Eight inches of snow fell the other day. The air was cold, not ridiculous, but crisp and piercing. Every piece of landscape from forest to village was white and exuding of purity. It was the reason winter weather warms the soul.
The snow lay undisturbed waiting for activity to make its mark. In the last light of evening, a squirrel bounded from the huge maple in pursuit of seeds under the feeder, most of which by now, were buried. His first leap left him embedded in the powdery snow, almost to the point of disappearing, his ears just protruding from the cavern in the fluff. He bounded out, making a couple of desperate launches to get himself to the seed pile he suspected was under the snow.
A few busy Juncos lit on the snow to scrounge for any fallen morsels. The feeder itself was covered in lumps of white and the birds, while anxious, had a hard time boring through the accumulations, but some had, and others, including the redbird, prodded out sunflower seeds. By evening there were still few marks in the surrounding snow as most of the backyard visitors apparently preferred to take the leap, or flight, in the morning.
That evening, while tight against the evening fire, an excited call came in from my brother, the one on the Ogdensburg swamp, proclaiming that he had had an event, one that involved the new snow. He went into great description of the drama of it all and was falling all over himself with delight and fascination and analysis not untypical of Sherlock the Wildlife Observer---but in a Wisconsin tone commonly found in that area, if you know what I mean, hey.
There had been an attack in his side yard, one that only the snow could reveal. I had great pictures of blood and guts all over the place much like I would have seen if his bumbling hound stumbled into the gut pile I left in the back woods.
Coyotes had been heard drifting through the timber, and meadows, and there were the prints, some close in. Rumors were running wild about wolf sightings as some hesitant locals wanted to cower by open doors. Then there was the Mountain Lions, the catamounts, even Black Panthers that prowled through swamps of bogs---and stalked lovers in the lane. They had seen a Fisher perusing the area under the pear tree maybe looking for a stray cat to devour.
He hardly got started, when in my 9:00 stupor, I figured a fourteen mile ride would be worth it because a light snow was still falling, and the breeze could move the powder around covering the evidence by morning.
On arrival, I was met by both by my brother Crow and Buddy the aforementioned gut-pile-loving hound. The dog was not gore covered so he had played no role in the “event” . He, being more inclined to enjoy his spot by the stove, seemed oblivious but charmed by my arrival. He quickly retreated to his domain not having the intellectual capacity to appreciate the sideyard escapade.
Off we went to the site only one hundred feet from the house and smack in the middle of the yard. There, imprinted in the snow, was a track of a mid-sized animal leisurely heading south toward the woodshed. Directly on top of the track, six feet off the trail, was the perfect impression of a very large bird. Two taloned feet sunk deep in the snow almost straddling the track. The wing marks, measuring forty one inches spread in each direction. It could be seen that the wings were used to block the impact but also to lift the bird off the ground because two feet away was another set of wing marks, lighter ones, where the next stroke landed.
In addition, there were two more shallower footprints as the giant bird lifted off. As amateur raptor specialists (we admire birds of prey), we tried as best we could to put it together. Yes, it was an Owl and by the size of it, it probably was one of the Bared Owls that hang about the area entertaining us wood-bound travelers with their well-timed hooting and rather obnoxious “Monkey talk”.
One of the more unusual aspects of the hit was there was not a single feather, fur or spot of blood and the target animal appears to have turned tail and walked, and only walked back in the direction it came. No a single piece of hair. It was as if the owl in its adventure, got to the target and decided at the last moment this was a bad idea and aborted only at the last minute. Its legs were spread and not concentrated on the target. He must have given it a feathery belly rub and split to rethink the effort.
For the life of us we could not identify the target. It was way too big to be a mouse or even a rat. Plus, just what is out this time of night--- Raccoon, feral cat, possum. It made no sense but what ever it was, the Owl wanted no part of it and maybe at last moment did a quick risk assessment and boogied.
Personally, I had hoped for more evidence of a real struggle and maybe some blood and guts, still the drama was there. Just one more reason to love the snows of winter.
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