Boreal Encounter

Observing wildlife can involve drama -- in nature, fact is often stranger than fiction. One such awe-inspiring event I enjoy sharing with fellow naturalists occurred in the hills of Quebec on January 15th, 1988.

It was 9:00 at night, at my country cottage on Lac Leslie, two hours north of Ottawa. Stars sparkled in a jet-black sky after an arctic high pressure rolled across the hills. The winter forest froze to a dead silence. The serenity was occasionally interrupted by the abrupt echoing cracks of frozen branches breaking. Resonating grumbles from the icy lake sounded like a volcano threatening to erupt. Only the fittest of creatures could survive these extreme conditions.

I was fortunate to have the comfort of a wood stove, plenty of fire wood and a bulging bag of groceries. My priority, however, was to fill the bird feeders that night, in anticipation of the arrival of nocturnal northern flying squirrels. Many bird-lovers resent feeding other hungry creatures, but I enjoy their presence, and don't begrudge them their fight for survival.

The job done, expectations high, it was now time to relax and wait. My feeding station is an elaborate chain of feeders of different styles, offering a variety of food. Dozens circle the wooded property. Still, the squirrels prefer sunflower seeds from a large hopper feeder adjacent the living-room window. Their timing is unpredictable, but they appear every night, easily visible under the two bright deck lamps shining on their favourite feeder. They are tame, easily approached and cuddly as...well...squirrels.

This evening, however, turned out to be a little different. Around 11:00, I peered out the window and noticed a bird perched above the feeder. I immediately recognized it as a boreal owl. This was exciting, a bird I had never seen before and could now add to my "life list." The ball of feathers pivoted its head side to side, as if watching a tennis match. Moments later, it exploded into a balsam fir next to the deck. Precisely then, a flying squirrel ran down the trunk, jumped onto the deck, and sprinted in a semi-circle. With the owl inches from its tail, the rodent dove to safety under the deck. The owl then flew up to a teetering branch on a paper birch, and back into the thickness of the balsam. Breathless, I felt a desperate need to get a closer, first-hand observation. From the back door and around the cottage, my footsteps crunched on the crusty snow. With camera and flash in hand, I stood beside the deck. The tungsten beams from the cottage lamps cloaked the scene with an eerie orange light. Suddenly, from under the deck, about five metres away, the squirrel ran out. Then, like a heavy rock, the owl plummeted down onto the squirrel. I heard a soft, descending "eeee" as the raptor lay mantled over its prey. The moment froze in time. Motionless, and in shock, I faced this amazing bird plundering my feeder friend. I advanced several steps toward the owl. It barely offered me a second glance, appearing more intent on gazing up at the balsam. In there hid a petrified squirrel, having witnessed the loss of a companion. I advanced further until I towered above the bird. I now had the owl's complete attention. In an attempt to inspect the condition of the prey, I lowered my hand. This was, obviously, too threatening for the owl. With squirrel in talons, secured at the shoulders, the owl flew to my right, away from the cottage, disappearing into the diminishing light.

It's all a matter of being in the right (or wrong) place at the right time. The more time we spend in natural environments, the more opportunities we create for experiencing dramatic events, ones we can later share.