A Regal Encounter
Spotting this majestic bird in the middle of a snowstorm led to a memorable moment
After a quick glance in the rear-view mirror, I tap the brakes. My old farm truck fishtails through the slush. “Are you trying to kill us?” my 86-year-old mother shrieks. “No.” I grip the steering wheel, peer through the spring blizzard and stop as close to the edge of the road as I dare. I give Mother a huge smile. “I saw an owl.”
“You saw a what?”
“An owl. Back there, on a fence post.” I flick on the four-way flashers and reach behind the seat for my camera. “I’m sure it’s a great grey.”
“You saw a bloody owl? Are you crazy?” Mother shakes her finger at me. “We have to go home before the roads get worse.”
“I’ll be quick. I promise.” I flip the camera’s strap over my neck, get out and shut the door without making a noise. Large, fat flakes fall straight down. I tuck my camera inside my parka and support it with one hand as I skirt the truck to get to the snow-filled ditch. He’s still there. A grey blur. But even from a distance, and through the squall, his shape is unmistakable. It’s a great grey. Mother pounds on her window. I wave at her, tighten the tops of my mukluks and step onto the bank of snow. With one hand still supporting the camera, I stick my other arm out for balance. I take cautious steps, expecting each one to plunge me through a soft section but the snow holds.
Flakes splat on my head. They soak my hair and chill my scalp.
When I get to the barbwire fence, I’m five fence posts away from the owl. I sneak my camera out. As I lift it, he turns his round head and faces me. Impassive. Regal. He stands on the post.
He’s big, a metre tall at least. He leans forward. “No,” I whisper. His massive wings unfold and he takes o, slow, methodical flaps carry him across the snow-covered hayfield. He lifts, soars upwards and lands on top of a distant poplar tree.
“Damn.”
I stare at the distance between us. Two hundred metres? Maybe. I look down the fence line and see the weathered “No Trespassing ” sign. I glance back to the owl. He’s still there. The sign is old and tattered. I turn to the truck. Mother watches me. “Five minutes.” I hold up five gloved fingers.
Single-minded Focus
Before I take o, I check around to see if anyone else is watching. Maybe the No Trespassing sign is only a suggestion, meant for hunters, probably not owl watchers. I test the snow on my side of the fence. It’s solid. The wire squeaks when I press it down. Careful to avoid the barbs, I swing a leg over, set it down and tap the surface on the other side. It feels hard. Leaning down on the wire with one hand, I flip my other leg over. A scratching sound and the scraping sensation against the crotch of my jeans make me grateful for thick seams. With my next step, toward the owl, I sink to my knee. My balancing arm comes in handy as I flail it forward. The next five steps I stay on top of the snow. I get cocky right before my left leg disappears and I sink to my thigh. My spare arm’s windmilling motion stops me from doing a face-plant. I congratulate myself on staying upright, then check for the owl. Unfazed by my floundering, he’s still there. Not knowing when I’ll sink next, I prepare myself to limit any unnecessary body flailing. Grey owls are not afraid of anything, but I don’t want to annoy him. I move forward again. Some steps sink, others don’t.
When I’m within five metres of the tree, I take the lens cap o and zoom in. The owl turns his head to the distant woods. It’s a perfect profile shot. He looks at me. I take more pictures. I move closer to the tree. Close enough to see the large grey-and-brown concentric circle pattern around each bright yellow eye; similar to the growth rings of an ancient tree except these rings act as antennas and direct sound to the owl’s ears. I hold my breath as the camera clicks. The white bow-tie markings with a black
centre, which are just below his yellowish beak and above the top of his neck, end the circular pattern around his eyes. Light greys and greyish browns dappled with dark grey cover the rest of his body. He turns his head to look behind himself, almost as if his head is not attached to his neck. When I have enough pictures, I put the lens cap on and tuck my camera back inside my coat.
Brief Encounter
I stare at the owl. His eyes lock on mine. I try not to blink until he does. It’s dicult. I can hear snowflakes land, there’s just me, the owl and the quiet. I watch him watch me. Moist air tickles my nostril. The finger-thick poplar branch he’s perched on is straight. Not the slightest bend. I’m afraid to move, not because I’m frightened of being hurt but because I feel movement would shatter this moment—this silent, perfect encounter. He tips his head at me. When a grey owl nods, it’s like he doesn’t have a neck. He nods again. I nod back. Then he stands and leans forward. “Goodbye,” I whisper. He spreads his wings and falls from his perch with elegance. He flaps once and just when I think I need to duck, his wings lift again. He circles above me without a sound and then glides across the field and disappears into the forest. My mouth is open, I want to say something profound, but I’ve got nothing. Melted snow trickles down my face and mixes in with a few tears. I trek back to the truck. As I get closer, I hear the dull pound on the window and see Mother’s blurred face through the foggy streaks. I wave at her, climb over the fence and pass the “No Trespassing” sign. I look back towards the woods, but he’s gone.