Banding Saw-whets

A bizarre sound drifted over the wetland behind Little Fish Brewing Company.  An eery too-too-too-too that reverberated in my ears and sent a shiver down my spine.  Each too was spaced about a half second apart and sounded like a child’s squeaky toy.  This call, that of the northern saw-whet owl (Aegolius acadicus), was coming not from a bird, but from a tape recorder.  It was an “audio-lure” used by ornithologists to attract owls to their hidden mist nets.  

With no moon in sight, the night was still and dark—a good sign for our migrating quarry.  The stillness in the air was in direct contrast to the nearly 100 people clustered outside Little Fish, eagerly awaiting a night of owl banding.  Sitting at a bar has got to be one of the more pleasant ways to seek wildlife.  Drinks flowed, talk was nerdy; I (almost) forgot the temperature was in the low 30s.  The collective shivering could have been from anticipation.  

Bob Placier, a retired Hocking College professor and master bird bander, had teamed up with OU professor Kelly Williams to host the event.  After around 45 minutes, they announced it was time.  Half the group clambered down a steep hill to check the nets.  No one had any idea what to expect; netting saw-whet owls in the wetland behind the much-loved bar had never been attempted before.  As we hiked through the darkness, my heart was pounding.  Was I about to see my first saw-whet owl? 

I had been bird banding with Dr. Williams once before on a winter morning in 2017.  Catching birds involves stringing a mist net (essentially a finely meshed volley ball net) across an open area.  If positioned correctly, the net is invisible to approaching birds.  In the case of netting songbirds, mist nets are often placed between cover and a feeder.  With our migrating owls, however, a different tactic had to be utilized.  Call blasting provides the incentive for migrating owls to fly in.  For reasons unknown (November isn't the breeding season and these owls aren't social), the call of a male causes these tiny owls to diverge from their travels.  Owls have excellent eyesight, but even these nocturnal raptors can't spot a cleverly placed net.

As our flashlights illuminated the fine mesh, I could see a tan-colored lump tangled near the bottom of the net.  Dr. Williams knelt down to free the trapped creature, her silhouette obscuring any movement or detail.  For a moment, I worried I had been wrong—we hadn't caught anything.  But then, I noticed I slight fluttering in the beam of her headlamp.  Dust from silently beating wings.  Clutched against her person like a tiny infant, Dr. Williams brought the animal into view.

I usually do not describe wildlife as cute—this owl was an exception.  Held firmly in the characteristic “bander’s grip” she raised the animal for all to see.  A cheer went through the crowed.  “Well we got one,” Bob said proudly.  

The tiny owl was perfect.  Little bigger than my fist, it swiveled its head around, glaring contemptuously down at us.  The bird seemed unfazed by the capture; what really annoyed it was our joy.  With two comically oversized eyes, the owl seemed to be saying, “Really guys?  Come on.”  

I was just as taken with the pint-sized owl as everyone else.  Saw-whet owls had haunted my dreams for years; I couldn't believe our luck.  Dr. Williams brought the owl back to the pavilion for Bob to process.  He took measurements, weighed the bird, and carefully placed a metal band around its leg.  This band would identify the owl if it was caught again and provide information on its travels. 

Two thirds of netted saw-whets are always females, a skewed sex ratio that isn't fully understood.  It is possible that males do not always migrate or aren’t as attracted to the audio lure.  Either way, our little bird turned out to be a female as expected.  Unlike most birds, when saw-whet owls molt, they replace some flight feathers while retaining others.  Curiously, when placed under a blacklight, new feathers fluoresce bright pink, while older more worn feathers appear dull.  The number and order of glowing feathers allow researchers to estimate age.  With the lights shut off, Bob held up his blacklight.  Every inch of the owl’s wing glowed bright bubble-gum pink; the crowed oohed and aahed.  This identified our little female as a hatch-year bird. She was on her first migratory route, instinctively traveling hundreds of miles away from the northern boreal forests where she had hatched.

Until the mid-1990s, very little was known about northern saw-whet owls.  They were thought to be extremely rare in the US.  It wasn't until Project Owlnet—a group of passionate researchers and volunteers—began netting the birds, that their migratory habits were revealed.  Each November, hundreds of stations across North America set up their traps to band the nomadic owls.  This research is helping shed light on these abundant but secretive birds.  Today, saw-whets are one of the most heavily researched owls in the world.

I can't help but be drawn to owls.  Their fierce aura is easy to fall in love with.  Their human-like, forward-facing eyes don't just look at you, they look into you.  You can get lost in those eyes.  As we released the saw-whet back into the night, I wondered where it would go.  How many miles would it travel during its journey.  It might fly as far as Florida, or Texas, or Mexico.  Or it might spend the winter in my own backyard, silently watching from a hidden roost.  I might hike past the very same bird and never know it.  Looking out into the darkness, I smiled.  Once you enter the world of the owl, there is no turning back.