DIY: Pole Perch

Completed pole perch, and a happy falcon. I used cocoa mat (formerly a doormat) and photographed from above; actual perch is about 64" tall.

Today I finished Atticus’ pole perch, which is where he’ll hang out–unhooded–while I’m around to check on him. I based the perch on the design described in Falconry Equipment: A Guide to Making and Using Falconry Gear by Bryan Kimsey and Jim Hodge. It’s a must-have book for every falconer, but it is lacking in specifics and how-to advice. So I’ll share mine, for what it’s worth.

The pole perch is a highly-customizable piece of equipment that anybody can build without specialized tools. Following is my “recipe”, with notes. With the exception of the stadium turf, everything needed can be picked up at your favorite Big Box building supplier. I happened to go to Lowes.

Materials:

• (1) 24-in. 1.25″ Galvanized Pipe
• (1) 38-in. 1.25″ Galvinized Pipe–you can go shorter, but you’re shooting for a shoulder-height overall structure
• (3) 1.25″ Galvanized Floor Flanges
• (1) 38″ x 26″ sheet of Galvanized Hardware Cloth (the book specifies chicken wire, but hardware cloth is MUCH easier to work with, and provides more stable walls.
• (1) 38″ x 26″ piece of either loop-free carpet (watch for fraying), heavy, tight-woven canvas, or other durable, snag-free material.
• (1) 26″ x 2″ strip of above material, for seam cover.
• (2) 12″ diameter 3/4″ thick pre-cut plywood rounds
• (1) 24″ diameter 3/4″ thick pre-cut plywood round
• (1) Eye screw, about 1″ eye; shank length at least 1″.
• (1) Appropriate 12″ diameter perch covering. I’m using cocoa mat, but might switch to stadium turf. Note, I am also fiddling with a replaceable covering system using hook-and-loop…I’ll report my findings later.
• (18-24) Cable ties (smallish, but strong works best to cinch seams together)
• (12) wide-head screws, approx. 3/4″ long. Make sure heads are appropriate for flanges. Don’t skimp on quality.
• Your favorite adult beverage
• Heavy-duty contact cement.
• Optional: Shorter sections of galvanized pipe, for table-top applications.
• Also optional: Felt pads for underside of base, so as not to screw up wood floors.

Some of the essential tools and supplies needed for this project.

Tools:

• Marking Pen
• Seamstress’ Tape Measure. Waaay easier for measuring hardware cloth than retractable, metal tape measuring devices.
• Heavy Duty Hand Stapler, Staples. I do have an air stapler, but found that a hand stapler is sufficient, with the added bonus of not chewing up the wood or sinking in.
• Heavy-duty toenail clippers, or small wire snips (for cleaning up any pointy edges on hardware cloth)
• Heavy duty tin snips (for cutting hardware cloth)
• Exacto-knife, box-cutter or other sharp knife (for cutting perch wrap, cylinder covering)
• Drill, plus whatever smallish bit you have on hand, and driver bit for screws.
• Small hammer for bashing staples flush
• Bottle Opener/Corkscrew

The inverted "skeleton" of the perch cylinder, before non-loop carpeting is applied as a cover.

Steps:

1. If you’re an apprentice, verify this project with your Sponsor. I have some fine-tuning to do, and am not leaving my bird unattended until I know the perch-surface securing system (hook and loop) is safe.
2. Find center on your plywood rounds.
3. Drill guide hole on 12″ round that will be the top of the perch.
4. Install floor flanges on rounds; one 12″ round will have a flange on either side. Remember to stagger screw points.
5. Connect both 12″ rounds with 24″ galvanized pipe. Be sure threads are properly seated.
6. Staple hardware cloth to top round, aligning top edge of wire in the middle of the top round. Staple every inch or two.
7. Use hammer (or smooth rock, or your partner’s iPhone) to be sure staples are properly seated.
8. If the wire is properly installed, the seam should line up nicely. Your choice if you want to cable-tie the seam before stapling wire to the bottom round.
9. Once the wire is installed and the cable ties applied, be sure all tag-ends of the ties are flush. Turn in cable tie ends toward inside of cylinder.
10. Repeat process with cylinder covering material , starting from the top, and aligning material to the top edge of the top round, or a wee smidge below.
11. Important…if you even think the staples will come loose, i.e. you’re using a thicker material, borrow an air stapler or be certain your staples have a sufficiently-long shank. Do not allow any room for the staples to catch toes/talons, or tempt your bird to pry them out.
12. Securing the material seam: Bond a strip of material over the seam with a heavy-duty contact cement.  Be sure there is no way for your bird to snag a toe along the seam. Follow instructions for drying; be careful of fumes around your bird.
13. Attach your perch covering of choice to top of cylinder using contact cement. DO NOT use staples for this part.
14. Connect cylinder to 24″ base, using 30″ galvanized pipe. Be sure threads are properly seated.
15. Set stand in its proper location, being aware of distance from walls. Find an old sheet or towel to drape around base to catch mutes. If your bird is larger than mine (a 420-g tiercel Barbary) you might want to put sandbags on the base to add ballast.
16. Install your bird. Make sure leash doesn’t allow bird to bate more than halfway down the side of the cylinder.  Also…it’s a good idea to observe your bird very closely the first few times you have him on the perch, with an eye out for any snags or problems that you might have missed.
17. Gloat, and have that drink!

