Hope

Packing to move from Citrus Heights to Sacramento, I found myself rummaging through the past, pausing to open journals, deciding on things to treasure or discard. I didn’t get to do this when I moved to Northern California from the South. A company packed me up and I didn’t bother with much more than dusting and sorting when I unpacked. I was savoring and paring down this time. And there were some treasures in the unpacking…

I found this photo tucked inside a copy of a Falconer’s Prayer.  I wrote this poem in the pre-apprentice year of my falconry beginnings, some fifteen years ago. I found myself this afternoon pausing and asking if I had lived up to my expectations of myself. I hope I have.

Falconer’s Prayer

May I gain the clarity and distance of her sight
to look upon my life.
May I dream the vastness of her sky
and always stretch to reach her pitch.
May I call upon the strength and fierce determination
with which she bends even the tyranny of air
to her will.

May my voice command a resonance and surety
the learned tenor of her gimlet cries.
May I embody her airy grace
and fragile-boned beauty,
yet protect what I love with a vicious courage
drawn from the etch her beak,
the vice-grip of her talons.

May my world be blanketed in a comfort like feathers
and volleyed by a belief in flight.
Let every brittle morning or balmy afternoon
that I walk beneath her shadow
offer up some insight, some quiet secret
to illuminate this dark and whispering
world of man.

May every trick she chooses to learn,
every wordless understanding that blooms,
close the distance between us
and urge her return to my fist.

Above all else,
grant me the talent to think with her soul
and imagine my life with wing.

RKO

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.

And the Molt Begins

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.

North American Falconry

On Saturday, Hal Webster turns 90. If you are a falconer, you likely know who Hal is– in short American falconry royalty. Our sport has only been in existence for about a hundred years in the United States, so Hal has been there since it’s beginnings — struggled with wayward birds in the days before telemetry, discovered new ways to fly American raptors on American prey species, watched falconry embraced and later persecuted and he has never given up the sport. Not even now.

Of course, what many of us know him from is writing what amounts to the bible of falconry in North America. A book that has evolved along with us in its last 9 editions.

A couple of years ago, I had the pleasure of interviewing Hal. The best place to find out more about him is on www.northamericanfalconry.com. (Don’t expect a quick answer if you email him though…he has better things to do than sit at the computer.) I found out a lot about him though in our conversation. He’s a gentleman and an adventurer. I had to ask him, admittedly measuring myself up, what makes a great falconer. Here’s what Hal said:

     Hal doesn’t have to ponder the makings of a great falconer. He carefully and quickly makes a list for me. “Patience, a learning approach, practice and more practice. And don’t forget to read,” he says. He suggested books like Blaine’s, the Art & Practice of Hawking by E.B. Michele, any of Mike McDermott’s writing and then shyly added his own book to the list. “You should find the style of writing that’s easiest for you read and read that author,” he adds, making it clear that it isn’t enough to own a large falconry library, you must read the books and absorb the lessons the falconer has tried to weave into his words.

     “If you are going to be a falconer and be the best you need these three things,” Hal explains. “You need game birds, time and money. You need money enough for a car, dogs, birds and a place where you can fly.” Without these things, your falconry will suffer.

A friend of Hal’s sent out a mass email, encouraging us all to send our best wishes on this most auspicious day. If you have a moment — scribble him an old fashioned note. I’m sure it will make his day.

Hal Webster
P.O. Box 38
Fort Benton, Montana 59442

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.

You may recognize the video clip frm The Road to Backersfield, a video I highly recommend if you don’t have it in your falconry video collection.

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.

The Hunting Party

The stunning drake bufflehead has always eluded me, my mini-Moby duck.  

I see them often and always have a hard time moving the binoculars away from their shimmer to examine the subdued tones of other more likely waterfowl. They are more than gorgeous. They are perfectly matched to a peregrine in size and zipping wingbeat and chances of them getting away when they split from the water are good. Of course, you have to get them off the water and that is nye impossible.

I have watched my Brittanies swim in circles after them for a half an hour, long after the duck has already spent the falcon by skimming the edges of the water and careening back into liquid safety again and again with a splash and hardly a backward glance. It is not just the dog or the falcon at which they balk. Bufflehead barely consider me an obstacle, audaciously brushing my cheek with their wing in passing, a shining arrow flashing across my vision as they navigated the edges of safety. I’ve always imagined them as lead shavings swirling about the magnetic water, impossible to separate. Magic.

But this bufflehead left the pond with a clean and generous flight, which the falcon graciously accepted. And I was thrilled, for a moment. I told myself I was nothing more than grateful with my freezer empty and my bank account uncomfortably low. The falcon needed to fly and he needs to eat. I told myself that I was happy for the beautiful morning, the bufflehead a sparking jewel perfectly set against the muted and heavy winter sky.  I told myself it was a gift, the end of a quest. I could tell myself whatever I wish, I was feeling something very different.

I fed the falcon, praised the dog who looked at the little duck suspiciously and then refused to carry it back to the truck. So I tucked it in my vest, wondering if the sensitive Brittany was reacting to my mood. When everyone was pleased and dry and tucked away, I examined our prize and wondered for a moment if I had lost more than I gained.

In my hands the bufflehead slowly ceased to be a mythical creature. The weight of it against my palms made it something no different than the peregrine –of flesh and blood, earth and sky. Suddenly the three of us were equal, entitled and beholdened to beginnings and endings. By my falcon or another falcon, it made no difference.  Buffleheads are not eternal and like this hunt, I couldn’t escape that living is bittersweet.

