I did not wake up Wednesday morning expecting to rescue America’s national bird. But these days, little seems to go according to plan.

I was awakened at 7 a.m. by a text from my neighbor Kelly: There was an injured bald eagle in the yard next door. Did I know whom to call?

I had an idea.

For 20 years, I covered the Chesapeake Bay for various publications. My first bay story and photo, in 2004, featured a U.S. Fish and Wildlife biologist, Craig Koppie, removing two eagles from a nest along the Choptank River to repatriate them to Vermont, a state that was then bereft of eagles.

The idea was that every state would have a breeding eagle population — our national bird in every corner of the land. Here in the Chesapeake region, our eagle cup runneth over. We have at least 1,400 nesting pairs, the largest concentration of eagles in the Lower 48. The endangered symbol of America has made a wondrous comeback since the banning of DDT more than 50 years ago.

I am also a member of several birding groups on Facebook, and I knew that the Phoenix Wildlife Center was about 10 miles from our Towson neighborhood. I also knew that wildlife rehabbers rarely make house calls. We would have to rescue the bird ourselves.

Kathy Woods, Phoenix’s director, texted back right away. “Blanket/box. Watch the feet and their bill is dangerous.”

Kelly was reluctant to pick up the bird, but she met me outside to hold the phone while Kathy provided instructions for my first rescue. Just as I got close to the eagle, it skittered up to its feet and flew into our neighbor Bob’s yard.

We had to get it now, I said. I called Bob, and he came out.

“Shouldn’t we call a rescuer?” he asked, somewhat in disbelief that I was planning on capturing a raptor while wearing a T-shirt, leggings, and Tevas.

No, Bob. We are our own rescuers. Kathy was feeding other animals and unable to come to the phone just then.

Another neighbor, Dustin, was walking his dog and offered to help. I approached the bird near a bush in Bob’s front yard, and it flew into a corner in Bob’s backyard near a fence. Trapped! I laid a towel in the box and opened my children’s baby blanket.

The bird opened its mouth wide. The bill is dangerous, I reminded myself. I remembered how Craig Koppie climbed a tree 100 feet, wrestled two raptors, then carried them down while wearing tree-climbing spikes. Then he drove them to Vermont. If he could do that, surely I could do this.

I stared at the bird, my children’s blanket open. I spoke in my reassuring mom voice, which is just my voice, but higher-pitched.

“Come on, come on. I am going to get you help. Come with me.”

He closed his mouth. I swooped in. His wings were so large and my angle was so awkward that I had to put him in the box twice. Dustin helped me tuck him in.

“You know what you’re doing,” I said.

Turns out, he has parrots.

Dustin covered his beak with another of my kids’ blankets. The bird settled in like a baby for a nap. Dustin taped the box shut. “That’s lights out for him,” he said. I would be able to drive him to the rehab with no problem.

Kathy said to meet her at her home near the rehabber’s. I drove along country roads, thinking that if the raptor got loose, I was safer there than on Interstate 83. I sped through Eagle’s Nest too fast to read the historic marker. Just as well. It doesn’t say why it’s called Eagle’s Nest, but it does say this land used to be called the Valley of Jehosaphat — the one-time king of Israel. More importantly for my precious cargo, the land was adjacent to Loch Raven Reservoir. Maybe the eagle could fly there when it recovered.

I heard the box rattling, so I sang to America’s bird — Slumber My Darling, the Alison Krauss version. I may have seen a flash from a speed camera. If I get a ticket, maybe I’ll take it to court. Has a judge ever dismissed a speeding ticket because of an eagle rescue?

Hugh Simmons, Kathy’s husband, met me with a clipboard and some paperwork. Did I know how the bird became injured? No. Did I know how long it was in the yard? No, but it couldn’t have been long. We rescued it within an hour of Kelly’s husband, Brian, spotting it. Was it feisty? Not as much as I expected.

As Hugh put the eagle in a carrier, it fussed and opened its bill, like it had something to say. As it settled, I was astonished at its wingspan, broad as a bobsled. Hugh estimated it is probably 4 years old, a teenager in eagle years. Had I really corralled it into a box with my bare hands and two baby blankets?

As he walked away, Dustin said something about the eagle’s broken wing being a metaphor for our country. Bob, who flies a flag that says, “Don’t give up the ship,” made the same observation. I was just thinking about survival. And disinfecting, in case it had bird flu. And how sometimes we need to do things that scare us.

I called Kathy a couple hours later to ask her if she had any tips for next time, or for others. You did everything right, she said. Covered the eagle’s head. Had the box ready. Only other suggestion: Wear gloves, like the kind people use to barbecue.

Kathy told me she didn’t think the eagle had bird flu. Something is going on with one of the wings, she said. She was not sure what. She told me to check back in a few days.

I was glad it was not the flu. That’s deadly. Broken wings, on the other hand, do heal — if you get to them on time.