Note the placement of the top edge of the hardware cloth.

It’s important to remember that pole perches do not allow your bird free access to water. Always monitor your bird’s moisture intake, and have his spray bottle or drinking cup handy to offer on a frequent basis.

When placing your perch, consider the following: Birds will bate toward uncovered windows. Ceiling fans cast shadows that freak out birds. Artwork depicting predators, or tv shows featuring predators freak out birds.

You might want to try the following…rather than have the strip covering the seam of your covering, cable-tie a strip of corrugated cardboard or plastic (i.e. Coroplast) to your hardware cloth before you staple it to the rounds. You can then glue or staple your outer covering to this strip at the seam. I’ll try this with the next perch I build, and report back later.

So far, Atticus loves his new perch. The height gives him a sense of security, and he looks pretty smug being at eye-level (if not slightly above) the helper-monkeys in the house. If my cat gets into the living room, he can’t reach the bird, even when Atticus bates; I’ve made sure there’s no furniture from which the kitty can launch.

Honestly, I hate building stuff, but this was a really easy project once I figured out how to find center on the rounds (thanks, Fox, for helping!) Because the pipe fittings can be broken down, this perch can be packed up and hauled along on trips, or modified for different heights. With a little varnish and color-coordination, it’s easy on the eyes, as well.

I’ve seen similar pole perches designed with a lipped tray as a base, in which one can put cat litter. (I’d do this, but of course my cat would just shit in it all day.) Other modifications might include leaving part of the cylinder bottom unstapled, so you can stash leftover Halloween candy or miscellaneous contraband inside. Maybe a battery-operated voice recorder to make your housemates think your bird is telling them to do their dishes. The possibilities are endless…as long as the end result is safe for your bird.

Smug little bird, with a commanding view of his surroundings. Sorry about the crappy cell phone pics!

Meet Atticus!

"Who the HELL are YOU, lady?" Atticus is unhooded for the "getting to know you" phase of our new relationship. He hates hair.

I don’t think I’ve ever eaten up so much asphalt in so little time. I made it to Sprague, WA in well under 5.5 hours, including stops.

J’s place is pretty much one big Falconer’s Man Cave. Birds were staked out for weathering in the yard and in his modified truck camper. Indoors, one had to dodge a napping, hooded Prairie falcon to get to the kitchen. Various taxidermized animals, big ratty La-Z-Boys and the ubiquitous big-screen tv dominated the living room.

I imagined that my house would soon look much like this, only with a bit better taste in mute-resistant fabrics, and color-coordinated starling and quail feathers piling into the corners like snowdrifts among the dust-bunnies. (OK, so this place, though just as cluttered, might actually be cleaner than mine at this point…)

I chit-chatted with the biologist/falconer visiting from Seattle as J. went to fetch D2, but I don’t remember a word the guy said. I was too excited. And when J. came in with the little Barbary, I was immediately smitten.

The crush was unrequited, though; when J. unhooded D2, the bird gave me a “Holy crap” look and bated in the other direction.

“Oh, yeah. He doesn’t like hair. Or hats,” J said. J, I should note, is bald. I have a longish mane of reddish hair.

“Looks like you’re gonna have to shave that off,” said the biologist as the little Barbary settled back onto the glove and gave me the stink-eye.

Important Note: Falcons have a pronounced brow, and huge dark eyes. Nobody gives the stink-eye like a falcon. Nobody.

I quizzed J. on D2′s personal quirks and requirements as we exchanged the bird’s jesses and leash (I had informed J. well in advance that I was an idiot, so he was patient with me when I brought equipment that was either too big or too small for D2) and was disappointed to hear that J. didn’t have time to do a lure-flying demonstration. (He did a birdless “dry-run” to show me how to avoid breaking a falcon’s neck while pole-luring.) I’d wanted to meet his other Barbary, “The Dude”, about whom I’d read so much on NAFEX, but I understood. J was very thorough with his answers, though, and encouraged me to contact him with any questions I might have.

He also gave me some great pointers on choosing fields in which to fly D2. Pointing to an expansive pasture across the driveway, he said, “See that tree way over there? And that one waaay over there? And those, about a mile over there? Bad field. Too many distractions. If he sees something he can kill, he’ll go for it.”

Oh dear. Looks like I’m moving to Kansas.

