The Big Owl

by WYMAN RICHARDSON, M.D.

OF ALL the bird sounds, perhaps the hooting of the Big Owl - the great horned owl — is at once the most thrilling and the most fearful. It has great carrying power and seems loud when coming from afar; yet, when it arises from close by, it is as soft as the cooing of a mourning dove. It has the quality of ventriloquism, and only with great difficulty, if at all, can its source be definitely located. I remember the first time I heard it. One foggy morning I was walking through a path which ran along a ridge in the pitch pine forest northeast of the Farm House. Suddenly, from the next ridge, the sound came booming out: “WhooWhahoo! Whoo! Who?” Prickles went up and down my spine. I wasn’t exactly afraid, but I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see an Indian dodge behind a tree. “Whoo-Whahoo! Whoo! Who?” it came again. This time there could be no doubt. It was asking the same old question.

I have heard that Grand Old Man of the River, the great blue heron, in his croaky, sneezy way, ask it as he slowly flaps south through the night. I have heard the hermit thrush, in measured cadences, fill the dark pine woods with the same question. And I have heard the challenge of a flock of geese as, high through a frosty sky, they spear their way toward sunnier climes. But, of them all, the most insistent voice is that of the Big Owl.

Possibly the owl was simply questioning my right to be there, for after I had crossed the next ridge and dropped into the hollow beyond, I caught a glimpse of a ghostly gray shadow drifting quietly out of sight through the trees. And shortly I discovered, near the top of one of the larger pines, the nest of sticks from which he or his mate had flown. It was late March, and I did not climb the tree to investigate further. I had read too many stories of the ferocity of such owls, especially when they have young in the nest.

Since then, I have heard the Big Owl many times in many places. Once, last summer, two of them crooned a duet from the meadow just below the Farm House. It was ten o’clock of a black, drizzly night in September when first we heard them. I went out in the dark bareheaded, the better to listen. One was lower-pitched and had a curious catch in the second syllable. (Horned owls usually, but not always, hoot in a series of five.) The other, following almost immediately after the first, was just a third of an octave higher. Also, it was softer in tone and more coaxing. I wondered which was the husband and which the wife. One would have thought that the softer, higher-pitched voice belonged to the lady, but somehow I have an awful feeling that those low, booming notes were hers. If so, there could be little doubt who was the boss of that family.

It occurred to me to try squeaking like a mouse — an art at which I consider myself an expert, and one which will frequently attract nearby owls of any kind. The moment I began squeaking, both the owls stopped hooting. For a while, I kept on, and then I suddenly felt as if those great birds were floating by, right over my head. The night was black dark and I could barely make out the peak of the barn roof. All at once, the thought of my exposed and balding pate overwhelmed me, and I made for the house.

I sat silently by the fire for a few minutes. Sure enough, soon the duet began again. Was it my imagination, or was there in fact a more defiant quality to that low-pitched, vibrating hoot?

I do not know how common such a harmonized duet is among the horned owls. I have heard it once since, in a spot some hundred miles from the Farm House. In every respect it was identical with the first performance, save that it occurred in late December, only a month or so before nesting activities usually begin.

You don’t often get a good look at the Big Owl. He will drift off silently before you, a slightly lighter shadow against the darker shadow of the woods, and quickly disappear. Only owls have feathers so constructed that the wingbeat, be it ever so powerful, causes nary a sound. The Big Owl apparently can see perfectly well during the day, though he does most of his hunting by twilight, moonlight, or starlight. In this respect he is unlike some smaller owls, which in daylight may huddle quietly against, a tree trunk and allow a close approach. I once was shown a tiny saw-whet owl, no bigger than your fist, sitting in a thick cedar less than two feet away. Not so the Big Owl. You are lucky if you startle him close by and he shows you his white neckpiece as, flying silently off, he twists his great round head to look down at you.

Once, and only once, I had a close view of him. We were sitting before a low fire one evening in May, and were seriously considering lighting the lamps. Suddenly a dark shape swooped down in front of the window and lit atop a small cedar not sixty feet away. We crept out the back door and peeked around the corner of the house. And there he was! He looked for all the world like a huge black cat, sitting there in the top of the little tree, his big head bent slightly forward and his cat’s “ears” cocked, obviously looking to the meadow below for his supper. Again the prickles went up and down my spine. I was half glad, half sorry, when he finally slipped off the tree and disappeared into the gloom.

There are other “big" owls, of course. There is the snowy owl, monarch of the beaches, whose fierce golden eye warns all and sundry to stay clear. And there is the barred owl, also a big owl, but by and large a friendly fellow who is likely to make his winter residence right in the middle of the city park. His seven-syllable hoot, with its sharply down-inflected ending, has a gentler quality. I won’t say that it doesn’t have the eeriness which is peculiar to all owls, but it seems more down to earth and nearer home. And then there is the great gray owl, about which I know nothing. But, to me, the great horned owl is the only Big Owl.

Not always do they hoot or croon duets. Once we heard, my wife and I, a strange, high-pitched call. It suggested some bird in distress and we went to investigate. As we came nearer, we found it more and more difficult to tell whence the sound was coming. Consequently we separated to try to bracket it. And then, as we converged, a big bird swept out of a small pine and sailed off into the forest. Was the Big Owl trying to entice some unwary bird into the range of his talons? Or, if not a bird, possibly some unscrupulous mammal bent on taking advantage of a creature in distress?

No, not always do they sing duets. Have you ever heard, in the dead of night, a searing, bloodcurdling scream? A scream that jumps you out of your bunk with your hair on end? Be reassured. It’s not a woman being foully murdered. It’s the Big Owl, who has missed his pitch and allowed some dainty morsel, perhaps a skunk, to escape his clutch.

Many people hate the Big Owl. “He’s a bad actor,” some say to me. “He takes a lot of ducks.”

“Well, what if he does?” say I. “He has a taste for duck, and so do I. But I bet he takes a lot more rats than either of us.”

He takes crows, too, and while I happen to like crows (but not to eat), I know that they are not always welcome. Crows destroy duck eggs, and the Big Owl does more to control the crow population than does man with all his gadgets.

All this reminds me of a story my father used to tell. One day he was out in the brush, shooting partridge with a man we may call Mr. X. A kingfisher came by overhead and Mr. X. shot him.

“What in the world did you shoot that kingfisher for?” asked my father.

“Oh,” said Mr. X. “Kingfishers destroy more trout than any other living thing.”

A short time later the two hunters came upon a huge black snake which Mr. X. up and shot.

“For heaven’s sake!” cried my father. “What did you shoot him for?”

“Why, don’t you know,”replied Mr. X., “that black snakes destroy more kingfisher’s eggs than any other living thing?”

The philosophy of those who are so keen on predator control often seems to me much the same as Mr. X.’s. I would think it far better to see to it that abundant feeding and nesting areas are provided, and to let the owls and crows fight it out between themselves.

Come, some night in February, and stand for a while in the tall wood. There is no sound other than the rustle of a light breeze through a few tenacious oak leaves. Overhead, a scattering of bright stars twinkles through the branches in a vain attempt to pierce the gloom of the forest. And then from a distance comes that vibrating, awe-inspiring call. Nearer and nearer it approaches, until at last it seems to fill all surrounding space. Soft, yet queerly penetrating, it reaches into your soul.

As the sound dies away in the distance, there comes from afar the muted whistle of a locomotive. Strangely, it seems to have captured a trace of the eternity in the Big Owl’s voice. “ Whoo-Whahoo! Whoo! Whoooo!" goes the train.

And “Whoo-Whahoo! Whoo! Who?” repeats the owl.

Dare you answer?