“If you love it enough, anything will talk to you.” - George Washington Carver
Three years after I met my first Barred owl, I was forced to find new digs when chain smokers moved into the apartment below mine. I was pretty annoyed at the time, but being smoked out of my home proved to be a gift in disguise. My new apartment was located on the second floor of a no-smoking complex and was within walking distance of a nature preserve. The preserve protects an ancient population of Eastern Hemlock trees and is home to a fascinating array of critters, including three species of owls.
You can imagine my excitement when I learned that owls were living close by, and immediately added the preserve’s main trail to my mid-morning walks. The trail starts at the top of a large volcanic cliff (a holdover from the last ice-age) and descends in a series of switchbacks to a creek at its base. My first hike along the trail was picturesque, aerobically challenging, and disappointing. There wasn’t an owl to be seen or heard. In retrospect, I should have known better. Most owls are nocturnal and were undoubtedly sleeping during my visit. Unfortunately, the preserve closes at dusk and has strict rules prohibiting after hours visits. The trails are steep, uneven, and riddled with roots. It just isn’t safe for people to wander around after dark.
Happily I discovered an exception to the no-visitors-at-night rule on the preserve’s website. The biologist in charge of educational programs was offering a mini-class entitled Night Walks for Seniors. According to the course description it was, “designed to give adults 50 years or older a glimpse into the lives of the preserve’s many nocturnal inhabitants.” I signed up immediately.
Two weeks later, 14 people gathered at the preserve’s nature center as the sun was setting. There were six couples, myself, and the preserve’s natural-history guru, Mark. We met in the annex, a large open room lined with display cases, folding tables and chairs, and a disconcerting number of stuffed animals.
By stuffed I don’t mean soft, squishy toys for kids, I mean dead animals preserved through taxidermy, also known as “taxidermy mounts.” To be clear (and to prepare you for a brief rant) the practice of killing and preserving animals for study and display has been on my list of high crimes since I learned that Audubon hired hunters to kill birds (euphemistically referred to as “gathering specimens”) so he could paint them. Many if not most biographies of Audubon praise the process he used, calling it a “profoundly effective innovation” in which freshly killed specimens were mounted in life-like positions and held in place by wires.
The assumption that birds had to die so Audubon could paint them (and by inference that humanity has the right to capture, imprison, farm, slaughter, and use other species to satisfy its curiosity, appetites, and desires) is deeply upsetting to me. So when Mark had our group gather beside three “stuffed” owls and began explaining their unique habits and habitats my stomach turned. To take my mind off the dusty, glassy-eyed specimens I raised my hand and asked, “So will we be able to hear living owls tonight?”
“I hope so,” Mark said. “Let me demonstrate what you’re likely to hear.”
Then Mark did something delightful and astonishing. He mimicked the calls made by all three species of owls living in the preserve - Barred owls, Great Horned owls, and Screech owls. The effect was electrifying. “How did you do that?” asked a tiny woman wearing violet sweats, lavender sneakers, and enormous spectacles with pale purple frames that gave her a distinctly owlish appearance.
“Oh, I’ve been working here for 30 years,” Mark said. “The owls and I have learned to communicate.”
“Teach me,” I said, stepping forward. “Please.”
There was a pause as Mark looked - really looked - at me for the first time. “Tell you what, I’ll teach you the Barred owl call and then we really need to get going.”
It took Mark only a few minutes to demonstrate how to shape our mouths, place our tongues at the bottom and back of our mouths, and use sharp exhales deep in our throats to make the Barred owl’s emphatic baritone calls. Soon the whole room was filled with spirited, if inaccurate Barred owl imitations.
“Well, you’re enthusiastic at least,” Mark said, sounding amused. He opened the outside door and motioned for us to follow him.
After having us check and turn on the flashlights we were required to bring, Mark led us down a wide, gently sloping trail covered in a deep layer of wood chips. This soon gave way to a set of steep wooden steps arranged in a series of switchbacks leading into the ravine. The preserve’s staff had done a great job of lighting our route, but our progress was slow. The further we descended, the colder and wetter the air became, and the more difficult it was to navigate the rocks and roots embedded in the trail. Talking faded to grunts, heavy breathing, and muttered expletives. Mark stopped often, ostensibly to point out flora and fauna and answer questions, but I suspected he was keeping an eye on and adjusting our pace to accommodate the least fit among us.
We were about three quarters of the way down to the bottom of the ravine when a foul odor wafted over the group. Assuming there was a dead animal somewhere nearby, I did my best to ignore it and kept walking. When it happened again and someone towards the back of the line exclaimed, “What the hell is that?” I began to suspect that the source of the smell was not a dead animal. Sure enough, when a fetid smell engulfed us for the third time, Mattie and Ernie, the adorable couple dressed in matching plaid jackets at the front of the line, confessed.