Finally, we re-hooded D2 and placed him on his travel perch in the footwell of my passenger seat, and we were off to Montana to visit my sister and brother-in-law, by way of the Cabela’s in Post Falls where I wanted to a) pick up a Sampo swivel of the appropriate size for D2′s leash, and b) see if my head would explode with squeeee.

Since my relatives were visiting friends outside of Libby and returning the following day, I took my time driving to Trout Creek. D2 rode beautifully, though when he’d lean into a turn he’d also poop, effectively negating the straight-down muting habit of falcons, and effectively slicing like a hawk into the pocket of the passenger door.

At the motel, I was grateful to have an evening to myself to quietly get acquainted with the bird. I had been advised that I’d need to spend about a week “manning” him to me before actively flying or hunting him. Once unhooded, he slicked his feathers down and gave me the shocked “who the f* are you” look, from head to toe, but it didn’t take long for him to settle down. He took a quail breast from my glove with only a few minutes’ hesitation, and happily drank from a spray bottle. He pooped a lot, bated more than he would have with his previous falconer, and never stopped looking around, but I studied his mannerisms closely. Sooo different than a Red-tail, of course; his metabolism is faster, his core processor is faster, everything is faster.

I marveled at his wings. So long and thin for such a little bird, and in a bate, he’d send papers flying as he pulled with almost the same force as would Tali, who is more than twice his weight.

His tiny, notched beak, designed to snap the necks of prey in flight, made short work of the quail’s ribcage in my glove. In a larger bird, my fingers would be in danger of being snapped, but with D2, he was almost polite in his examination of my fingers, picking off flecks of gore with delicate precision before flinging them in all directions. Instead of biting me when I played with his long, thin yellow toes, he would gently nibble a “Stop It”, and give me that look.

He seemed to get used to my hair pretty quickly. I’d present a lock of it, and let him bite or preen it, but his anxiety quickly disappeared. I decided this would become part of our routine, also introducing different types of hats into his working and feeding sessions.

I practiced hooding him and unhooding him, thankful for the expertly-fitted hood custom made for D2 by J. himself, who is a hoodmaker on the side.

A friend once asked me what my type of guy was. Never really having a “type”, I said, “I’m looking for Atticus Finch.” Of course, I have no interest in lawyers, per se, but quiet, strong, loyal heroes who, as a bonus, are also deadly with a rifle.

As I marveled over this little falcon, got to know him and make him comfortable with his new person, and tried to imagine upcoming seasons working with this new species, I recalled my favorite quote  from Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird, attributed to Atticus’ character:

“If you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.”

I’ve tried to live by these words my entire life. Sometimes to a fault; at others, I’ve failed miserably. But in working with animals (and people, too), it’s a beautiful thing to peel away all the filters through which we see our world, and focus on what is most basic.

So this is how D2 became Atticus. And I look forward to seeing how this bird will help me see my world.

Go Big, or Go Home.

I got an amusing voicemail from a falconer friend the other day. It began in his usual mild-mannered, polite tone…

“Hey, I understand you’re getting a red-naped shaheen Barbary cross…that’s a…high-octane (I interpreted this as “YOU ARE CRAZY) choice for lure-stooping, and uh…well, a good choice for future abatement work…

…and quickly devolved into a bit of a rant.

“I just spent the whole day chasing my Barbary all over the….fucking…county…thought he’d been eaten by owls, since he spent the night outside…”

…and so on.

Yeah, Barbaries are known to ditch their falconers. I’ve been assured that D2, the bird I’ve committed to buying, is “loyal for a Barbary”, but one thing I’ve learned in falconry and life is that there are no guarantees. Any longwing is bound to ditch you; you just have to nut up, do your best to avoid it, and have faith. Otherwise, you might as well hang up your glove and take up stamp collecting.

That phone call wasn’t the only one that day that tested my outlook. For the past six or seven months, I’ve been getting to know a great guy who, in every respect but one, is everything I’d been looking for. We started as friends but, after my breakup with C., admitted to one another that there was something more, and we decided to go for it.

Things were wonderful for the first few months, but I’d been bracing myself for that time when the squee of the “honeymoon” period ends, and—as my happily-married falconer bro R. said on our way back from the meet—”the rubber meets the road and the actual work begins”.

My new guy friend admitted to never having had a relationship last beyond three months, and while I knew that was a huge red flag in spite of his being only 30, I also knew there was enough substance to our connection that it was worth the risk. In spite of the awful experience I had had in my last relationship, I wanted to go into this with my eyes and my heart open to anything. No drama, no games.

But it’s hard to be genuine when you fall hard for somebody, and in spite of that person saying all the right things, the actions aren’t there. He lives in a different state, and it was his turn to book a flight to visit me, but he’d been putting it off for weeks. We both knew it would be this trip that would determine whether or not I’d head down to his turf for a large chunk of the winter (something he’d encouraged),  and his vacation time had all but arrived. But every time I brought it up, I felt like I was nagging.

