The climber was just under the nest located on the platform of an overhang 100 feet above the talus slope leading to the forest floor. Sprigs of pine with which eagles sometimes decorated their nests were visible and whitewash was splayed along the platform of the overhang, a clear indication that the nest was potentially active.

The climb had looked so easy. Youthful abandon and the excitement of locating the nest had clouded his judgment and now he was stuck. “Why hadn’t I waited?” he asked himself. “Why not come back with rope and climbing hardware and partner to provide a proper belay?”

He was nervous, very nervous, and a gulf of nausea coursed through his body. Then his legs began to shake, the dreaded “sewing machine leg” phenomenon often experienced by climbers, drawing on his rapidly depleting energy level. He was getting cold, and worse yet, he was getting stiff. He had to make a move before his tenuous grip gave way and he ended up a wreck of bones at the base of the cliff.

A piece of advice from a fellow climber passed through his mind: “A difficulty encountered poses a question; the movements to resolve it give it a reply.” Easy for him to say, he thought to himself.

A small tree lay just off his left shoulder. Once just a seed deposited by a bird or perhaps by the wind, it had somehow found enough sustenance in the thin duff lying in the cracks along the rock face to survive. It might serve as the answer to get him out of his predicament.

Cautiously, with one hand, the climber removed his belt and made loop around the tree trunk. If the tree held, if the belt didn’t break, he could lower himself to a toe-hold just out of reach of his left foot. Fear is an ugly thing, but boldness is equally ill-starred. This was no place to make a mistake. Slowly, gingerly, his face and body pressed into the rock face to gain as much friction as possible. He gave himself to the tree, murmuring a silent prayer that it would hold. The move worked! He found a toe-hold, then a crack to jam his hand into. One move linked to the next and before he knew it, he found himself lying safely on the ground.The throbbing of his heart was the only sound he heard until he dimly became aware of his caretaker friend, who had been waiting anxiously, muttering something about his stupidity. It was also an unwarranted intrusion on the eagles, and he never again repeated that mistake.

The location of that mini-drama was at the Hitchins Park, then owned by the A.A. Low family. The caretaker friend was Alvin Cote, and I’m not going to tell you who the foolish climber was.

Two years later (1973) the Low family would sell the remainder of the their original estate to the Suffolk County BSA, the eagles would depart and the waters of many of the park’s ponds would become highly acidic and could no longer contain trout. A.A. Low’s sugar house in his Maple Valley operation would become a hunting camp. The beautiful stone wine cellar set into the side of the hill would remain, but depleted of its stock of vintages going back to 60 years. The three-story employee boarding house, which had become the Low family’s rustic camp, would be contaminated with asbestos, also vandalized and completely trashed.

In celebration of the Forest Preserve Centennial in 1985, the state purchased 9,248 acres from the Suffolk County BSA. While this has opened access to a recreation-hungry public, the beautiful grounds and buildings in the once proud headquarters remain in deplorable condition.

A preliminary draft of a Unit Management Plan was released in March of this year that will involve this area (see Larry Reandeau’s commentary in the April 15 edition of this paper). Public input will be invited sometime this summer, and we can only hope that in some fashion, the mountain empire created by A.A. Low can be restored to a semblance of its former grandeur. This place is, after all, rich in memories for many local residents. Yes, it is owned by all of the state taxpayers, but it is located in our “back yard” and, as such, should have particular interest to former and present citizens of this community when the hearings are held.

And now - “the rest of the story!”
In this week’s Transitions column, mention was made of the golden eagle nest, which was vacated by these rare birds from its location on the cliff face of an unnamed mountain in Hitchins Park. A continuation might be of some interest to our readers.

No sightings of golden eagles were reported in that area for almost a year after the birds disappeared. One theory is that the eagles had relied on food from deer killed by the train (where trackage lay a wingbeat and glide from their nest), and the train had virtually ceased operations.

Joe and Eleanor Pisanchin, then caretakers at the Robert Lehman estates on Bog Lake, called me one evening. Joe was certain that a pair of golden eagles was building a nest in a 90-foot white pine that he could see from his cottage window! I turned this report over to Greenleaf Chase, my mentor, who was an acknowledged golden eagle authority with the D.E.C. “Greenie” was skeptical. Golden eagles normally do not nest in trees. Having assured him that Joe Pisanchin was knowledgeable and reliable, he agreed to check it out. What follows is a summary as contained in the Atlas of Breeding Birds in NYS: “Most of the golden eagle nests in New York were place on inaccessible cliff ledges overhung by a protective tree or rock. This species also occasionally nests in trees. A New York nest was located 90 feet above ground in a white pine. The nest was made of dead sticks and brush of all kinds as well as boughs of mountain ash, American beech and white and red pine. All former New York eyeries were located at elevations between 1,500 and 2,600 feet.” (NYDEC files)

It continues with a sad note: “Unfortunately, this magnificent raptor has been extirpated as a breeding species in the state (1978) and now only breeds in Maine, where four active nests were reported in 1985 and two in 1986. ”Watching these birds build their nests and feed their young was a thrilling sight for the Pisanchins. In a recent phone conversation with Eleanor, she told me that at times, when fishing on the lake near the lofty pine, she and Joe would simply put their fishing rods down and sit enthralled by the spectacle of the majestic birds.

As Paul Harvey would say, “Now you know the rest of the story.” Birding chronicles should note the Pisanchins as the original observers; without their concern and courtesy it is possible this sighting located at such a private and remote location quite possibly could have gone unrecorded. This was the only known tree nest of these species in the eastern United States at the time. (Birds of the NY State, John Bull)