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9 March 2001
Even in the early stages
of the 2001 field season, I am searching through my catalog of owl
experiences to look for answers. I weigh each year, looking for clues
that will provide me with conclusions rather than guesses. And as I
search, two years keep bobbing in my consciousness: 1989 and 1996.
Both years were notable for their similarities. In each, the snow pack
was deep and arctic cold spent most of its time perched atop the Laurentian
Shield. Swarms of northern forest owls moved south from Canada,
appearing ephemerally during daylight at feeders and outbuildings up and
down the North Shore. Driving up Highway 61, it was not unusual to see a
great gray or boreal owl, listlessly observing while their stored fat
catabolized into death. But there, the similarities end. And
both years were notable for one difference. In 1989, the owls sang.
In 1996, they didn't.
At times during 1989, I
wondered if I had entered owl heaven. During my first two years, I had
located singing boreals, but nothing would have prepared me for this. The
night rang in song. During surveys, my compass whirled in speedy
circles, trying to collect the azimuths to singers and hooters.
Courtship, a personal mystery, revealed itself as a process rather than a
serendipitous occurrence. My curiosity became sated. By the end of
winter, I had located 55 singing males and spent hours at cavity trees in my
sleeping bag just watching. It was my winter of learning.
At times during 1996, I
wondered if I had entered owl hell. Each survey night I started
as an optimist, but within hours allowed the slump-shouldered defeatist to
finish the surveys. By late March, the voice in my head had programmed
its mantra: "it ain't going to get better Billy," and it didn't. After
700 kilometers of surveys, only two boreal owls were detected. I didn't
listen to that voice then, but I certainly do know. It is the voice of
experience.
I am sitting at one of my
favored owl haunts. The winds move steadily through the tree tops
creating the sound of rushing water. There is a new 2" layer of snow,
and the moon is fat, bringing with it the feel of daylight. As the sun
leaves, the temperature drops and two layers of clothing becomes three, then
four. I sit in the boreal forest with my ears eager, ready to pounce
to life with the first sound of spring. I startle a snowshoe hare and
take that as a good sign, that there actually is life out here. 1989
or 1996? I wonder how many bags of owl carcasses Steve Wilson will
cart to his freezer. I wonder about Nikky. I wonder about life
beneath the snow.
I know there are owls
here, but know too that with the snow, survival may supplant reproduction.
I sit hoping that my theory pans out, that one of my home boys will know
where the voles are and know that receptive females may be his for the
singing. It makes perfect sense, but sense need not be integral to a
biologic equation. Prove me right, rather than wrong, is the challenge
I issue.
At 2300, I am still
basking in silence. I pack my gear and head to the Shore.
But then I begin to wonder again. I wonder if things are any different
along the Lake? I throw my skis into my car and start a 10 k journey
up the Onion River. Wolf tracks move to the north, as do I. I
stop and silence is defined anew.
I am holding in my hands
two owl years. In one 1989, in the other, 1996. I listen, but
after only three visits to the night am not yet ready to listen to the voice
that narrated 1996.
© W.H. Lane