And that sucked, hard. “You’re perfect” means nothing if he thinks I’m not worth a log-on to Travelocity.

“Sorry, I’m just a procrastinator….I’ll get to it tomorrow/next week,” etc., was the standard, guilt-ridden response…so yesterday, I called it off. I’d hoped he’d try and change my mind, but that didn’t happen. He said he wanted to stay in contact, but…well, I’d already been in a holding pattern for weeks, and knew that it would only keep me from getting over him. His only argument against my ending it was, “I’m not good at relationships.”

Well, I wasn’t good at falconry. Until I tried it.

So I said my goodbyes, told him there were no hard feelings, and cried my ass off the rest of the night. Hey, a girl deserves a good pity party now and again, as much as she deserves nothing less than a guy who will move heaven and earth to be with her.

Saturday, I’m picking up D2. There are no guarantees that this boy won’t make me cry as he, too, specks out over the horizon, but my heart is open. I’m scared, excited, doubtful, intimidated and optimistic all at once, and you know? That’s an awesome feeling.

Live, love and learn. I’ve already faced the worst that love and these pointy, murderous birds have to throw at me; I’m ready for whatever comes next.

Gone to the Dark Side

I came home from the Oregon Falconers Association Fall Meet to find that my house-sitter and friend, Steve, had gone crazy with fixititis. He knew I’d had a pretty crappy couple months, what with social drama and such, and that I’d been a bit overwhelmed by a bunch of projects that needed to be done around  house before I could put it up for rent.

He was still there when I pulled in, to my surprise, but then again…since he had repaired and re-keyed the locks on all my doors, he had to be there to let me in.

He’d also made new skeleton keys for the antique interior doors.

He also fixed the upstairs toilet, which had had to be bucket-flushed for the past four years (I’d been told by my ex that I’d have to rip out that wall to get to the plumbing; I therefore told myself that I was being “green” by using shower water to flush the toilet, convenience be damned.)

He also fixed the recessed lighting socket that I had accidentally destroyed when kicking off my shoes with a bit too much enthusiasm.

He also adjusted my kitchen faucet, which I didn’t even realize was that wonky.

And he replaced the light fixture outside my kitchen door.

And he repaired the circuit on which my bunny freezer had been operating, until it blew a few months back (again, a much simpler fix than the ex had diagnosed.)

Not stopping there, he helped me (or vice-versa) replace all the flourescent tubes in my workshop.

“I’m just helping you get back to square one,” he said. Hell yes he did; he saved me so much money…

...that I bought a falcon.

Right. Just like the Geico ad.

So, without (much) further ado, here’s “D2,” a 2011 tiercel (male) Barbary, whom I’ll pick up in Spokane on Saturday. He’s been started with lure-stooping, and has already proven himself as a good abatement bird. I’ll be hunting him this season, though, as I get experience with longwings.

More on this sexy little guy later!

First Falconry Bunny: January, 2011

There’s gotta be a pile of bunnies at the end of that rainbow, right?

When I headed to Palm Desert last Christmas, I’d only had Tali about a month. She’d pummeled her first pack rat in a local hunt, but had yet to score a cottontail. Having scouted out patches of desert near my Mom’s house down south a couple months before, I’d seen tons of desert cottontails and jacks, so I was confident we’d have a full freezer by the time I returned to Oregon late January.

Ha! Right.

For the first couple weeks, Tali and I spent hours a day on what I began to refer to as “hawk hikes”. We’d drive out to some promising wash, and she’d follow me from tree to tree as I bashed creosote bushes and flipped debris, praying for anything alive to scurry out. It would become a game; she’d follow me for a while, and then she’d take the lead, perching above promising piles of corrugated metal or logjam and squeaking at me to do my part as the flusher.

In all these hikes, the most we bagged was a pair of cheap Foster Grant sunglasses (she was pretty enthusiastic about killing these) and the dessicated remnants of another raptor’s kill. We accomplished much more, however; her glove and lure recall became automatic, and in spite of my utter failure to produce flushes for her, she kept her faith.

Typical “Hawk Hike”

We started playing games of “hide and seek,” where I’d scramble up and behind some boulders, and call to her. She also learned that, if I suddenly sat down for a water, shade, smoke or snack break, that she’d get some tidbits if she flew down to my side. I also got to convince my mom to come out with us for a few “hunts”  a short walk from her house, and for the first time, I think my mom actually understood why I love these damn birds so much. Watching her beat the shit out of the bushes with my bamboo pole was pretty fantastic, too; I haven’t seen her that animated since I was 17, and told her I was going on the pill.

But none of this is really falconry. I needed to get some game under my bird, or risk Tali losing faith in me. And there simply weren’t any rabbits out.

