Entry 3 – Chasing Ghosts
"You knew when the owl saw you and you felt seen" – journal entry, April 11th, 2024
It was in a rather precarious state of mind that I began the drive to Tucson, the drive that was to mark the beginning of my new foray into wildlife field work. Whilst entering a new phase of life, I’d prefer to be prepared: packed in advance, contingency plans for travel mishaps, food and drink for the journey, and above all, a settled yet eager state of mind. Alas, this has almost never been the reality while standing on the precipice of a new adventure. Rarely have I felt truly ready before doing something radical, and that evening was no exception.
After an excellent weekend of spring skiing at Mammoth, during which we were lucky enough to receive more snowfall than when we visited in February, I was to make the six hour trek to Tucson. The decision to undertake a weekend of skiing and a fourteen hour round trip drive to Mammoth Lakes before heading to my new job was, I admit, a risky one. But not one to shy away from an epic weekend of powder because of travel plans, I committed to driving late into the night.
Upon arriving back in San Diego at 8pm after hours of skiing, driving, and a hefty portion of barbecue, everything was dead: my phone, my energy levels, and most alarmingly, my car battery. It took two jumps for Cassidy to finally sputter to life and by that point I was in a state of near panic, hastily packing all of my earthly possessions into the car and trying to keep a running inventory of what I couldn’t forget in my already cluttered mind. Finally, after a quick shower (which was to be my last for at least a week), I was off. I picked the only highway I knew that went east because I hadn’t the foggiest idea as to which was the correct route; I figured as long as I was heading towards Arizona I was making progress. Luckily, I guessed well, and rode i-8 all the way into Tucson.
After a less than restful three hour nap in a Walmart parking lot, I awoke to find myself in the desert: Saguaro cacti dotted the landscape, chunks of rock erupted from sandy plains. And at 7am, it was hot already. I had to make Ruidoso, New Mexico by four. The previous night was a bit of a blur: stopping for coffee in Yuma at midnight, driving on an empty highway under a sky full of stars, craning my neck to try to glimpse them through my window, the desert reeling past, illuminated briefly by my headlights.
New Mexico: the land of enchantment. I confess I was less than enchanted as I drove through the endless tan of the desert, but grew slightly more enchanted as the road wound upwards in elevation until we reached Ruidoso, which lays perched at 7,000 ft. Here, the vegetation changed completely: lush fields, running streams, towering Ponderosa Pines and Douglas Firs. Wild horses picked their way through the little town, grazing in odd places: the side of the road, the Albertsons parking lot. Herds of elk lay in groups, clumped in fields under old trees.
I rolled up to camp and was immediately thrown into the awkwardness of meeting a new group of people with whom you will be spending countless hours. But, as the other newly hired wildlife technicians gathered, conversation began to flow easily: here was a group from a plethora of backgrounds united only by our common desire to work outside and protect wildlife. How wonderful.
That first night, we ate pizza, played silly games, and stood around a smoky fire until one by one we drifted off into our tents. I slept deeply, having been robbed of an actual rest the night before.
The next couple of days we spent mostly in a classroom, punctuated by little outdoor activities: installing a new battery for Cassidy, learning to navigate between points in the woods at night, an interesting biology lesson in which we learned all about the species that had brought us all together: the Mexican Spotted Owl.
Once wide ranging across Mexico and the Southwest, the species was listed as threatened after logging and other unsustainable forest practices drove the owls from their typical habitat. As the name suggests, the Mexican Spotted Owl (as opposed to the Californian and Northern Spotted Owl) is a subspecies that resides primarily in Mexico, but its range extends into Arizona, New Mexico, and, recently, Colorado. For the past ten years, there has been an extensive effort to catalogue breeding pairs in these states, as to better understand the overall health of its population.
And our job was to find them.
So we learned their calls, their eating habits, their main predators (other owls, primarily the Great Horned), and their preferred habitat (old growth Douglas Fir or Ponderosa forests, canyon perches, and generally out of the way spots, difficult for humans to access). After days of learning about these incredible birds in the classroom, it was finally time to meet them in the wild.
