The lure of, and the luring of, snowy owls

I credit snowy owls for my addiction to wildlife photography. I’ve been living in Toronto for decades but it was only in 2019 that I realized these magical creatures wintered in southern Ontario, not far from home.

Since then, I’ve anticipated the arrival of the white owls every winter and spend countless hours searching fields on frigid days.

Getting a good photo is pure luck. The owls are usually far in a field or high on a post, making for unremarkable photos. I coveted the flight shots I saw on social media of snowy owls, yellow eyes starting at the camera, powdery snow flying into the air. How did one get those pics?

I asked around. Workshops, I was told. Business owners host snowy owl workshops where the owls are “baited” for photos. The chatter was negative, indicating the practice habituated the owls and put them in danger of human-wildlife conflicts.

Curious, I contacted one of the business owners. He was forthcoming and explained that his owl workshops are held on private land through an arrangement with the landowner. Mice enticed the owls to pose for photos and the sessions were held far from the road.

I decided to seek an opinion from a member of the Ontario Field Ornithologists. Baiting is a loaded term, I was told. But it’s no different than feeding small birds if done responsibly, which meant staying away from roads so the bird doesn’t fly into a car.

As it turns out, the term “baiting” means luring wildlife for hunting, according to the Ministry of Natural Resources. It’s regulated under Ontario’s Fish and Wildlife Conservation Act and legal with certain provisions. Using food to attract wildlife for other purposes is considered “feeding” and not encouraged.

So there it was. Feeding snowy owls on private land for photos was an ethical issue, not legal.

I thought about the hours of driving, walking and freezing for a photo of a small white lump in the middle of a field. A guaranteed photo of a snowy six metres away was appealing. But I already had that.

A trip to the Canadian Raptor Conservancy, where captive birds posed for food, resulted in a shot of a screeching snowy owl on a perch. It was a perfect photo. But I didn’t hang it on my wall.

It didn’t hold the same feeling as the one I took of a snowy owl near my late father’s workplace on the fourth anniversary of his death: a wild owl that perched on a snowbank and allowed me the privilege of taking its picture with no incentive. The feeling of euphoria in the moment when our eyes locked was irreplaceable.

It’s not as spectacular a photo as one of a flying bird, taken while standing in a group while a mouse is thrown into a field. But it holds something in my heart and worthy of hanging on my wall.