It is difficult to get emotionally attached to a bird. They are so different from us and are so far removed from our world that we basically have nothing in common. This is perhaps what attracts many to these remarkable animals and makes birding an incredibly popular hobby all over the world. It is satisfying to watch, for example, a Townsend's Solitaire singing over it's winter territory, because you see a wild animal behaving naturally, but you play no part in the Solitaire's existance, nor does the bird play any part in yours, besides being a pleasure to observe. Many birds are secretive and want little to do with people, and are quick to leave when we get too close.  

Those birds that one can get at least somewhat attached to are usually "locals".  The local Cardinal pair that come to your feeder. The local Mockingbird that serenades you every morning. Perhaps the Robins whose nest you've been observing every day until the young fledged. You know these birds well, and they probably know you. That's why we feel attached to them. But ocassionally, an experience in nature observation leaves a lasting impression in your life, when you feel as if you and the animal have a bit more of a connection. These moments are rare and wonderful, and one of the reasons I love birding and spending time in Nature. I had one such experience while working in Algonquin Provincial Park this summer, and here it is. Pull up a chair!





Pip. Pip, Pip, Pip!!

The high-pitched alarm notes reverbated through the extensive spruce bog.

I drew my binoculars. The Olive-sided Flycatcher pair breeding in the bog were not pleased. Both birds perched like sentinels atop spruce snags and yelled at something nestled below, in the deeper spruces. Perhaps a Pine Marten, or maybe one of the local Merlins had made a kill - I saw one pass over a few minutes earlier...

Or an Owl.

I decided to investigate. I made my way over the bog mat and onto the little island with the thicker growth of spruces. It was difficult to navigate, with all sorts of snags and twigs seeking to make the clumsy birder a blind birder. However, the flycatchers were really riled up and I was sure there'd be something interesting on the other side of the little spruce island. I made my way over to the little thicket of spruce the flycatchers were directing their attention to. Immediately I couldn't see anything that would draw their interest - I was looking intently at the trunks of the spruces, expecting to see the sleek, cinnamon shape of a Pine Marten - an extremely attractive animal, and one that I always love meeting. After about five minutes looking through spruce trunks, I determined I wouldn't meet the acquaintence of the Marten and, the day getting shorter and shorter, I decided to go back to the trail and head home. I was at the edge of the bog when I heard a crackling behind me. Had the Marten come out of hiding?

I peered into the spruce growth along the side of the bog and saw what the flycatchers had been upset about. And it saw me, and stared at me with intense, beautiful yellow eyes.


 


I stared at the bird in complete disbelief. I think I was even trembling slightly. It was, in every way, a young Great Gray Owl.

A Great Gray Owl.

Great Grays have an interesting history in Algonquin. They are usually seen as a result of luck, sitting on the wires along Highway 60. Sightings occured in the summer as well, which prompted the thought of Great Grays breeding in the Park. Fledged young were eventually discovered and now the owl is believed to be an extremely rare, but regular breeder in the Park. This baby represented only the fourth confimed nesting record.

Or course, for me, standing out there in the bog, looking at this young owl, none of this mattered. It was only the second time I had ever seen a Great Gray Owl, and what a look! Because the bird seemed to tolerate my presence, I decided to stick around, and sat down on the soft bog mat, and watched the bird whose picture I, unknowingly at this point, would be carrying in my wallet.

The baby was visibly intrigued by the new, strange pink thing in it's habitat, and began to harshly screech in my direction. I was worried he was stressed out and was just about to leave when another baby Great gray emerged from the bog and joined his sibling. At this point they were both looking at me funny, stretching their necks and twisting their heads into strange positions to have better looks. After about ten minutes, they forgot that I existed and began to preen and stretch, which generated some interesting visuals.

Eventually, all of this cleaning and stretching and looking tired the babies out, and slowly their big yellow eyes began to close, and they drifted off to sleep, looking, if anything, like tired toddlers.

It was at this point that I quietly snuck out of the bog, leaving the owlets to get some sleep.

The news of breeding Great Gray Owls swept quickly through the Staffhouse and Visitor Centre. Excitement was with everyone, and many were eager to go see what these birds were about for themselves. We did, however, decide that this information was not ready to be made public. As these are breeding birds, they are sensitive to disturbance, and a large group of people visiting the birds every day will stress them out and draw the attention of predators (such as Black Bears), not to mention photographers eager to get their "glory shot", persuing the birds and stressing them out even further until they do. I have seen this grow into "baiting" operations with other owls, where mice are tossed for the owl to eat and photos are taken of "the kill". I won't go into the details of the ecological harm that this inevitably invokes, because that could be another blog post altoghether. The point being, nobody was to know about these owls until they've fledged and the dangers of them being harasssed were non-existant.

I was back in the bog the next day, but later than the first time. the weather was warm and sunny rather than overcast as it was the previous day, and I was hoping to get a glimpse of the birds activity as it was gettting dark.

