Owls Aren't Wise and Bats Aren't Blind (17 page)

Collectively, owls are properly known for their hooting, but most people fail to realize that they make a wide variety of other sounds—and that some species don’t hoot at all. Many strange nighttime noises, and some during daylight hours as well, are often attributed to various other creatures, when in fact they emanate from the vocal apparatus of owls. Yes, some owls do give a hoot, but this is by no means their universal language.

At least eighteen species of owls are found in the United States and Canada. Several of these, however, such as the elf owl and ferruginous owl, are found mainly from the southern part of Mexico and barely come into the United States. It’s beyond the scope of this book to attempt a description of every species and its habits, but let’s take a close look at several of the more widely distributed and interesting owls.

THE BARRED OWL

The barred owl
(Strix varia)
is the most common large owl in the eastern United States, ranging to roughly the Mississippi River and considerably farther west in southern Canada. Its range also extends northward to the southern tip of Hudson Bay. This is also the most commonly seen owl because it’s often quite active in the daytime, especially in the late afternoon. Named for the horizontal bars across the upper breast and the prominent vertical brown streaks down its belly, this owl is easy to identify because of its big, liquid brown eyes and lack of ear tufts. (The barn owl is also “earless,” with brown eyes, but is much smaller and has a heart-shaped “monkey” face.) In contrast to the fierce yellow eyes of most owls, the barred owl’s big brown eyes lend it a deceptively benevolent appearance.

With its puffy head and a wingspan of three and a half feet or more, the barred owl is an imposing bird. Among owls commonly resident in the United States, only the great horned owl is larger; in Canada, the great gray and snowy owls are larger, as well. Still, the barred owl’s size isn’t far inferior to that of those other species, and anyone who has had a close view of one would certainly describe it as a large owl.

Despite its rather impressive height and wingspan, the barred owl can serve as Exhibit A in documenting why owls in general aren’t what they appear to be. Beneath all those feathers, there’s remarkably little bird: even a large barred owl weighs only about two pounds, and most are probably closer to a pound and a half or less! There’s a purpose to all those fluffy feathers, though: they serve the dual function of helping the owl flit soundlessly through the air and insulating it against the bitter winds of winter.

Mice and voles (so-called meadow mice) constitute the main part of the barred owl’s diet. It also preys on frogs, large insects, and occasionally squirrels and small birds. Although barred owls might occasionally seize prey as large as a rabbit, small creatures are by far their favored food.

In normal times, at my home we see barred owls only occasionally, mostly while out in the woods. Whenever the snow becomes very deep, however, we’re apt to have a barred owl frequent the vicinity of our bird feeders, often in the daytime. With truly astonishing originality we’ve christened this visitor, who has taught us much about the barred’s preference in food, Shakespeare. Actually, we have no idea whether we’ve been seeing one Shakespeare or several Shakespeares, since it’s rather difficult to tell one barred owl from another, especially from year to year.

As previously noted, our bird feeders are utilized by many red squirrels in the winter. Barred owls are known to kill squirrels, and a naturalist friend once reported seeing a barred owl make off with a red squirrel in the woods. Yet in all the time we’ve watched Shakespeare, he/she has only made one serious attempt and another rather halfhearted one at a red squirrel. During the same period, not a single attack has been made on any of the many birds regularly using our feeders.

The one serious attack on a red squirrel came after I had been watching Shakespeare for at least a half hour. The owl was plainly visible, sitting on a low branch no more than twenty yards from the feeder, yet neither birds nor squirrels paid it the slightest attention.

One rather reckless red squirrel, in particular, seemed to be tempting fate by running back and forth in the direction of the owl, seeking sunflower seeds that birds or wind had dispersed hither and yon. Often the owl swiveled its head to gaze at the squirrel, yet made no move to attack. At last, though, as if goaded beyond endurance by the audacity of this particular squirrel, Shakespeare launched himself without warning into a long, swooping dive.

Alas for the owl’s plans, Big Red wasn’t quite as foolish as he appeared to be. We had stuck our Christmas tree in the snow between the two feeders; the squirrel raced madly toward it and, just as Shakespeare seemed about to strike, leaped frantically into the protective branches, just inches ahead of the owl’s reaching talons.

Shakespeare’s other attempt at a red squirrel was far less dramatic. Again, it occurred after what might be considered extreme provocation, but this attack seemed leisurely, merely
pro forma,
as if to say, “I’m here, and don’t forget it!”

No doubt a barred owl’s decision to try for birds and red squirrels depends a great deal on how famished it is. After all, any predator, if sufficiently hungry, will go after prey that may in better times be well down its preferred list of species.

If such things as birds and squirrels aren’t the most tempting of morsels to a barred owl, mice are in a different league entirely. Based on two personal experiences, I would say that owls regard mice and voles in about the same light as we might view lobster, steak, or a rich chocolate dessert. In fact, mice were the vehicles for my two most memorable encounters with a barred owl.

We keep a container of sunflower seeds in our basement garage, and two deer mice took up residence in it. The container is made of heavy cardboard, and the mice first gnawed a hole through the top, then scraped shavings off the inside to begin making a nest. I like mice outdoors; they’re cute little beasts, and fun to watch. They don’t belong inside the house, however, where they’re destructive and dirty, and where they multiply at an alarming rate. Still, I was reluctant to kill the little creatures without trying to get them out of the house first.

For three or four days I took the seed container outside each day, tipped it on its side, dislodged the mice, and hoped they’d take the hint. Fat chance! The next day they were always back in the container, expanding their nest in preparation, one would assume, for a new crop of mice. The situation was intolerable, and my patience finally ran out.

