Flying to Freedom

"Never did eye see the sun unless it had first become sunlike, and never can the soul have vision of the first beauty unless itself be beautiful."

Plotinus

I sat on the bed’s edge, lacing up the old hiking boots I had purchased when I got my falconry license, and let the sweet memories flow. I have been a falconer for 12 years. In the fourth year, Druid was trapped in the wild as a young red-tailed hawk and given to me. His maturation brought a steadfast and noble friend.

Druid came into my life when I was struggling with depression, so the time spent flying him was balm for my soul. Caring for Druid–weighing him, changing his bath water, cleaning refuse from his mews, and, during hunting season, flying him for prey–ordered my days.

Slowly I healed, and Druid developed into a fine game hawk. When I graduated from psychotherapy, however, I acknowledged the end of my journey with him.

The process of releasing him was based on ceasing our interaction: I stopped feeding him on the glove and began using a food chute in the mews instead. I took him to the Raptor Center for a checkup. They coped (manicured) his beak, examined his feet for sores and skin cracks, and declared him healthy.

Seasoned falconers recommended releasing Druid during spring migration, so that he would have the best chance of good hunting for food as well as a mate.

On Feb. 28, at the end of small-game season, I hunted with Druid for the last time. With pure symmetry his arched wings cut through the crystalline winter air. His shadow passed over me, standing earthbound while he soared. We didn’t catch anything that day, but we worked like a married couple, each anticipating the other’s movements.

It had been a good partnership.

Mating season starts in early March, and I chose to set him free March 10. We drove north until we reached windswept fields. After nosing down back roads, we came to a copse of trees with some nearby brush, probably sheltering rabbits.

I went to the rear of my Jeep, where Druid’s giant hood, or pet carrier, sat. I opened it and Druid hopped out, no doubt expecting just another hunt. I grasped his jesses–leather foot restraints–firmly in my hand. I took a deep breath, faced the wind, and released first one leg, and then the other.

He was free. Tears streamed and a lump formed in my throat. "Goodbye, and thank you," I whispered, holding my fist aloft. He was full and would have enough energy to last through the few days it would take him to adjust. On my gloved fist, I felt the familiar tightening of his talons, his signal before he spread his wings to fly. Then he was gone.

I stood for a long time, just watching him through binoculars. He seemed to be waiting for me as he sat on a branch.

"I want to call him back," I thought. But, he was free. I had to let him go.

Then Druid flew until he was out of sight. Without a backward glance, I drove home. It was time for both of us to begin anew.

Life resumed, but the mews haunted me. I scanned the horizon looking for that telltale profile of a hawk. I called other falconers to find out how the summer waned for them. Hawks appeared to me nightly in my dreams.

I visited a local breeder, who was selling a number of peregrine nestlings, costly bits of fluff. It had always been my goal to fly a peregrine, so I began some research, which led me to an article on Harris’s hawks.

I made a list: peregrine vs. Harris’s. The peregrine is a magnificent, intelligent king of the sky, but finding suitable prey would require long drives to outlying areas so that this aerial athlete could make its long stoops at grouse. Though peregrines thrive in the city, I found it horrible to contemplate the idea of my bird disappearing in webs of power lines or atop tall buildings. On the other hand, the Harris’s hawk could have opportunities at game such as cottontails and pheasants nearby, which would allow for more frequent hunting; but being indigenous to the Southwest, the Harris’s cannot tolerate our winters.

I decided on the Harris’s because I would be able to hunt with him locally and, since he had been bred to be a falconry bird, I didn’t have any qualms about keeping him. I called a renowned out-of-state breeder who, after receiving a fax of my master’s permit, agreed to let me know when his pair clutched again. I settled in to wait.

Exactly one month later, I had an egg! After two weeks my dream pipped!

The bird would imprint on its parents for eight weeks; it would be past the downy stage of an immature bird by then as well.

