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Enrapt with raptors
Falconers connect to practice sport
Bob Mottram, Tacoma News Tribune, Scripps Howard News Service
Brian Kellogg of Tacoma, Wash., watches his Harris hawk fly over sagebrush in search of game during the Washington State Falconry Association's annual meeting. People from all over the Pacific Northwest, including Redding, came to fly and watch. Scripps Howard News
SEARCH MODE: A Harris hawk takes to the skies during a falconry meeting. Scripps Howard News
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED: Lee Mann of Seattle holds a rabbit that was killed by his Harris hawk. Not all the work is done by falcons; beagles are used to flush prey from the sagebrush. Scripps Howard News
December 08, 2002
BURNS, Ore. — The score had been rabbits 13, raptors 1 when a husky Harris' hawk suddenly came to attention on a fence post, staring past a line of men who beat the sagebrush just ahead. "He sees a rabbit!" one of the people said.
None of the men had seen the animal, which huddled beneath a bush, but the raptor needed no such validation. It launched from its perch on wings that spanned nearly four feet, glided silently toward the bush, and suddenly dived beneath it. A jackrabbit erupted from the shadows, sprinting zigzag across the arid ground, racing frantically for a refuge that lay somewhere ahead.
It didn't make it.
The hawk recovered from its dive and plunged after the fleeing mammal, zigging and zagging through the brush like a Hellcat hot on a Zero's tail. Talons connected with prey, and the pair hit the ground in a tangle of feathers and fur. The raptor cut off the rabbit's screams.
It was the second successful flight that day in 14 tries by this and other birds.
This was a Saturday on the high desert about 25 miles southeast of Burns. Members of the falconry associations in several states had come together for a rare joint annual meeting. The highlight of it was a day afield with their birds. They had come with Harris' hawks, red-tailed hawks, peregrine falcons and others; even a golden eagle.
They used the hawks and the eagle to hunt jackrabbits and cottontails. Peregrines and other falcons specialize in birds.
Not all ran smoothly. John Lees of Powell Butte, Ore., stood forlornly at the edge of the Malheur County Fairgrounds in Burns and scanned the horizon with a radio direction-finder antenna.
He searched in vain for his gyrfalcon, missing in action since the evening before. Like many captured birds, it carried a small transmitter for moments such as this, but the device had stopped transmitting or the bird had flown too far for the signals to be read.
"One of the things you've got to come to grips with in this sport is there's a chance you're going to lose it every time you turn the bird loose," Lees said.
His words belied the angst he must have felt. This was the fourth season he had hunted with this bird, and apparently would be the last. It was a "passage" gyrfalcon, captured as an adult, Lees said, a fact that made it less dependable than one reared in captivity. This falcon had lived in the wild before Lees caught it, and had provided for itself.
"It knew it didn't need me," he said.
Still, it had hunted with Lees for four seasons, a testament to the bond between human and bird. All of the raptors that falconers use hunt free of restraints. When they return to the wrist, as they usually do, it's because they choose to.
"Like any club, falconers like to trade stories," said Brad Wood, the Washington State association's president. "We try to hold it in an area with plentiful game, and that's why we held it in Burns.
"We also held it here because we can't hunt jackrabbits (in Washington) anymore. And the jackrabbit is a trophy that kicks off the bird and gets away."
". . . . The principal reason we formed was . . . to make sure that falconry would continue as a legal hunting sport in Washington," said Wood, who is from Olympia.
First bird of the day was a Harris' hawk handled by Lee Mann. He taught special-education students in the Seattle School District, but expected to lose his job in the financial upheaval occurring in that district this fall.
Mann released his bird, and it flew to the top of a nearby sagebrush where it perched. A line of beaters started through the knee-high to chest-high sage, a pair of beagles working out ahead. The bird let the men go past its perch by 30 or 40 yards, then glided through the line to find another bush ahead. It repeated this until finally a rabbit got up.
