever I came near. The second night I went in, put Kwee Kwa on her back, and before tightening the wrap I looked at the wound. I was horrified. It percolated with maggots. A quarter of her wing was eaten away.

I flushed the wound with water, drowning the surface maggots, but in the flashlight's beam I saw maggots deep inside the wing, continuing their feeding frenzy.

I remembered that the hospital receptionist had given me the phone number of a man "who's up on eagles." I called him, and he told me about a veterinarian who had successfully treated gunshot and infected eagles.

At daybreak I put the eagle into the crate, went to Alert Bay, and arranged for her to be flown to the doctor. While waiting for the plane, I heard thrashing in the crate. I opened the door. A tremor lifted her. . . she came down dead. I walked for miles, feeling rage burn inside. On the screen behind my eyes I kept seeing the eagle soaring, and then, falling from the sky -- her wing shattered by a gun in the hands of a demented man.

I took a talon and the long bone from Kwee Kwa's good wing. I went out to the spot where I found her, put her into the sea, and watched as the tide carried her away.

Out of the bone I fashioned a flute. The sound that came out was the same as Kwee Kwa's proud, piercing cry.