I drove to St. Louis, Mo., to pick up the bird from its home in a cinderblock breeding barn in a state forest. The office inside was painted an industrial light green. Papers, scales, glass tubes, a bottle of Neat’s-foot oil, a dead feeder rat, and a cold cup of coffee littered all of the available surfaces.

It was time to get my bird.

The sleek Harris’s hawks flew well above our heads in a roomy loft with vaulted ceilings. I had memorized the federal I.D. band number assigned to my hawk, and I rushed to secure his talons in my gloved hands as soon as he tired and fluttered to the ground. He was anxious while I jessed him, but that would all change during the next few weeks.

I decided on the name "Picante," a lyrical description of his hot-pepper wing coloring. On the drive home, I spoke his name as he rode silently in the giant hood, the darkness calming him.

once home, i attempted to socialize Picante with my cocker spaniel, Guess. Unfortunately, Harris’s hawks are, by nature, afraid of dogs. Picante screamed when Guess approached, and, in Guess’s presence, he refused food offered on the glove for three days. His weight dropped to an undesirable level, so I chose a different approach: I left a dead chick for him in the mews. He ate hungrily, displaying his determination to choose where and when to eat, which was to be only one of his endearing traits. Two days later, with Guess present, I offered him a half quail. I cheered when he began to eat. It was time to start the training in earnest.

Once he mastered flying to the fist for tidbits, I took him outside on a creance, a long line tethered to his feet. By dropping his weight to 600 grams–10 grams less than his response weight (his weight at the time he first flew to the fist)–I was fairly confident that he would fly to my fist to get his reward despite the distractions of being outdoors. I stuck out my arm, and he rushed to it.

He had figured out this new game; it was time to free-fly.

In two days, when his weight dropped again, I took him to a nearby park and put the flight jesses on him. It was, in every respect, an ideal day: It was sunny and 60 degrees, and we were in a field framed with elders and cottonwoods.

Anxiously, I raised my arm and opened my hand. Picante hesitated, then spread his wings and pumped the air. He flew in a huge circle about 30 feet off the ground, dancing with the wind. His long tail gave him a buoyancy that I hadn’t seen in Druid. I laughed out loud for the thrill of it, then put my fist out and called to him.

He flew straight for my arm, searching for some tasty morsel. I marveled as he explored his new surroundings, and I laughed as he attempted the fine art of landing in a tree. Flying is rigorous, and he landed on the ground within 15 minutes, apparently tired, so I ended the session.

But a bird of prey is a hunter; Picante needed game. Training began with his flying to the lure, which consists of a length of rope with an 8-inch piece of leather in the shape of a bird at the end. On the leather is a clip for attaching a tidbit of meat. I spent several weeks putting muscle on Picante and training him to snatch his reward from the air.

Then, I went to a local game farm to buy a hen pheasant–hopefully, Picante’s first catch in the wild. Once released, the pheasant exploded into the air, and Picante, needing no introductions, launched also, propelled by instinctual blood lust. He tail-chased the pheasant over a ridge. Thinking he had put in a tree, I tried to find him by tracing the pheasant’s path. I called Picante more than once but got no response.

After a frenzied search, I came upon Picante, grasping the captured pheasant with his foot. I used my knife to end the pheasant’s struggle and opened the chest cavity so Picante could gorge. Then, carrying Picante on my fist, I hiked back to the car, exhilarated by the success.

Picante caught three pheasants by the end of his first hunting season. To celebrate, I made a crockpot pheasant stroganoff for friends. The guest of honor, however, screamed throughout the meal, as if outraged that we were otherwise occupied. As they say, dogs have owners, falconry birds have staff.

And so I recall, as I finish lacing my boots, that while I no longer need the healing presence of my redtail, Druid, I still love this sport that demands so much but yields so much more. I am now able to devote myself to this new bird without any emotional requirements, thereby creating a more satisfying relationship: I can let Picante be the young bird that he is, and I can cherish the memories I have of Druid, now soaring across a Midwestern sky or rocking to sleep on a pine bough.

Jaime L. Benshoff writer and falconer from Circle Pines