I finally contacted some falconers outside the Coachella Valley to see if I could get some advice on good spots within a few hours’ drive. Within two hours of putting out the bat signal, I learned three things:

1. The rabbits were highly cyclical in the Valley, and this part of the year, there was a bit of a bunny drought…possibly due to a boom in the coyote population.
2. There was an excellent complex of fields an hour north, with a Starbucks across the street.
3. I should have freaking let go of my desert hawking fantasy after the first week, and asked for help from the get-go.

The very next day, triple Venti Americano (with room for cream, please!) in hand, I mudded my truck into that field and assessed the terrain. A line of telephone poles and wire fence bisected the field, and on the far side, I observed in the distance a hag pair of Red tails circling away towards the north. Keep an eye on those two, I noted. To the east and west, the fence line ran for a good quarter mile or so (I suck at gauging distances) and the whole complex was an expansive oasis of green amid suburban development. Underfoot, my Muck boots squished over a sea of fresh rabbit turds, inspiring a huge grin to break across my face. Inside the cab of my truck, in her hawk box, Tali was making a godawful, hungry racket.

Will today be the day? Hell, YES!

I set about the tasks of gearing up–putting on my vest, installing and testing Tali’s telemetry, pocketing her tidbits and lure garnish. I developed a game plan in my mind…flush southward from the fence line, following the bunny trails through the low bushes. If that didn’t pan out, we’d hit the small gully on the other side of the fence, if that hag pair had disappeared from view.

I decided to start her out with a couple tee-perch exercizes, as I’m getting Tali used to riding above me for a higher vantage point. A tee perch is just a mop handle with an Astroturf-covered crossbar, useful in treeless areas such as this one. But Tali ignored the perch, favoring the utility pole behind me.

Fine. Whatever, let’s get going…

I had barely begun beating the brush when I heard my bird utter the most horrific territorial scream. I spun around to see her launch herself westward. She had a look of absolute, utter hateful determination about her, and she was moving FAST, even against a brisk light wind.

Out of nowhere, that hag pair had appeared, perching on a pole at the far end of the field.

Ohhhhh shit. That’s what I was thinking, and I’m pretty sure the resident hawks felt the same as Tali rocketed down their way. The overcast day and the distance prevented me from visually untangling the “who’s who” in the brawl that ensued; in an instant, all three birds were in the air, feathers were flying, and I was in sheer panic.

Then, one bird took off, flying out of the field and disappearing over a housing complex across the road. A second bird settled back on the pole.

And a third dropped like a stone into the grass below.

Ohhhh, FUCK. (let’s be honest here, “fuck” is entirely appropriate in this situation. If you are tenderhearted and you have an issue with the word “fuck”, close your eyes, dear Reader. It’s gonna get ugly.)

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! ! I yelled, dropping my coffee and diving for my truck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!

I low-geared it up a muddy slope, unknowingly splattering some kid out with a pack of dogs, trying to earn a buck as the neighborhood dog walker. (To my credit, he was a good twenty yards behind me.)

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, I exclaimed, as the pole-perched bird took off in a northerly direction. I couldn’t see jesses or the white breast of my juvenile bird, and I became convinced that Tali was either on her way to Santa Monica, or electrocuted in the grass.

When I got as far as I could go in my truck, I leaped out, leaving the engine running and the door open. Talking Heads blared from the DVD player, barely drowning out the ding ding ding ding of the door chime. I scrambled up the grassy hillside, looking for a smoking pile of feathers along the  fenceline.

I began to cry, as all the horrors of my short falconry career flashed before my eyes…Yakez painfully wasting away due to mis-prescription of de-worming meds. Freyja, circling out of view when she got away from me months before.

I can’t do00000 this annnnnnnny morrrrrrrrrrre!

Finally I saw it. A motionless patch of mottled brown in the deep, wet grass. I braced myself, sucking in my breath, wiping the tears out of my eyes.

You have to check. You HAVE to put your Big Girl Pants on and face this. If it’s not her, you’ll have to grab your receiver and make tracks for that other bird, fast.

I took a step forward, and then stopped. WTF? A clump of brown fluff sprung up above the feathers. And another. And then a clod of red.

I stepped closer, and then…Tali looked over her shoulder, wings mantled and her cere covered in gore. She uttered a happy squeeeeeeeeeeeeee! and then returned to the task of..,.

…devouring a rabbit!

A RABBIT!

OMFG TALI GOT A RABBIT OMFG OMFG SHE’S ALIVE RABBIT RABBIT M*F*ING RABBIT NOT DEAD! RABBIT RABBIT! THIS IS SO F*CKING GREAT! YAYYYY! YAYYY!

I collapsed beside my bird and pulled my shit together long enough to snap the leash to her jesses. I was crying again, but now out of sheer relief and utter joy. And pride. Sure, she had totally blown me off, and technically, this had been a self-hunt (in my mind, like ass-snagging a salmon when river fishing, it sorta loses the shine of victory) but my ballsy bird had run off two resident hags, raided their hunt and killed her first rabbit!