Then Shakespeare appeared for one of his periodic but unpredictable visits. At that point the light went on: Shakespeare plus mice equaled problem solved. Further, I thought this might be a golden opportunity for some great owl photographs. Accordingly, I slung a camera around my neck, picked up container and mice, and went outdoors.

Shakespeare was perched on a low branch about fifteen feet away, perhaps a dozen feet above the ground. I put the container on its side, took my camera in one hand, and slapped the container with the other to scare out the mice. Just as the first mouse started out of the container, I lifted my eyes to view Shakespeare’s reactions and was stunned to see that the owl had already launched and was down to eye level, coming straight at me!

Before I could even react, the owl landed in the snow with a
flop
no more than two feet from me. There, for two or three long seconds, we stared at each other, while I looked deeply into those liquid brown eyes. Believe me, at that range there was not the slightest sign of the benevolent appearance that distance had always lent. Instead, there was a wild fierceness in that gaze that coursed through me like an electric shock and made me everlastingly grateful that I was so much larger than the owl. Then the spell was broken, and the owl levitated effortlessly to its former perch,
sans,
unfortunately, either rodent.

The sequel to this extraordinary encounter took place the following day. The mice were back in the container, and this time Shakespeare was ensconced on a slightly more distant perch, perhaps sixty or seventy feet away. Again I booted the mice out of the container, this time a bit better prepared for the owl’s reaction. As before, Shakespeare launched instantaneously when the mice appeared on the run, headed in his direction. Down he swooped, as swiftly as an avenging Fury, plucked up one of the mice, and made off with it into the woods. The other mouse, by the way, never returned to the feed container.

The barred owl is not only our most commonly seen owl, but also by far our most vocal owl, both in the quantity and great variety of its calls. Its colloquial name of “eight hooter” stems from its most typical call, the familiar
hoohoohoohooo, hoohoohoohoooaww.
The
aww
at the end frequently isn’t audible at any distance; close up, it’s a raspy, almost gargled sound on a slightly lower note than the rest of the call.

The basic eight-hoot call of the barred owl is quite easy to imitate with just a little practice, and owls can often be induced to respond, or even be called closer, in this fashion. It’s also possible to purchase calls that can be blown to give a passable imitation of a barred owl.

There are many variations in the number and pattern of hoots, ranging from a single
hooooaww
to a four-note
hoohoohoohooooaww,
along with all sorts of in-between permutations. We’ve often used the technique of trying to imitate precisely whatever a barred owl says, especially after we’ve called one to close quarters. On a number of camping trips, we’ve carried on lengthy conversations with barred owls—sometimes two owls at a time—by imitating their every call. Sometimes these conversations have stretched out for nearly an hour until either we or the owls grew tired of it. I have no idea what we were saying in owl language on those occasions, but it must have been good!

This wide variety of hoots by no means exhausts the repertoire of such a remarkable vocalist. In addition to hoots, this bird can emit a bloodcurdling scream that is truly frightening to the uninitiated. Some have described it as sounding like a woman’s scream. Others, unfamiliar with the barred owl’s vocal versatility, have attributed it to bobcats and other beasts. After all, owls are supposed to hoot, not shriek like a banshee. Once this scream has been heard a few times, its source can immediately be identified as a barred owl: instead of starting as a full-throated scream, such as a human would make, it begins as a thinner sound that builds steadily to a crescendo, thus: This cry becomes amusing, rather than frightening, when one becomes familiar with it.

Far more amusing, however, is what I term the “monkey call.” This rather staccato production,
oohoohahhahhawhawhawhawhaw,
is a bit difficult to portray in print, but it indeed sounds almost like the call of certain kinds of monkeys. Hearing a pair of barred owls close together, with one initiating this call a note or two after the other, is sure to elicit a delighted laugh from the human listener!

In addition to these calls, as well as hisses, moans, and all sorts of other variations, fledgling barred owls make yet another sound. Early one summer we became aware of frequent little mewing noises, much like a cat’s but softer, coming from the woods close to our house. My wife suggested that, since most of the strange noises emanating from our woods were made by barred owls, this was probably an owl call, as well.

I thought this was rather dubious, but finally took binoculars and sneaked very slowly and quietly toward the source of the mewing. Before long I spied a movement in a nearby tree, and the binoculars revealed a pair of fledgling barred owls, not long out of the nest and still a bit fuzzy. Each time their beaks opened, I could hear the soft mewing sounds. Probably the pair were importuning their parents for food, though there was no sign that the adults responded to these piteous little cries.

An added feature of the barred owl’s vocalism is that it often calls in the daytime, especially from midafternoon on. Why barred owls spend so much time calling at all hours and all seasons of the year is something of a mystery. Perhaps these calls are territorial at times, mating calls at others, and perhaps merely conversational most of the time.

Barred owls nest relatively early in the spring, usually from late March to the end of April. A cavity in a tree is the preferred nest site, although an old crow’s or hawk’s nest may be appropriated if tree cavities are scarce. Usually two or three eggs are laid—though occasionally as many as four. The eggs hatch in about a month, and it takes the nestlings roughly another month to fledge. Then they disperse to seek their own territories and call back and forth as the spirit moves them.

THE GREAT HORNED OWL

If the barred owl’s brown eyes give a false impression of mildness, the same can’t be said for the great horned owl. With its large, staring yellow eyes, long ear tufts, and great size, this owl exudes fierceness from every feather. Furthermore, the great horned owl is every bit as fearsome a predator as its appearance implies. The largest “eared” owl in North America, a large specimen can stand two feet high and have a wingspan of up to five feet. As with other owls, though, most of this bulk is feathers. An exceptionally large great horned owl may exceed five pounds, but three and a half pounds is about average—not much heft for a bird with such an impressive wing-spread. But despite this rather puny body, the horned owl is all muscle and sinew.