A jolt of electricity might as well have struck the bird. It leaped from its perch and raced after the fleeing form, twisting and turning to follow the rabbit's course. Suddenly, the rabbit was gone; vanished in mid chase. This likely was not the first such bird the animal had encountered, and it probably had learned from the experience. Nature equips both predator and prey to survive.
The scene would repeat itself numerous times this day; a large rabbit in full flight, a pursuing bird behind, the rabbit disappearing like a whiff of smoke.
On its third attempt, Mann's bird finally took its prey. Mann raced to the spot to find the bird leaning over the animal, its wings outstretched in a possessive posture that falconers call "mantling." Birds do it to shield the prey from the sight of other raptors that might attack the captor while it is vulnerable on the ground.
Half an hour later, a jack jumped up behind the line, after the men had passed, and raced in the opposite direction. It didn't fool the bird, which brought it down in seconds.
But this was catch-and-release. The raptor had it down, and couldn't hold it. The wily rabbit leaped up, shook off the bird and escaped.
Troy Nicolls had driven five hours from Redding with his teenage son and his red-tailed hawk, which wasn't yet ready to fly. He had captured it just weeks before. Nicolls, an apprentice falconer, operated under the tutelage of Cory Rhea of Edgewood, a lifelong friend. He practiced enticing his tethered bird from a roost onto his wrist, luring it with rabbit meat so as to teach it to come to the handler. His son, Blaine, had preceded him into falconry, Nicolls said.
"I'm just following him," he said. "There are no falconers where we're at, so this is a good opportunity to learn. And there's a lot to learn."
Mark Lowmiller of Seattle also brought a red-tailed hawk. At 60, Lowmiller also apprenticed, because his work as a physician had precluded falconry before.
"I've always been interested," Lowmiller said. "I've read about it for years. Now I'm working half-time. This is very time-consuming."
Even with the time available, however, he doesn't expect to fully overcome his tardy start.
"I'm not going to live long enough to fly all the birds I want to fly," he said.
Bob Mottram works at the Tacoma Tribune. Contact him at bob.mottram@mail.tribnet.com.
Falconers connect to practice sport
Bob Mottram, Tacoma News Tribune, Scripps Howard News Service
Brian Kellogg of Tacoma, Wash., watches his Harris hawk fly over sagebrush in search of game during the Washington State Falconry Association's annual meeting. People from all over the Pacific Northwest, including Redding, came to fly and watch. Scripps Howard News
SEARCH MODE: A Harris hawk takes to the skies during a falconry meeting. Scripps Howard News
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED: Lee Mann of Seattle holds a rabbit that was killed by his Harris hawk. Not all the work is done by falcons; beagles are used to flush prey from the sagebrush. Scripps Howard News
December 08, 2002
BURNS, Ore. — The score had been rabbits 13, raptors 1 when a husky Harris' hawk suddenly came to attention on a fence post, staring past a line of men who beat the sagebrush just ahead. "He sees a rabbit!" one of the people said.
None of the men had seen the animal, which huddled beneath a bush, but the raptor needed no such validation. It launched from its perch on wings that spanned nearly four feet, glided silently toward the bush, and suddenly dived beneath it. A jackrabbit erupted from the shadows, sprinting zigzag across the arid ground, racing frantically for a refuge that lay somewhere ahead.
It didn't make it.
The hawk recovered from its dive and plunged after the fleeing mammal, zigging and zagging through the brush like a Hellcat hot on a Zero's tail. Talons connected with prey, and the pair hit the ground in a tangle of feathers and fur. The raptor cut off the rabbit's screams.
It was the second successful flight that day in 14 tries by this and other birds.
This was a Saturday on the high desert about 25 miles southeast of Burns. Members of the falconry associations in several states had come together for a rare joint annual meeting. The highlight of it was a day afield with their birds. They had come with Harris' hawks, red-tailed hawks, peregrine falcons and others; even a golden eagle.
They used the hawks and the eagle to hunt jackrabbits and cottontails. Peregrines and other falcons specialize in birds.