Larry, the Forest Service biologist responsible for the study of the Spotted Owl population in Ruidoso, met us in the parking lot before we all caravanned to a local nesting site to hopefully catch a glimpse of a mating pair. Larry is nearly 70 but looks a good twenty years younger. His years spent living, working, and breathing in the outdoors clearly agree with him. He says he hasn’t worked a day in his 40+ year career for the forest service. He loves his job, his owls, and his life; it was hard not to be inspired.
Larry led us up a gradual path that meandered along a deep stream-bed, past towering Douglas Firs. A soft hiss from someone in the back of the group called us all back to an inconspicuous spot on the trail. There, perched in the lowest branches of a tall pine tree – an Owl! A male juvenile MSO, just watching our group pass by. Maybe about a foot tall, with a large flat face and deep black eyes, furry talons gripping the branch, his beautifully spotted plumage catching the last of the evening light. I felt chills as I sat and just watched the bird; his head swiveled to take us all in. What have those eyes seen? He seemed unbothered by our presence and so we let him be and continued up the trail, whispering excitedly about our lucky encounter.
A call pierced the still evening air – the four note call we had all been studying so diligently. Another male, calling out to his mate perhaps? We hastened to find out. Up the trail, to a rather unremarkable little clearing in which stood a long-dead Doug Fir, broken near the top, clearly hollowed out. Perfect owl habitat. We gathered around the nest and sat silently, waiting. Dusk gathered. Birds chirped and sang and fell silent. People sipped water, readied cameras, whispered to one another.
Another male, slightly larger, appeared suddenly on a lower branch near the nest, as if by magic. That’s how owls are - one minute there’s nothing, the next there’s the bird, perched on a branch you thought you were concentrating on. Ghosts flitting through the forest.
He called out occasionally, a low whistle contact call, but mostly he just sat, waiting for what the humans were waiting for too - the emergence of his mate from the nest.
But there were Great Horned Owls about - the tigers of the sky, as they’re known - which meant the owls were being cautious. The male called softly to his mate, enticing her to come out.
“Having seen this tonight with you all, I already feel so lucky”. Larry, whispering through the dusk to us all. “And I think that they might just put on a show–”
Someone else interrupted him, not rudely – “She’s coming out!”
What followed was one of the most magical wildlife encounters of my life, witnessing the ancient ritual of owl pairs as they reunite in the evening before setting off to hunt for the night.
Suddenly, the female, larger than her mate, popped out of the top of the tree trunk, and, cooing softly, flew without a sound to a perch 50 ft away. The male followed, and soon, to the delight of their human watchers, they sat together on the branch, nuzzling, calling, and pruning each other’s feathers. Our group was in awe, witnessing this beautiful and ancient ritual of animal companionship. That we got to experience their nightly courtship was beyond special, it was deeply emotional.
After a little while of checking in and catching up, the male flew off, presumably to begin hunting. The female stuck around, and, to our delight, flitted between branches, right up to our group, peering at us with her enormous eyes, deep and black as pools of water at midnight. She flew among our group for a while, whistling and vocalizing, not afraid, just curious, before flying off into the night to join her mate.
The spell was broken; we trouped back down the trail excitedly discussing the encounter, showing photos. Unseen by everybody locked in discussion, the smaller male we had seen on the way in sat on his perch as if he’d never moved. Robert (my crew lead) and I were the only ones who saw. We shared a smile and watched him for a minute or so before leaving him in peace and hastening to join the others on the darkening trail.
I’m assigned to the Arizona crew, which means that, along with three other team members, I’m responsible for sites in the numerous National Forests that spread throughout Arizona. The day after our wonderful owl encounter we were to attempt our first test as a crew – a real survey. So, after a morning in the classroom, we packed up and drove as a group up to Cloudcroft, a small village about an hour’s drive from Ruidoso. Here, deep in the Lincoln National Forest, we were to conduct our first real owl surveys.
We camped in a clearing high on the mountain. Patches of snow sat in clumps, elk tracks lay scattered in the mud.
