Laura Erickson's For the Birds

The week before Father’s Day, I was the instructor for a birding Elderhostel at Trees for Tomorrow, in Eagle River, Wisconsin. Perhaps the biggest highlight came the first night out. One of the Trees for Tomorrow staff people had been hearing Barred Owls occasionally at a spot in the Nicollet National Forest, so at dusk we hiked a ways into the woods and I started to hoot.

It’s best when hooting for Barred Owls to give a call and then wait silently and patiently for close to a minute before hooting again. Many people give up after three or four hoots without a response, but we were a patient group, so we waited at least 20 minutes, listening to Hermit Thrushes as darkness fell and the gibbous moon glowed through the trees. I could tell some people were starting to feel restless as the moon rose higher and higher. But you never know when, or if, an owl is going to answer. With owling, as with so many things, you need to enjoy the process and take your chances with the results.

So we waited, and waited, without hearing a single owl. And then suddenly, in a tree directly above us, not one but two owls hooted, loudly, just above our heads. I hooted back and they answered, and suddenly the three of us were hooting up a storm. And from a distance, we could hear the owls on the adjacent territory hoot back.

What took them so long to respond? After hooting up owls for many years, I’ve developed a theory. I think Barred Owls have two different ways of dealing with hooting on their territory. Early in the season, when they’re still working out territorial boundaries and even trying to attract a mate, they often answer instantly. One year when I was the evening speaker at a birding festival up in Voyageurs’ National Park, I got a response the moment I made my first call, and the bird flew in instantly, while we were still on the sidewalk by the parking lot, so everyone got wonderful looks and I looked like a master. But it was just a matter of timing—this bird was obviously trying to attract a mate, and its optimism apparently overrode any skepticism it might have felt toward a less-than-perfect call.

As spring progresses and the owls get mates and start nesting, they seem to check out intruders before calling, maybe to keep strange owls from advancing deeper into their territory. For the past few years, some friends and I have stayed overnight at a cabin in Meadowlands, Minnesota, one night in mid-May to do a “Big Day” (that is, trying to see as many birds as possible in a 24-hour period). I get up 2:15 am and hoot once or twice on my way to and from the outhouse. I get no response, but 10 or so minutes later, after we’ve had our coffee and are ready to head out, a pair of Barred Owls has flown in together. Now when I call, they answer instantly, from close range.

Apparently when these Elderhostel owls heard my call, they flew in closer and closer, on silent wings, before answering. But when they did come in, they stayed with us as we called back and forth for many long minutes. Finally, satiated with Barred Owl calls, my group started hiking back to the road. And the entire way, the owls flew overhead, calling, as if escorting us out of their territory. When we reached the road, they stuck around the whole time we lingered. Meanwhile, the owls on the adjacent territory continued to call occasionally, but came no closer, satisfied that their own territory wasn’t being invaded.

I’m not sure what makes owling so fun. I don’t even know what the hoots really mean—are we carrying on a conversation or shouting obscenities at one another? It’s “Beak” to me. But whatever it means, there is enormous pleasure in bringing in a pair of owls, and then letting them get the last word in as we drove back to Trees for Tomorrow smiling and ready to go to sleep.