I have had the honor of hosting a nesting pair of ferruginous hawks the last three years. The largest of the hawks, the ferruginous hawks are often mistaken for Golden Eagles. The feathered legs are the giveaway to this magnificent bird; the red color of the leg feathers are the source of the name ferrugionous (rusty).
Last winter I came home to find a nestling on the ground under the tree. As I drove in, parked and got out of my car he didn't fly off, causing me a great deal of consternation.
Now, I'm trained in wildlife, specifically wild bird, rescue, but it seemed that all of my knowledge drained out of my big toe. This was "my" hawk, a baby I'd listened to all summer with his incessant annoying hunger call. His fledgling flight had been from the tree to my chimney, where, thinking he was trapped he called all day. The screech echoed into the living room where three cats and two dogs sat, rapt, in front of the fireplace, heads cocked to one side in unison. I had pictures of him in his "space alien" phase, perched on the edge of the three foot deep nest, clad only in the white down of babyhood.
Now he sat on the ground, refusing to understand that I, like all humans, constituted a danger. I did what any reasonable (untrained) civilian would do, I called the Division of Wildlife, posing as someone who knew nothing.
Unfortunately, Dawn at the front desk recognized my voice, and I could hear her call down the hall to the biologist, "Peggy's on the phone with a question." Busted.
The biologist explained that they were having a problem that winter with hawks overeating. The snow had stayed on the ground for so long, that anytime they found any prey, they ate the whole thing, loading their crop and making them un-flightworthy.
What? My baby overeat! I don't think so . . .
But I did as I was told, and just kept my eye on him, my rescue blanket, gauntlets, and dog carrier at the ready should I have to trap him. I was transfixed in front of the living room window, afraid that if I took my eye off him for a minute some marauding dog would come try to kill him. Finally, just before sunset, he flew off.
Dashing out the door I ran to the spot he'd been sitting. Yep, there it was: a huge circle of blood, gray squirrel hair, and feather prints in the snow. "My" hawk had managed to eat a whole gray squirrel, except for the sad little tail that sat there in the snow, effectively grounding himself.
Today the parents are back, beginning their elaborate and beautiful mating ritual. The tercel sat on the top of a huge poplar calling until the female appeared, circling high overhead. Once he spotted her he flew back and forth in a path over the nest as if to say, "Check out my condo, baby."
It looks like another summer of listening to a baby hawk cry from sun up til sunset, finding prairie dog heads in the grass, and worrying that the parents will be scared off before the fledgling is launched.
I can hardly wait!
Last winter I came home to find a nestling on the ground under the tree. As I drove in, parked and got out of my car he didn't fly off, causing me a great deal of consternation.
Now, I'm trained in wildlife, specifically wild bird, rescue, but it seemed that all of my knowledge drained out of my big toe. This was "my" hawk, a baby I'd listened to all summer with his incessant annoying hunger call. His fledgling flight had been from the tree to my chimney, where, thinking he was trapped he called all day. The screech echoed into the living room where three cats and two dogs sat, rapt, in front of the fireplace, heads cocked to one side in unison. I had pictures of him in his "space alien" phase, perched on the edge of the three foot deep nest, clad only in the white down of babyhood.
Now he sat on the ground, refusing to understand that I, like all humans, constituted a danger. I did what any reasonable (untrained) civilian would do, I called the Division of Wildlife, posing as someone who knew nothing.
Unfortunately, Dawn at the front desk recognized my voice, and I could hear her call down the hall to the biologist, "Peggy's on the phone with a question." Busted.
The biologist explained that they were having a problem that winter with hawks overeating. The snow had stayed on the ground for so long, that anytime they found any prey, they ate the whole thing, loading their crop and making them un-flightworthy.
What? My baby overeat! I don't think so . . .
But I did as I was told, and just kept my eye on him, my rescue blanket, gauntlets, and dog carrier at the ready should I have to trap him. I was transfixed in front of the living room window, afraid that if I took my eye off him for a minute some marauding dog would come try to kill him. Finally, just before sunset, he flew off.
Dashing out the door I ran to the spot he'd been sitting. Yep, there it was: a huge circle of blood, gray squirrel hair, and feather prints in the snow. "My" hawk had managed to eat a whole gray squirrel, except for the sad little tail that sat there in the snow, effectively grounding himself.
Today the parents are back, beginning their elaborate and beautiful mating ritual. The tercel sat on the top of a huge poplar calling until the female appeared, circling high overhead. Once he spotted her he flew back and forth in a path over the nest as if to say, "Check out my condo, baby."
It looks like another summer of listening to a baby hawk cry from sun up til sunset, finding prairie dog heads in the grass, and worrying that the parents will be scared off before the fledgling is launched.
I can hardly wait!
What a great story.
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