We drove a ways to get to our survey site and after checking all of our gear, ascended a steep slope to begin. Surveys are conducted ideally anywhere between sunset and 2-3 hours after the sun goes down; this is when the owls are most active. The survey sites have been randomly selected by a computer model that takes into account several factors including elevation, topography, and vegetation type – essentially predicting locations with promising habitat where there might be owls. Key word: might. There are five points within the site, which is a square kilometer, four located at the corners, one in the center. Each night, we hike to every point and conduct an auditory survey until all the points are completed or we detect a mating pair, at which point we’re done for the evening and can head back to camp. Sometimes you hike for hours to get to your site, sometimes you can drive right to the first point. Sometimes you get an owl pair minutes into your first survey, other times the woods are silent and empty. So the average survey time can vary quite a bit.
That first survey was definitely a bit of a learning moment. Hiking off trail through the woods at night and navigating only with a handheld GPS and/or compass is about as difficult as it sounds. We crashed through underbrush, up and down hills, stumbling along ridges and slopes, making more noise than a herd of blind elk in the dark. Robert, our crew lead who had done an MSO field season in the past, and who has generally spent a lot of time in the woods at night, was marginally more stealthy and seemed to have a pretty good idea as to where we were at all times.
At each point we stopped, set down our bags, and one of us set up a FoxPro, sort of a large speaker device that broadcasts owl calls. We call for ten minutes, then listen in silence for five. On our second point, we heard a male responding to our calls, way off in the distance. It was an exciting moment – this actually works! After practicing, planning, and generally thinking about calling in owls for a week, it was a thrill to hear one responding to our efforts.
Unfortunately, he was both very far away and, as far as we could tell, very single. So we finished the rest of the survey before driving back to camp where we waited for the rest of the teams, and finally retired to our tents. On the walk back from the site to the car, the moon was bright enough to walk without headlights and we strolled out of the woods, content in our efforts, despite not finding a pair.
We had two days off before the crews regrouped to begin real surveys, and instead of driving right to Tucson, I decided to make a large loop, see some country. First stop: Santa Fe, where I went to see an old friend’s new bar. The town appeared essentially out of nowhere, as towns are like to do in the desert. One minute I was driving through rolling plains, past “elk crossing” signs, and suddenly, the small city of Santa Fe rose up around me.
I took an immediate liking to Santa Fe, with its squat adobe buildings and narrow streets in the old town. It seemed as though everyone walking around had a tremendous appreciation for fine food, drink, and art. I felt younger than the general population by a good ten years or more.
I spent a lovely evening with my good friends Bella and Will who I had met through a friend in San Francisco. They left for Santa Fe around the same time I left for San Diego and I hadn’t seen them since, so we caught up about the last several months while Will, who was working a shift, mixed drinks, chatted with customers, and periodically refilled our glasses. The bar is called Tonic. If you’re ever in Santa Fe, I highly recommend checking it out; it’s got kind of a southwestern speakeasy vibe with a great aesthetic and wonderfully creative drinks. I said goodnight to Will and Bella and retired to my little hotel room where I enjoyed the first shower and bed I’d had in six days.
In the morning, I drove across New Mexico, through Navajo Nation where I had an amazing fry bread taco, and on to Sedona, where the rocks really are as red as they say. I was quite surprised by the crowds milling around; huge groups of tourists poking around high end clothing boutiques, crystal shops, and outdoors stores. I’m not sure why I expected a sleepy little mountain town as the scenic countryside more than explains the chaos in the village. I drove through the town and spent the night camping off of a bumpy, dusty forest service road. That night in Sedona I made soup, played my guitar, and drank tea under an endless and open sky, listening to the happy groups of campers reveling around me in the dark. The next day I awoke to find Cassidy covered in a thin film of red earth.
Then it was back down to Tucson where the Sonoran Desert crowds around the town and rises up to the mountain ranges that surround it. The Sonoran Desert: hills and expanses of vibrant shrubs, colorful flowers, massive Saguaros like trees dotting the landscape. Certainly not what I think of when I picture a desert! Life is abundant in the Sonoran: all sorts of birds flit through the vegetation, lizards and snakes hide among the rocks and larger, stranger animals prowl through the mountain passes.