In the short time between her kill and my melodramatic arrival on the scene, she’d nearly devoured the entire critter. It had been a young bunny, but large enough to give her the most enormous crop I’d ever seen on a bird. One leg, the tail and the stomach remained as I began taking photos with my Evo to send to everyone I knew, first and foremost my Sponsor. (Sorry to those of you who were eating lunch, and who have no interest whatsoever in fuzzy piles of guts. Really. Sorry.)

I commenced to rolling around in the grass at hawk-level, whispering proud, sweet nothings to my murderous bully of a bird, laughing and crying like a complete, off-her-meds idiot. Finally, when Tali couldn’t eat another bite, and she had begun to entertain herself with plucking and flinging fuzz off the rabbit leg, I picked her up and carried her back to the truck. She was so blissfully stuffed, she had to lean her wing across my back, and rest her weight against my shoulder to keep from toppling over. Her eyes were squinty, and she was cooing.

Who cares if it was a self-hunt, I told her. This totally counts. We made it. This is what it’s all about… Finally.

Tali’s crop, after her first falconry rabbit. * Four hours* after her first falconry rabbit. Looks like a sassy pinup girl, doesn’t she?

Another Set of Feathers

I’d intended for this blog to be a way to process the parallels between this sport and my experiences outside the field, and yet I felt I’ve had to self-censor to so as not to sound so damn negative–until midsummer, when I ended an 8.5-year relationship with The Nice but Otherwise Wrong Guy.

Then, I went through that “I can’t post about XXX until I go back and post about YYY…” the perfectionist’s dilemma.

After a glass or two of wine and some pondering, I decided, “Hey. It’s my damn blog, I can do what I want.” And lately, I’ve wanted to write my head off.

So I may eventually talk about Tali’s first bunny (a great story, actually, fraught with fear, drama, catharsis, tears and hurrahs), our long hunts in the desert, her last kill of the season and everything in between. In its own time, but soon.

You can also count on a few random blurbs about my new-found single life, which for now means I get to learn how to trim a hawk’s beak without having a second set of hands to help. (I’ll get to that once I stop bleeding on my keyboard.)

And be warned: There will be foul language.

And a lot more about love, friendship and relationships, since some amazing stuff has gone on in my world (even if its only second/third-hand) to make me realize that life’s far too short to take anything–or anyone–for granted.

As for right now, Tali is back in the house, getting reacquainted with the glove and perch after a summer freelofted in her mews. She’s almost completed her moult, and we’re beginning conditioning exercizes to get her fat ass down to hunting weight.

She looks gorgeous. Her natty Daisy Duke tail feathers have been replaced with her Big Girl train, and though she looks like she over-plucked her “eyebrows” (need to get a shot of that) her new Fall look is smashing. She’ll be the envy of all the other hags in the field, especially once I get her new anklets fitted and installed.

I’m overjoyed to find that she still LOVES having her wing-pits scratched, and her legs rubbed. Red-tails have a reputation for becoming aggressive as they mature, but after a couple hours of handling, she’s the same sweet (but deadly) bird she was when I put her up last Spring.

And good news…she’s gonna have a little brother. The plan is to trap a jack (male) black merlin in a couple weeks, and hone my skills with longwings. My goal is to become proficient in lure-flying and the basic skills needed to work as a falconry-based bird abatement sub-contractor, and go after dove and quail here in the Willamette Valley as well as in the California desert.

Two birds? Yep, folks, as of September 17, I am a General Class falconer! The gloaty side of me wants to post the awesome letter of recommendation my Sponsor submitted to ODFW, because it quite literally made me cry. The past two years have been difficult, both in and out of the glove, but I credit this sport for helping me rebuild my sense of self. (And yes, I’ll write more about that at some point, also. I apologize in advance.)

As for my Mom…she’s doing pretty well. I spent six weeks in California over the New Year, most of it with her. Tali came along, and Mom joined us on a quick desert hunt–an experience for which I’ll forever be grateful. On our way home we went to the California Hawking Club meet in Bakersfield (oooh….yeah, there’s good material there) where I got to meet some great falconers I’d only encountered online, or in books. I also made a non-falconry stop to Murphy’s, California, to meet up with several of my Bay Area besties…wine-tasting, rappelling, caving, and catching up. A fantastic adventure, and a great break from the oppressive Oregon winter weather.

I plan to make another series of road trips this season, including our Oregon Falconer’s Association meet in Burns in a couple weeks and the NAFA meet in Vernal, Utah. I might return to Utah for the Sky Trials. I’m probably going to hit the 2012 CHC meet, especially since it’s not in that cesspool shithole town of Bakersfield–YAY. (Did I say there was material there? Right.)

