I have flown with a hawk, wingtip to wingtip, and she stared back at me, repeatedly twisting her head to see what it was flying beside and whether I intended to attack. We were a mile over Lookout Valley on a clear cold morning and strong enough that I had the air to myself. We sat over the Cloudland Canyon gap and turned in the strong thermal, each circuit carrying us about to face northwest, the wind direction. I was too cold, but I couldn't leave that much joy. I'm sure I was chuckling, I wanted to laugh in triumph, but didn't want to frighten my flying partner. It was my first time, but it hasn't been my last.
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