Not all ran smoothly. John Lees of Powell Butte, Ore., stood forlornly at the edge of the Malheur County Fairgrounds in Burns and scanned the horizon with a radio direction-finder antenna.
He searched in vain for his gyrfalcon, missing in action since the evening before. Like many captured birds, it carried a small transmitter for moments such as this, but the device had stopped transmitting or the bird had flown too far for the signals to be read.
"One of the things you've got to come to grips with in this sport is there's a chance you're going to lose it every time you turn the bird loose," Lees said.
His words belied the angst he must have felt. This was the fourth season he had hunted with this bird, and apparently would be the last. It was a "passage" gyrfalcon, captured as an adult, Lees said, a fact that made it less dependable than one reared in captivity. This falcon had lived in the wild before Lees caught it, and had provided for itself.
"It knew it didn't need me," he said.
Still, it had hunted with Lees for four seasons, a testament to the bond between human and bird. All of the raptors that falconers use hunt free of restraints. When they return to the wrist, as they usually do, it's because they choose to.
"Like any club, falconers like to trade stories," said Brad Wood, the Washington State association's president. "We try to hold it in an area with plentiful game, and that's why we held it in Burns.
"We also held it here because we can't hunt jackrabbits (in Washington) anymore. And the jackrabbit is a trophy that kicks off the bird and gets away."
". . . . The principal reason we formed was . . . to make sure that falconry would continue as a legal hunting sport in Washington," said Wood, who is from Olympia.
First bird of the day was a Harris' hawk handled by Lee Mann. He taught special-education students in the Seattle School District, but expected to lose his job in the financial upheaval occurring in that district this fall.
Mann released his bird, and it flew to the top of a nearby sagebrush where it perched. A line of beaters started through the knee-high to chest-high sage, a pair of beagles working out ahead. The bird let the men go past its perch by 30 or 40 yards, then glided through the line to find another bush ahead. It repeated this until finally a rabbit got up.
A jolt of electricity might as well have struck the bird. It leaped from its perch and raced after the fleeing form, twisting and turning to follow the rabbit's course. Suddenly, the rabbit was gone; vanished in mid chase. This likely was not the first such bird the animal had encountered, and it probably had learned from the experience. Nature equips both predator and prey to survive.
The scene would repeat itself numerous times this day; a large rabbit in full flight, a pursuing bird behind, the rabbit disappearing like a whiff of smoke.
On its third attempt, Mann's bird finally took its prey. Mann raced to the spot to find the bird leaning over the animal, its wings outstretched in a possessive posture that falconers call "mantling." Birds do it to shield the prey from the sight of other raptors that might attack the captor while it is vulnerable on the ground.
Half an hour later, a jack jumped up behind the line, after the men had passed, and raced in the opposite direction. It didn't fool the bird, which brought it down in seconds.
But this was catch-and-release. The raptor had it down, and couldn't hold it. The wily rabbit leaped up, shook off the bird and escaped.
Troy Nicolls had driven five hours from Redding with his teenage son and his red-tailed hawk, which wasn't yet ready to fly. He had captured it just weeks before. Nicolls, an apprentice falconer, operated under the tutelage of Cory Rhea of Edgewood, a lifelong friend. He practiced enticing his tethered bird from a roost onto his wrist, luring it with rabbit meat so as to teach it to come to the handler. His son, Blaine, had preceded him into falconry, Nicolls said.
"I'm just following him," he said. "There are no falconers where we're at, so this is a good opportunity to learn. And there's a lot to learn."
Mark Lowmiller of Seattle also brought a red-tailed hawk. At 60, Lowmiller also apprenticed, because his work as a physician had precluded falconry before.
"I've always been interested," Lowmiller said. "I've read about it for years. Now I'm working half-time. This is very time-consuming."
Even with the time available, however, he doesn't expect to fully overcome his tardy start.
"I'm not going to live long enough to fly all the birds I want to fly," he said.
Bob Mottram works at the Tacoma Tribune. Contact him at bob.mottram@mail.tribnet.com.
