I look over my shoulder every few minutes to see how my five passengers are handling their first ride in an animal carrier in the back of my pickup truck. They have webbed feet which are firmly planted so that they can constantly adjust to the turns and stops of the truck. The air flows smoothly across their sleek dappled gray and white feathers, occasionally ruffling the feathers of their necks as they turn to look at each other, and toward me. They look like commuters on a train with not a trace of anxiety, only curiosity about where they are going, and a studied determination to stay on their feet.

One is an adult seagull who was injured and nursed back to health at the Wildlife Center and is now ready to try it again and the other four are this year's baby seagulls, now called, "juveniles," ready to discover the world for the first time. Although I am finishing my third year of volunteer work a Sarvey, these are the first baby seagulls I had ever seen, and despite what anyone might think about adult seagulls, these babies were full of personality and adorable.

Releasing orphaned animals and birds into the wild is tricky because although we try to take over the role of their parents, there is so much we cannot teach them. We can't give them too much attention because we don't want to risk their imprinting on humans, yet they cannot be raised in total isolation either. We get better every year at coming up with the correct baby formulas for each species, and creating spaces where they can try out wings or climbing skills, and to some extent learn what their food in the wild will look like, but they will never be as prepared as their parents could make them.
I worry about this stuff every year, so much so that I haven't been to many "releases" because I have been afraid to let go of all these little guys knowing they aren't as ready as they could be.

But today, I am going to actually do it and see for myself what happens. I transport the carrier down to the edge of the cliff at my home on Camano Island. When I open the door all five hop out immediately. The adult, apparently anxious to separate himself from the novices, strikes out on his own, but on foot, down the trail. I watch him hop up on a mound of dirt to survey his new home. He cocks his head listening to the sounds of other gulls; and when he's ready, he is airborne and gone from sight in just seconds.
The four juveniles are milling about, huddling together and obviously overwhelmed at the amount of open space. One of them catches a worm to my amazement, and I decide to stop worrying about whether they will find things to eat.

Unsure of what to do next, I try walking toward them with my arms out forcing them closer to the edge. It doesn't seem like a nice thing to do, but it's about three o'clock in the afternoon and they have a lot of things to get used to before the sun goes down. Two of them take off immediately and fly out over the bay. They instantly get the idea, and within a few minutes they have blended in with the flocks of gulls. A third flies off the edge into a tree and crashes down a few branches until he recovers and flies off.

When I turn around to find the last one, he's gone; and I didn't see where he went. This won't do. What if I didn't see him crash and he's hurt? I never expected that I would lose one! What will I tell Kaye? I don't see him anywhere, so I take the trail to the marsh. Climbing over a big log, I see him (or her) sitting in the marsh grass. I am so relieved! But he hasn't gotten a handle on this flying thing and that won't do either. His real mother could take her time with this, but I've only got a few hours. I try walking toward him, and he does a series of hop-flights getting about five feet further out each time. Then he realizes that he knows how to stay up! He gains some altitude; but, in contrast to his friends, he seems to want to stay in sight of me in case this new skill doesn't work out. He's up pretty high now and making long circling flights with me as the center, looking down at me every once in a while to see if I'm still there. There isn't any place in the world I would rather be right now! I am laughing and cheering him on. Then I notice that the absence of space at the Wildlife Center for long distance flying, gliding, and soaring is starting to show up. He's getting tired and panting a little.

But before I can panic, I see the look on his face at the precise moment when he discovers that if he just leaves his wings straight out, he can rest and not fall out of the sky! He has just learned how to glide and I saw it all. I am so proud. He cuts one circle a little close and almost hits a tree limb. After this near miss he decides to come down and do his first long approach landing. He's wobbly and uncertain where his feet should be to hit the marsh grass just right, but he does it perfectly! We both sit down with relief and look at each other with complete satisfaction. What a wonderful afternoon this has been.

A few minutes later when he is rested he tries the whole thing again, improving with each circle around me. When he comes down the next time, he lands on a log about twenty feet away; and I know he is as ready as he can be with only human help. I send the Universe a little message to take very good care of all five of them, but especially this little one.