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.

Christmas Dinner

Those of you who know Hank Shaw and his amazing cooking, will be floored when I tell you I last minute cancelled on his undoubtedly delicious goose in order to eat my duck. It wasn’t that I think I can cook better. And I know the duck would have been better if it had hung for a few days. It was just that she seemed like such a gift.

The falcon had little business catching a mallard and Christmas, in the fact the year seemed so much brighter for a meal that took two seasons to secure. Sometimes I’m just sure that nature hands you a gift and the superstitious falconer in me cannot stand the idea of shrugging it off. The duck should be honored. (Or suffer the wrath of the falconry gods.)

I hadn’t expected to get a duck on Christmas, so I had to “Iron Chef” it a bit. What was in the refrigerator was what I had…  a lot of parrot food. Apples, grapes… so I decided to make a chutney. (Which I’ve never done before, but it seemed like a reasonable idea.) I breasted her out and marinated the meat in a spicy sweet sauce I whipped up. The chutney was gala and granny smith apple, a medley of seedless grapes, cinnamon, ginger, brown sugar, rice wine vinegar, soy sauce, cayenne and peanuts that were added just as it was finishing cooking.

I couldn’t tell you how much of which ingredient, I can only tell you that served with sauteed duck breast, salad and wild rice, it was delicious. And that I’ll never be able to make it again. I like it that way. The things we cannot repeat are the things that become personal legends.

And I still made it to Hank and Holly’s for wine, pecan pie and hunting stories.  It was a perfect Christmas.

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.

So on Christmas, when I found two mallards on a pond, a drake and a hen, I thought, Well buddy, at least you get to fly. Make it look good and I’ll pretend I didn’t notice that you didn’t really try.

There was a time I couldn’t really tell, you know? A stoop and a connect that didn’t quite yield a successful hunt always looked like bad luck to me. I’ve learned a lot in the last eight years, perhaps not as much as the falcon has learned about me, but I can tell the difference now between a real hunt and a faked one. I know what Anakin is capable of and when he doesn’t give it. I also know how to watch the ducks to tell if he means business. They see so much that I cannot. If the ducks aren’t all that worried, I know I’m being played.

Christmas Duck

But this time the ducks were worried.

And they had a right to be.

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.

Destroyed Backpack

The thing is, my homemade backpack wasn’t all that. The peregrine ruined it with minimal effort and left it lying next to a regurgitated pellet on the floor, discarded just as easily and with similar irreverance. Damn I wish I had inherited the arts and crafts gene from my mom.

That’s okay. After one failed attempted for this season and my first effort giving the installationa go with someone simply holding the falcon on the glove, I think I got the installation thing down. I was ready to give the Marshall plectrum another try.

Waiting for the epoxy to dry

I may not be good at arts and crafts, but I’m still female and fruity cocktails with the girls on the occasional Saturday night is good for the soul. Even better if it involves fashionably accessorizing our animals friends.

I was able to fit the backpack with its Teflon ribbon without any bates or discomfort. The peregrine fidgeted frequently, but that’s to be expected. And I imagine his greater ease with the process has much to do with his confidence in his ability to destroy any contraption I conspire to make him wear.

Epoxied Backpack

 He’ll be wrong this time. We did a great job. I had a little less booze than on Thanksgiving though, because I used epoxy this time… an epoxied peregrine is a bit of a quandary.

The plug for Ducks Unlimited business cards placed underneath the plectrum are protecting his feathers from where I epoxied the ribbon connection so that it was smooth and difficult to pull apart again. (As per the Marshall instructions, trust me, I’m no genius at these things.)

Backpack with the Powermax transmitter inserted

The transmitter fits neatly into the plectrum and keeps the equipment at the bird’s center of gravity and the antennae high and transmitting the best signal possible. More importantly, for a bird that is already permanently missing a deck feather, it’s a great alternative to a tailmount. (And after looking at the dents in his bell, I’m not a big fan of depending on a leg mount for this bird.)

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.

Anakin's First Flight

…wasn’t really a flight, in all honesty.

He sat on the roof of XB’s truck. Then he sat on a pole. And then he thought ponderously about coming to the lure, finally arriving, but protesting heavily that I wasn’t swinging it by strafing the stationary leather pouch five times before tackling it.

At least he got in the air. At least I got him back. At least I can say I’ve started.

In typical falconry fashion, right before this bit of nothing, XB put his bird over a pond –really two ponds adjacent to one another. One full of coots, the other with a gorgeous array of waterfowl. Booth, my Brittany, anxious to finally be hunting rushed full speed ahead in barking glee and jumped right into the wrong pond. Fortunately, but the time he starting flushing coots, XB’s bird had already lost a duck in a half-assed attempt at being a falcon. Oh, and XB’s dog had run off.

After retreiving Minnie the falcon, waiting 15 minutes for Booth to flush every coot he could find on the pond, and tracking XB’s dog on the other side of field, then retreiving her as well, we gave it another shot.

Just as the sun was setting, our prospects looking minimal, if not impossible, Minnie took a hen mallard in spectacular flight that required all five of us, dogs, humans and falcon working in tandem. XB graciously let Booth carry the duck back to the truck and all of us ended the day in bliss. It was a lovely way to start the holiday weekend.

©2010 Operation Delta Duck. All Rights Reserved.