As the sun was slowly setting, I discovered the owlets were not in their roost any longer. Intrigued, I wondered where they had gone when a loud, piercing shriek answered my question. They were now in the open bog, and they were hungry.

I headed toward the loud, intense begging of the baby owls. It was pleasantly sunny and warm, the owlets were eager to get fed, and there was not a cloud in the sky.

I then wondered what was casting the massive shadow that was now quietly joining mine in the open bog, and looked behind me -





It was mum, and she had a nice, fat Meadow Vole in her bill. She did not even look at me, only paused breifly, bobbed her head to orientate herself in the direction of her babies, and silently lifted off from her perch.

The babies must have noticed her as well, but instead of gawking at the massive bird with the five-foot wingspan like I was, their urgent food screams became even more intense. I watched the adult bird slowly glide towards the sound and disappear in the tamaracks. The begging peaked, and then stopped.

A few seconds later, the adult bird was returning from her nestlings, and, once again, landed almost directly alongside me. This time she did notice me, and awkwardly turned her head. She then turned her head away from me, as if brushing me off, and then took off to find more voles for her chicks, who had, once again, started shrieking for more food.

Seeing all of this blew my mind, and I was sure that it would blow everyone else's as well. So, the next evening, I assembled the whole "cast and crew" of the staffhouse who wanted to see the birds. And who could resist?

It was then when I had perhaps one of the most memorable days of my life - the day that I took nine people from various parts of Ontario, with various experience with birds, with various jobs, and separate lives outside of Algonquin, but all united in their love of the natural world, to see what was surely going to be one of the most memorable natural history spectacles in many of our lives.

We quietly went out into the bog, guided by the increasingly loud begging calls of the baby owls. I maintained that we keep a large distance from the birds - I was not sure how they would react to a group of ten people and was not wanting to find out.

Eventually we saw them.

And they saw us. The owlets suddenly stopped begging, and this was when I got a little worried and thought of abandoning the operation, but all the owlets did was jump up higher in the tamaracks to get better looks at their admirers, and then resumed bouncing around and begging loudly. They couldn't fly well yet, so they mostly clumsily climbed about and flapped to get from one perch to the next, noisily begging all the way. We watched all this for about fifteen minutes, and many of the staff had their first looks at Great Gray Owls, and were delighted by the cute, fuzzy owlets.

I felt my job was done, but apparently the owls didn't.

"Hey, Guys...."

Jessica had noticed that while we were busy watching the owlets, the female owl was busy watching us from behind about eight feet away! And once again, she had a nice, juicy vole in her bill.

The rest was simply a "National Geographic" moment. The owl flew right above our heads, silently, towards the eager chicks. One of the chicks got up higher than the other, and was pushing his sibling out of the way. The rest, you see in some fuzzy (it was at a distance to prevent disturbing the birds) photographs -

 






The female passed us again, within five feet of some people, low over the bog, and disappeared. Each one of us looked exactly like an owlet about to be fed after this entire ordeal - eyes wide and jaws to the ground. You could hear a pin drop in that bog.   

Days passed. Weeks passed. I watched the fledglings slowly grow into their wings. Almost every day I would visit the little family of owls, sometimes taking other employees with me. Every observation was different, and sometimes the adult birds would hunt right beside the trail, not caring about the presence of people, allowing exceptionally good looks as they went about their normal business.

One exceptional moment was when myself and Ethan Huner happened upon one of the adult birds hunting. We noticed the bird intently sitting, wings drooped, on a snag, swivelling her head back and forth, listening for prey.

Suddenly, she locked onto a target.

The target was a Short-tailed Shrew shuffling about about two feet from my foot. The owl was well aware of our presence, so was probably not going to attempt at a kill within a few feet of us...

The bird flew onto a small spruce five feet from my face. Here I could appreciate her immense size - Ethan and I were speechless. She didn't even look at either of us, intently locked onto her Shrew, and then plunged.

She was so close that I felt the air from her wings brush against my face. She landed right below me, face buried in the bog vegetation. Ethan and I held our breaths for a few seconds, and then she put her head up.

She got it. She swiftly transferred her prize into her bill, and then lifted off heavily from the brush, within centimetres of Ethan and I.

She settled on a branch, her facial feathers retracted, bill bloodied, recovering from her kill. She looked solemnly at Ethan and I and flew into the woods, where her young were silent, but undoubtedly still hungry.

This was, as you can imagine, incredibly exhilarating. And throughout the course of the weeks, I have watched this bird make several kills, but it never ceased to amaze me in every way the elegance and grace in which this bird worked. And did she work! Kill after kill, she fed her hungry owlets until they grew larger and owl down began accumulating on the snags in the bog. They were moulting into their adult plumage, and it wasn't long before they looked more like Great Gray Owls.