In between all these adventures, I’ll be getting my Oregon house ready for listing in the New Year. Whether I go through with the sale–or where I end up, I don’t know, but I’m itchy for a new set of feathers of my own. Itchy for the open road, and the life of the gypsy/nomad falconess. Stay tuned, since things should get interesting…

 

 

 

Wow. A whole year…

 

…And what a year it’s been.

Shortly after my last post, I made a Huge Mistake. I was carrying Freyja to her perch in the front yard, where she could get some sun. As I knelt down to tie her in, I tripped. The one time I hadn’t secured her leash to my glove.

And she flew away.

For a moment, I was in awe as I watched her make a few low circles around me. Maybe it was just me, but I swear I saw the look of realization on her face…”Wow….I’m flying!” as she lifted into the air. This bird, who had spent months in recovery and in the moult, was once again free.

I might have gotten her back from the walnut tree across the street if a dog walker didn’t heed my request to stop, or if that murder of crows hadn’t chased her off. I almost got her back after a full day of looking for her at the nearby golf course—she did come down, close enough to my garnished glove, for me to note that she’d removed her equipment (she was good at that).

For a month, I chased her around the area, beating myself up over being such a dork. I’d had local falconers volunteer to assist me, having put out an APB with the club, all local authorities and Audubon. But each time I saw her, she looked fat and happy. She would show mild interest in the lure, but since we’d only just begun training again, it was never enough to get her to commit.

Finally, my Sponsor all but took my trap away from me and ordered me to knock it off. It was time to get a new bird. I’d done all I could. Freyja was fine. And I needed to get over myself.

Long story short, I came home with Talisma (third bird is the charm!) last November. She is the perfect combination of sweet (Yakez) and feisty (Freyja). I’ll write specific posts about her dramatic first bunny, and her last kill of the season, our California road trip and other stuff. But I’m happy to report that Tali and I kicked a lot of cottontail last season, and now that we’ve both grown in a new set of feathers, we have more adventures in store for this one.

I’ve also posted an article or two that had been in draft purgatory this past year, because they do tie into what’s in store for me in the coming months.

So…for those of you who have been following this journal, thanks for your patience. I think the wait will be worthwhile.

Reconnaissance Mission (October 2010)

This is one of the entries caught in draft purgatory over the past year, so I’ve noted the date of writing in the title… — M

——-

Mom’s trip to Oregon was 86′d due to her not feeling well, and so today I’m headed to the Coachella Valley for a week’s visit. Freyja will need to wait a week to begin training. That’s fine; she’s still got some feathers coming in, and I’m very slowly getting the molt weight off her.

I’ve spent the better part of the past 2 weeks researching dementia and Alzheimer’s, as well as getting things in order in case I need to spend large chunks of time in California.

But it’s a reminder that life’s precious. I’m glad to have the chance to go visit, whatever we learn in the coming weeks. I’m glad to have had to decide how I want to view my relationship with Mom from here on out. Regardless of the cause of her symptoms, and all the other emotions attached to this wake-up call, I’ve been faced with the question:

If you only have x amount of time left with this person, do you want to spend it in an atmosphere of love,

or will you be clinging to natty old baggage?

I’ve also learned that I’ll be having surgery in November–the soonest my new insurance will allow it, since for some reason they feel mine is a “pre-existing” condition. Like I had any idea the mass in my uterus was there six months ago.

Not worried at all–probably just a fibroid–but as a bonus, this baker is losing her oven. That’s fine, too; I never really wanted kids of my own, and have a bright, sweet and wonderful step-son to whom I can pass on all my bad morals and cranky world view.

But I’m pissed that the surgery will throw a wrench into my ability to be there for my family. November, in between pre-op appointments, a pre-surgery biopsy (and recovery), the surgery itself (and recovery) and my post-op visit–all spaced one week apart out of necessity–will have me spending most of the month in Oregon. Ah, well, more time to hunt with my Sponsor, terrorize my local social crew, and love on my boys. Or just lie on the couch, popping Vicodin and watching bad movies.

It’s all in how you see it, I guess, and how you want it to be. Working on that.

A New Season…A New Reason.

I’m now shaking off the dust from a trip to the desert. Freyja, who remained in the care of a falconer and friend, has shaken off the last of her juvenile feathers. A lot has happened in the past few weeks, and there’s a lot before each of us. But we’ve both grown up in the past year, and we’re ready for new challenges.

Good timing, because…my mom has Alzheimer’s. I’ve suspected it for a few years, but she finally admitted her diagnosis two days before my trip. Sometime early next week, I’ll be meeting her and my stepfather on the other side of the Cascade range. They’re on one heck of a road-trip to take care of some business in Montana, and to visit each of her four step-daughters and yours truly, her only child.

I can’t help but feel it’s a sort of farewell tour, before she enters the darkest stages of this insidious disease.

