One of the most intrepid beings I've ever encountered wasn't a human being. No, it was an American crow, a member of a species reviled by many. He was smart and hardworking, creative and resourceful and had a fierce will to live. This was no ordinary crow — this was the Ernest Shackleton of the bird world.

I saw him in early fall (this was some years ago), in a park near my home, and realized I'd seen him in June, part of a flock of crows feeding on the ground. But when the other birds scattered he'd stayed behind, hopping into a nearby shrub. His left wing was obviously broken and drooped uselessly at his side.

It was clear that he would never fly again, with a fracture that had gone untreated for so long. But even with extraordinary survival skills, he still would not make it through the coming winter as a grounded bird. I'm a major fan of crows, so I began a campaign to get this one out of the wild.

It wasn't going to be easy to capture this ace tree climber. I'd see him 40 to 60 feet overhead each time I stopped by with food and fresh water. Even though this went on for five weeks, he never let down his guard and I didn't expect him to. He was a wild bird and intended to stay that way.

Dangers increase

As fall advanced, with fewer leaves on the trees each day, the crow became increasingly visible to any passing raptor looking for an easy meal. And he was just as vulnerable to humans, dogs, foxes, cats and other dangers on the ground. The crow was cunning but he had just about everything going against him. The only thing working in his favor was his intense will to live.

"Time to start thinking about an exit strategy, Bud," I told him one chilly October morning, as he hopped nervously at the top of a favorite tree.

Crows are curious and tenacious.

I was becoming resigned to a long climb to get him, but luck was on my side a few days later. Arriving earlier than usual, I discovered the crow hopping toward me as I stood between him and his favorite tree! It was now or never, I knew, and gave chase. He was cunning and fast, dashing through shrubbery, up slopes and down, always keeping to the underbrush. I kept trying to drive him into the open, where it would be easier to catch him, but he clung to the woods. It was becoming a question of stamina — who would tire first?

A new life

The crow gave out just seconds before I would have, with his useless wing caught in a snag. Now we proceeded step by step toward his new life. Surgery was necessary, but he needed to fatten up for a few days first. He despised being kept in a cage and dashed himself against the metal bars relentlessly.

After amputating the section of dead wing bone, the vet clinic gave him a bath so his feathers were again glossy and black and he no longer looked like a small vulture. Within just a few hours, the crow was back to pounding on the cage bars with his beak and exhibiting an intense desire to be free. Then it was time to go, quickly, so he didn't do himself an injury.

To my mind he was going to the best new life possible under the circumstances, an outdoor aviary with several other permanently injured crows. (Most of what happened to the crow after his capture would no longer be allowed — the rules on interfering with wild animals are much tighter now.) Just 12 days after his last day alone in the outside world, the crow went to his new habitat. He wasn't as free as he'd been in his old life, but it was so much safer and offered regular meals.

I have many questions about how this singular crow survived for so long without the ability to fly, the major advantage birds have. And one other question percolates through my brain: Smart as he was, crafty and cunning as he proved to be, did this amazing crow wait to encounter someone like me to be his ally in his fight for survival? Was it truly an accident that he put himself into the path of someone besotted with crows?

St. Paul resident Val Cunningham, who volunteers with the St. Paul Audubon Society and writes about nature for local, regional and national newspapers and magazines, can be reached at val writes@comcast.net.