A Barrel with Wings
Fear and fascination were my companions one eventful October night. These two conflicting emotions are primordial instincts of our human psyche. Paradoxically, either one may lure us to explore the unknown.
I was enjoying a deep, peaceful sleep when I was awakened by strange sounds. Something was in the living room. As you might imagine, I was alarmed by the prospect of finding a prowler deep within my ultra-comfort zone, during the middle of the night, no less.
When darkness falls, the mystery of the unknown is most certain to stir human imagination, which has no bounds. What could it possibly be? The sound wasn’t human, of that I was sure.
After my wife, Patty, decided that I should be the one to investigate, I mustered up the courage to slip quietly out of bed. After turning on the lights, I cautiously stepped into the living room to reconnoiter the situation. Can you guess what I discovered?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I saw no movement. I heard no sound. Nothing was amiss. I’ll admit to breathing a sigh of relief, but I nevertheless remained perplexed. And then, the sounds resumed.
The call of an owl in the dead of night is bewitching. If you’ve ever heard that sound, you know how fully it grabs your attention. A cascade of questions surely follows: from what direction is the sound coming? How close is it? Should you get out of your warm and cozy bed, and go outside for a look, dressed or not? What brings the owl to your property? Is it hunting for one of those darned rodents that dig up your garden when you aren’t looking? Is the owl looking for a mate? Better still, is it here to build a nest?
Those were the questions I asked myself when a Great Horned Owl began hooting from atop the chimney cap of our house: hoo-h’HOO-hoo-hoo. That magical, almost ethereal incantation reverberated straight down the flue, across the living room, and on into the adjacent bedroom as well. In the still of the night, it sounded quite loud, as if spoken with a megaphone.
Relieved, and somewhat amused at the turn of events, my mind starting thinking of the possibilities: if only I could see the owl in daylight. I tried falling back asleep, but my mind began exploring a myriad of prospects. Eventually, after yielding to curiosity, I got out of bed and went outside. There was nothing in the darkness that I could see save shadowy trees, and the blinking stars above.
Prior to this moment, I’d only seen owls in aviaries. While attending graduate school in Madison, Wisconsin, I would watch a Snowy Owl in a community park that I visited on wintery Sunday mornings. With its back to me, that owl would effortlessly turn its head 180˚, and look me straight in the eye. Extraordinary, yes, and a bit creepy, too.
Have you ever wondered how they manage to do it, turn their head to such a degree? It all has to do with the structure of their vertebrae. Owls have seventeen neck vertebrae compared to humans, who have seven, which permits a turning arc of 270 degrees. Importantly, the openings through which the arteries thread are ten times wider than with humans, and that physiology allows turning the head quickly without restricting blood flow to the brain.
But why do owls turn their heads to such a degree in the first place? Why don’t they just rotate their eyes like we do? As it turns out, our eyes are spherical, and can move about in their sockets. Owl eyes, on the other hand, are tubular, like a telescope, and lack movement in the sockets like we experience.
Now, unlike songbirds, with their pointed bills and eyes that are set to the side, the face of an owl presents human-sized, yellow eyes that peer straight ahead, and a large, down-curved beak that might look like the nose of someone you know. That owl face resembles ours!
It is no wonder, then, that we humans are enchanted by owls. We learn about them at an early age. Show a drawing or photograph of an owl to a small child, and she will quickly declare with utmost confidence: “It’s an owl.”
The nights continued with occasional hooting from atop the chimney, the sound of which was always pure enchantment. Then, on one fortuitous morning, while I was sitting in my home office drinking a pre-dawn cup of coffee, Patty called for me to “come quick” and look out the bedroom window. To my amazement, there was a Great Horned Owl perched on a fence post, facing eastward as the sun was rising above the horizon.
Great Horned Owl in early morning light
The fabulous lighting was everything a bird photographer could have dreamed of, but I knew it would last only a few minutes. I ran back to my office, grabbed my camera, and stepped outside. My heart pounded with excitement.
Having never seen an owl in the wild, I didn’t know how skittish it would be if it caught sight of me approaching. In order to create a smaller profile, I turned sideways and stealthily eased my way alongside the house. Someone watching from afar might laugh at this clownish behavior. Did I really believe that the owl could not see me moving closer and closer? It didn't occur to me how foolish I might have looked. This was a scene I had only dreamed about photographing, and I desperately wanted to captured it on my memory card.
Hootie, the name I gave to this owl, lingered for the rest of the day. From inside, I spotted her (my guess about gender) a few times in the trees and on stumps around the house, and then again at dusk. Whenever I went outside, however, hoping to add more photos to my gallery, I can tell you that she blended into the landscape so well that I ended up with nothing more.
Hootie repeated her daytime routine the next few days, constantly on the alert for the sound or movement of possible prey. Not once, but twice she even landed just a few feet from the living room windows; she paid no mind to the eyes gawking at her in amazement as she munched on fat grasshoppers that had appeared in unusually large numbers. Ravens harassed her from time to time, but Hootie gave ground to no other bird. And whenever she took flight, she looked like a barrel with wings.
Great Horned Owl in flight
With the onset of extended rain, Hootie departed. The sounds of the night seemed incomplete without her.
I attempted to build a rudimentary nest foundation in a tree on the side of the house in hopes that an owl would eventually build a nest there. The undertaking was precarious (uneven ground, shaky tree branches, up high), but I got it done without falling. I waited in great anticipation for nesting season to arrive. By that time, though, the wind had blown the platform down.
I’ll never forget the rapture that held me spellbound while Hootie was here, and I remain on alert for the blessing of her return.
Hootie, won’t you please come back? Wake me up anytime. Bring a friend, and we’ll have a hootenanny. I’ll be listening for you.
And by the way, whoever said that owls are only creatures of the night?
Great Horned Owl in flight
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