My own trip to Nevada had its own purpose. I attended an event on a dry lake bed playa to create some interactive art, re-connect with old and dear friends, and to honor the passing of my beau’s parents in a manner consistent with his own spirituality. (Ever go to a Jehovah’s Witness funeral? It sure as heck isn’t a great environment for a non-JW to mourn his loved ones. It’s like trying to mourn at your neighborhood mall’s Armed Forces Recruiting Center). It had been five years since I’d attended that event, and in the intervening years, I’d been wrestling with my own demons, many of which were born of disastrous family relationships, and my resulting trust issues.

So the news of my mother’s official diagnosis came at the perfect time for me, logistically as well as mentally, to prepare myself for the uncharted territory ahead. I’ve always wrestled with forgiveness–of myself and of others–and as we celebrated the Boyfriend’s parents’ lives, I also chose the moment to forgive the Mom with whom I’d never really find common ground, in order to love and cherish the Mom that is left.

It’s funny how circumstances can converge to put you right where you need to be, when you most need to be there. A few weeks ago, after a year of looking for one in my price-range and fix-it abilities, I located a small fiberglass travel trailer in Montana, only a couple hours from my beloved half-sister’s home near the Clark Fork River. I combined the trailer purchase with a visit with her, and from a couple long-int0-the-night talks with her and my wonderful bro-in-law, came away with a new-found sense of belonging, insight and peace. The strength I needed to move past a lot of pain and hurt. You know…family stuff.

On the same day I heard the “A” word from my mother, I also got word that the long, drawn-out battle between myself and the neighbor at my rural “dream” property had come to a close. The result? The land is now in escrow, I can pay off almost all my debt, get a new roof and paint job on my house, and get it ready to rent out if I need to move to California’s Coachella Valley for any length of time. At the very least, I can breathe easier knowing my monthly mortgage payments will be more than halved.

What about Freyja and the arrival of hunting season? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. What I do know is that two things will be the focus of my life the next several months: Hawking and Family. I’ve fired off an e-mail to my Sponsor, alerting him of my situation, and I plan to find out my options for hunting in California while I’m down there…as well as facilities for my bird for the short- or long-term.

I’m a dutiful daughter, but dammit, at nearly 40, I’m obligated to be loyal to myself. Falconry has been a big part of my return to the surface of what, three or four years ago, seemed a bottomless pit of tar. It keeps me focused. It’s brought me back to a sense of faith. I feel my Warrior Princess-ness has finally returned, and I have to convince her to stick around. I’d be no good to anyone if I couldn’t get out among the sage and smoketrees to flush a few jacks and cottontails. I’ve been there (with my father’s long illness and death) and from experience, I know it’s bad form to run screaming into the desert wind when the frustration of watching a loved one deteriorate gets to be too much to bear.

At least, with Freyja’s help, the bunnies can do the screaming for me.

Need to get out more.

In between looking for a “real” job and the freelance research/writing worky work, I take frequent breaks to go outside and visit my hawk. It usually starts with a game of Peek-a-Boo as I peer around the corner–and she leans over to peer back at me. Then I’ll go up to her window, sipping my coffee, while she cranks her head upside down as if to say, hey, what did you bring me? She stares at me. I stare at her. She fluffs up and looks cute. I stand there in a wife-beater tank top and ratty jeans,  wearing old blue Croc knockoffs, which means cute doesn’t apply.

This afternoon, I noticed how Freyja’s eyes are really beginning to darken, part of the natural maturing process of Red-tailed hawks. They probably won’t be completely dark for a year or so, but where she had a bit of shading in one eye, now it looks like her eyes are starting to fill up with coffee-colored tears. Beautiful, really, and a bit annoying because I don’t have a decent camera to document these details.

She scratches her head. I scratch my ass, and drink more coffee. And it occurs to me that I probably spend more face-time with this bird than I do with most of my friends and family. What color are my friends’ eyes? Do I even know? Have I stopped paying attention?

So much human communication is done via text, Facebook updates or phone calls. What are we missing by substituting these for face-to-face human contact? Is it why I’m so fascinated with reading her non-verbal expressions? She’s got quite a few, and by learning about them, I feel I’m finding a means of communicating with her. Hmmm, I wonder. Maybe I need to get out more.

There once was a time when I thought, heck, I could live alone in a small cottage in the forest, as long as I had the means to text or e-mail my friends. But more and more I savor the time when I can be with the people I enjoy so much. Like Sunday, when a bunch of us mobbed the marina where some of our favorite people had docked their boat for the summer. Fun is contagious when you actually feel it going on around you. Comforting another who needs to unload about a family member is so much…more intuitive…in person than over the phone. And it’s so much better to witness, in person, three of your friends fall off their kayaks than it is to read status updates on the incidents.

I’ve been working on making myself go out and actually experience my so-called Social Network. My bird is up for the moult, but for me to renew myself, I need to stretch my wings a little.

The author DOES do other stuff besides stare at her hawk.