The house buzzes with excitement as my family and I await the arrival of Zach and Hailey, researchers from the Charlo-based Owl Research Institute. When we first got in touch with them, the Western Screech-Owls living on our property were in the process of laying five eggs. That was four weeks ago. Now, those five eggs have hatched into nearly-fledged owlets, which are big enough to peek out of the nesting box. They are also big enough to be banded. From the moment I first saw the owl parents mating, little baby owls flew around in my head. Today was the day I would finally see those balls of fluff out of the box.
As soon as we finalized the dates of the banding, we invited a variety of friends to join us. Micheal is one of Papa’s grad students and is very enthusiastic about our owls. He arrives a little early and Lucy and I run over to unlock the gate for him. We race him back to our cabin and just barely beat him. Papa immediately strikes up conversation and they spend the next ten minutes chatting about who knows what. Tim and Deary live across the drive and have watched the owly activity for multiple weeks, keeping us informed while we were away. They walk over, Deary bringing two chairs. She sets them down and we begin chatting about hummingbirds, and owls, and peregrine falcons. We also invited Fred and Charla, full-time residents up the drive. They have heard and seen multiple owls, including a Boreal and pygmy and joined a previous night of owl-watching. A low rumble farther up the dirt road announces their arrival. Once everybody is here, the banter begins, pausing only when a black SUV rolls into the driveway.
The vehicle parks and Zach and Hailey get out. Papa immediately asks how the road is, leading to some relieved laughs. After being the bumpiest, pot-holey road in the country, it was finally grated a couple days ago. The banter resumes and we all get another laugh out of the fact the researchers thought I was an old lady, the consequences of being named Dorothy in 2026. After some discussion, the group moves towards the little cabin deck, which I quickly sweep free of pine needles. Zach sets up, arraying the tools in a row along the edge. Among others, there is a hanging scale, multiple cloth bags, and a rope of metal bands.
Zach and Hailey walk over to the nest box and we all follow, Papa resting the ladder against the tree trunk. Zach quickly ascends and plugs the entrance hole with a blue piece of cloth. He opens the lid and reaches in, wearing thick gloves in order to avoid the sharp talons and beak of the owl. This is the first year the Owl Research Institute has monitored Western Screech-Owl nest, but sticking an on protected hand into an occupied nest is never a good idea. Zach has the scratches to prove it. He pulls his hand out, holding the female, and descends the ladder. The crowd moves back towards the porch as Zach fiddles with the string of bands, still holding the female. For the first time in months, I can see her close-up. Her eyes are a harsh yellowish-green and the talons! Her toes are small, but the curving scimitars of her talons are formidable. Zach places the bend around leg, twisting to make sure it isn’t too tight. “We don’t want the band to be so big that it slips up the leg and lodges there, and we don’t want it to be able to slide off either.” He explains. Hailey stands nearby jotting down the data being collected. She helps measure the wing length and notes the wear of the feathers. After all the measurements are taken, Zach puts the female into a black cloth bag and weighs her. Once they are done, Zach takes her out and Hailey snaps a quick photo. “Okay, someone needs to hold the owl. Dottie, do you want to?”
“Uh, OK.” Is all I can manage, heart thumping. The only birds I have held were small songbirds like chickadees, warblers and sparrows. As you can probably imagine, a screech-owl is much bigger, so the technique is a little different. Zach shows me how to correctly hold her and where to put my fingers to avoid getting pooped on*. Once I figure it out, he and Hailey leave to retrieve the chicks. He climbs up with a small five gallon bucket insulated with a few rags as Hailey holds the ladder. When he returns, we all peek inside the bucket. Five grayish-brown lumps huddle at the bottom, looking rather squished. “Your nest box is actually very roomy,” Zach explains. “This bucket is what a more natural cavity nest would look like, with the female sitting on top of all of them.” The owlets clack their beaks menacingly as we take turns peering in. Seeing the way I watch the fuzzy pile of owlets, Papa offers to take the owl off my hands. Hailey comes over to help him as I begin taking pictures. Zach picks up the biggest owlet and demonstrates why the bands are the same size for all Western Screech-owls. “The legs are the first parts to reach adult size,” he explains, showing us a sheet of metal with different indents for different band sizes. The chick’s leg fits neatly into the indent labeled five. Suddenly, it lets out a stream of goopy brown poop, just narrowly missing his jeans (which already have yellowish-green stains). We collectively decide it was pretty gross. Zach slowly works through all the owlets, measuring the wings, noting the eye color, and placing the band. Finally, he reaches the last chick, which is the smallest. Without warning, the owlet clacks its beak testily and shoots the same goopy poo as the first one. This time, Zach’s pants aren’t so lucky and are hit dead-on.
The banding complete, Zach places all the owlets back into the box. At the base of the ladder, Papa still holds the owl and seems to be having the time of his life. Zach comes back down and takes the owl, putting her into the box. The neighbors slowly leave in the darkening dusk and I quickly run back to the cabin to grab a bowl of dinner. When I return, Micheal, Zach, Hailey, Mom, and Papa are standing in a circle talking about owls, bears, bear spray, photographers, and just about everything else you can talk about when you are an owl researcher! By the time they are finally backing out of the driveway, my watch reads 8:27. I can still feel the soft weight of the female and hear the incessant clacking of the owlet’s beaks as I climb the stairs and enter our toasty bedroom.
Until next week,
Dottie
*The photo policy for banded birds is no birds in nets and no birds in hand.
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