“We had Mexican food for dinner,” Mattie explained. “It always gives him gas.” Ernie, on the other hand, seemed to find his flatulence amusing and began announcing when he felt the urge to pass. “Incoming,” he’d call out, or “all things must pass,” followed by a low-pitched giggle.
Everyone who’d been hiking behind Ernie and Mattie started moving upwind. By the time we reached the floor of the ravine and began walking deeper into the trees, Ernie and Mattie were only a few steps in front of me near the back of the line. I was just about to join the others upwind when Mark stopped in a clear area among the trees. “Let’s spread out and form a circle here,” he said. “This is the best place to hear owls, but we have to be very quiet.” As unobtrusively as possible, I sidled past Ernie and Mattie and made my way to the other side of the circle as it formed. When everyone was in place, Mark had us turn off our flashlights, close our eyes, and listen.
Without the artificial lights from our flashlights, the night dropped over us like a cool, protective mantle. The darkness felt familiar, soothing, and restful. I took a deep breath, stepped back, and leaned against a tree, letting its rough bark and solid trunk support me.
At first, all I could hear were the sounds of a breeze rustling through the tops of the trees and the murmur of the creek. Then a low, deep, stuttering hoot from somewhere high above us brought the air alive. Thanks to Mark’s demonstration I recognized it as a Great Horned owl. Moments later another owl replied from farther away. The conversation that followed continued for several minutes - whispering across my nerve ends and sending goosebumps up my spine.
Then Mark broke the spell with a call of his own. There was a long pause before the owl in the tree closest to us replied with an impatient sounding hoot followed by silence. Mark waited a few more minutes before saying, “I think that’s it for tonight.”
“That was amazing!” someone said. Soon the whole group was buzzing, turning on their flashlights and gathering around Mark to discuss what they’d heard.
“Okay, let’s head back,” Mark said, pointing with his flashlight in the direction of the lighted trail. “Everyone watch your step and let me know if you need a break. Remember it’s all uphill going back.”
One by one the members of the group fell into line behind Mark, but I didn’t move. I waited until I could no longer hear the sound of their voices or see the wavering beams of light from their flashlights. When I knew I was finally alone, I closed my eyes and pictured the Barred owl staring at me from the branch of the tree three years ago. I imagined her sitting in a nearby tree tonight, watching with her dark, liquid eyes, waiting for all the noise to subside.
I had no doubt that my attempt at a Barred owl call would be a poor imitation but I did it anyway, doing my best to put all the wonder and longing I was feeling into my voice. “Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, HooHoooo!” I called. The darkness absorbed the sound as I waited.
Silence.
A few moments later, I tried again. “Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, HooHoooo!” Then from far away - so far that I thought I must be imagining it at first - I heard a reply. “Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, HooHoooo!” she called. A few seconds later there was a second call, much closer this time. “Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, HooHoooo!”
I was just about to reply when Mark appeared at my side and put his hand on my arm. “It’s time to go,” he said firmly.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, startled and shaken by unexpected contact and shift in focus. “I just wanted to see, just wanted to try…” I stammered, searching for words.
“I know,” Mark said in a quiet, non-judgmental voice. “I come down here to talk to them, too. But it’s time to go. The others are waiting.”
Several more years have passed since the Barred owl and I reconnected on the Night Walk for Seniors. The class has never been offered again, which is probably wise, but my conversations with owls have continued unabated. There is a pair of Barred owls that stops by periodically to chat. They perch in the upper branches of the enormous holly tree outside my office window and call back and forth to one another like lovesick teens. If they’re feeling generous and have a little time on their hands they will even respond to my poor attempts at owl speak. Their good-natured amusement and willingness to overlook my inadequacies almost always bring tears to my eyes.
I come away from these visits wondering how to tell you - how to share these wild, half-forgotten connections arcing between us like electrified threads of song calling us home. I’ll keep trying. - Jena
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“Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, HooHoooo!” Then from, kinda, but not quite, far away - London
Haaappppyy Christmas, Jena Ball 🌝🙏🏻🌞☃️🫂🎄🎅❄️🎄🧘🏻♀️🌌
Thank you! I interrupted my reading to identify the owl that I hear outside on many nights. I had not realized just how many species of owls there are, and more surprising, how so very different they all sound! - I am not sure which one is talking outside - things get confusing when you listen to so many bird calls - maybe I'll find out tonight.
As for the dead animal smell. I fully expected Mark to point out a plant. My father grew a plant that, when in flower, would seriously stink like a decaying animal to attract specific pollinators. (A quick search reveals this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carrion_flower.) - Growing this plant was my father's (very effective) idea of a practical joke.