It was at this stage in their lives when I had perhaps the most touching wildlife encounter I've ever had. Watching these birds suddenly become more and more aware of their habitat was an incredible experience. They were no longer balls of fluff bouncing around the tamaracks, screaming for food. For long periods, they would sit and silently watch what was going on around them. They would twist their heads in the direction of airplanes and flying Purple Finches, intently observing them. They'd follow dragonflies as well. Occasionally they'd pounce on sticks and twigs. I was gradually seeing these birds grow into themselves, and it was incredible.

One day, I was watching the owlet in the photo above, preeening himself as they usually did in the heat of the day. Suddenly, however, something clicked inside of the bird's brain and he stared intently at me. This was unusual, as whenever I watched these owlets interact with their environment I was largely ignored. They had become used to my presence and didn't even flinch and eventually didn't even stop begging to look at me when I visited.

I don't know what that bird was thinking, but he flopped off of his perch and took a seat on the same snag that I was sitting on,  but about 12 feet down from me.


 

I put down my camera after taking the above shot and watched my little neighbor, and he watched me. Slowly, hobbled towards me within two feet, watching his steps carefully. Then, after staring at his feet after walking, he looked directly up at me, and I looked down at him. We exchanged glaces for about three full minutes, and he sometimes quietly clicked his beak at me, like he was trying to communicate. How awkward this must've looked - a human and an owl sitting on a log in the middle of the woods, looking at each other like two kids on a playground making friends for the first time. Of course the bird didn't understand the concept of friends or companionship, but I think at that moment that animal realized that I was more than an inanimate object in it's environment.

His sibling's screech notified him of his mother's arrival with a vole, and he swiftly took off from his perch and awkwardly made his way out of the bog. And so did I.

Unfortunately, word of the owl's presence here got out. I took a photographer whom I once trusted with this information to the owl spot, and two days later there were over twenty people, and trails going in and out of the bog,  with much of the sedge and shpagnum matted due to people walking all over it.

With the Ministry of Resources supporting me, I erected signs and closed off the bog with caution tape. When I went out there, the entire staffhouse, many of whom had seen the owls several times, and some of whom who had never seen the birds, went out there to protect our little family, and help me with the operation. It was quite touching. The bog was now a no-go zone, and after the signs were erected, I only sporadically heard the birds, and then they were gone, no doubt successfully fledged due to the diligent work of their parents.

Before this, however, we paid one last visit to the bog before we closed it down, and the owls were right on the trail.

How they had grown...their facial disks were growing right in, and their bodies were mostly free of down. It was now apparent that one was more well-developed than the other, but they were both exceptionally healthy. They studied us intently, as they haven't seen such a group for a while - but they were more curious than threatened...and I had noticed that they didn't beg any more.

The silhouette of the female with a meal appeared on the horizon of the bog. The owlets noticed this too, but they did not beg or awkrwardly climb onto the highest tamarack branch like they did before. They swiftly jumped from their perches.

And flew.

Not awkward mini-flights, but powerful, sustained, silent flight. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever witnessed.

It was the "runt" that got fed this time. The other owlet flew back as soon as he saw his sibling get there first. Surprisingly, he flew back to have another look.

This is the last photograph I took of the owlet, and, now that I look at it, he looks almost indiscernible from the adult birds. I feel extraordinarily priveledged to have watched these birds maturing into the great predators that they have undoubtedly become. So many people have played a part in these birds existance. So many have observed sights that they will undoubtedly remember for the rest of their lives. And I wish to thank all of those who did. I also wish to thank Ontario Parks for being so supportive of my worries for these birds. And though I did not see the owls again, I get reports from visitors that are lucky enough to glimpse these birds near to where I watched them grow up. I know they are out there somewhere, hunting remote bogs and getting ready for the harsh winter. And who knows, maybe we will meet again someday. For now, though, I am very thankful for the privelege of sharing several of my days with Great Grays.

Epilogue - One thing I am saddened by is the fact that more people were not able to witness the events described here. Most of the staff did, but only a few members of the public ever got to see the birds, and that is very unfortunate, as it would have been a great learning experience. I apologize for not being able to reveal the location of these birds to many who have asked or would have liked to know.  As a birder, I believe in a free information exchange system between people, but no longer for owls. I have seen with my own eyes what people do to owls and owl habitat, and it is, for lack of better wording, ridiculous. Unfortunately, all of these actions that I personally have witnessed have been by photographers more than anyone else. Being an amateur photographer myself and knowing many, many photographers who are very respectful of their subjects, I find this fact embarassing and unacceptable. Hopefully sometime in the future people will realize that Nature isn't a photo studio and birds are not models. If everyone was more respectful of the animals we love to see and photograph, we could all have much more fun and trust one another much more with information like this, not to mention the health and safety of the birds would not be put under pressure. This way, many more people will have a chance at seeing these incredible creatures, and thus perhaps play a part in their conservation. Now, however, with many choosing not to disclose information about such animals for fear of harassment (including myself), it becomes harder and harder for new people in the hobby and nature enthusiasts in general to have encounters with a particularly interesting and unique group of birds. And that is sad.