That first night, we surveyed a site up in the mountains overlooking the city. We didn’t find any owls, but saw lots of other critters and were treated to an excellent sunset peeking through the entrance to the canyon. I kept a running list of animals seen while hiking: banded gecko, desert tarantula, poorwill.
The next night, we moved to a different mountain range and had a similar result – no Spotted Owls, but we did hear a Great Horned Owl, calling ominously in the canyon below. Back at camp, we sat around snacking before Chase heard the telltale cackle of the elusive Elf Owl, America’s smallest owl species. We crept off through the campsite, following the sounds of the owl until we arrived at the base of a large Sycamore, where, to our delight, we caught a glimpse of a little ball of feathers zipping in and out of a tiny hole at the top of the tree. I happily added “elf owl” to my running list of creatures encountered.
The next day, it was time to split up. Chase and Robert headed off to survey a more remote section of the Coronado while Ferris and I drove north to meet a rancher who was to let us through his land in order to survey the mountains beyond. He was a kind old fellow with a large cowboy hat and an accent to match; he insisted we come in and chat before heading up his dirt road to access the forest service road which lay further towards the interior. After a brief conversation about birds, our work, his ranch, etc, Ferris and I loaded back into our lifted F-150 and trundled past the first of many cattle guards towards our site. The road wound pleasantly through fields dotted with cattle but as we approached the woods, we were forced to cross a series of washes, spots where the river crossed the road. We inched slowly over the ruts, periodically getting out to shovel sand and stones into our path to ease our passing. We made it to a campsite without incident, and after setting up and eating a quick meal, headed up for our first survey without the full group.
It was a relatively uneventful night – no owls again. On the top of a lofty peak, we made an eerie discovery. Being so close to the border, we had been told that we may encounter evidence of migrants, but I hadn’t really considered the gravity of that warning. Under an old juniper tree lay the evidence of an encampment – moldy blankets, backpacks eaten away by age and weather. Plastic bottles, old medication containers. We stared for a while, considering the lengths to which people are forced to go to seek better futures. It was difficult to imagine the hardships they must have had to face, crossing these mountains in the middle of nowhere, by night, in the dead of winter. It cast a bit of a sobering shadow on our own purposes out there. We paused for a little while longer and then continued with the survey, feeling unsettled.
Every site is rated for difficulty on a scale, 1-5, with 5 being the most strenuous. These ratings are set based on hike time, hike difficulty, and ease of access. After a week of ones and twos, it was time to attempt our first five. The day began gently enough. We found a lovely campsite by a rushing mountain stream, full of icy snowmelt from the peaks above. After a refreshing swim, a warm nap, and a quick meal, I felt more than ready to tackle the 4 mile hike in to our site. The trail wound steeply through a ponderosa forest, burned from a previous forest fire. This was still something I was getting used to as an east-coaster. We don’t have too many large scale forest fires and so it was a bit shocking to find myself in burned forests so frequently. Charred trees lined the hillside; you’d grab one for support and your hand would come away black with charcoal.
The trail switchbacked endlessly up a massive slope and given we were climbing up to 9,000 feet, I was soon huffing and puffing. We finally ascended to the summit and were treated to a beautiful sunset from the lofty peaks of the Chiricahua.
The site took most of the night. We hiked for hours along a trail that ceased to exist – soon we were scrambling along the side of the mountain in the dark, through scree that moved constantly under our feet and threatened to send us sliding down the steep slopes into fun plants like yucca or agave. Sometimes agave is used to make tequila, other times it stabs you in the thigh with thick spines like hypodermic needles.
We heard one owl while standing at the edge of a cliff at the center point of the site and waited with held breath and crossed fingers, listening intently for his mate. Unfortunately, no luck. Another single owl. We arrived back at camp, battered and exhausted, past midnight. After checking in with Robert and Chase (who had found a pair on their first point that night), I stumbled to my tent and fell into a deep sleep.
Thus ended my first hitch (work period). A whirlwind of a week to be sure. The next day, tired, yet satisfied, I began the long drive back to San Diego, in a far more settled state of mind. I drove back along i-8, ready for the ocean and for rest.
Another slightly longer one. Thanks as always for reading! Follow along to hear more about my adventures in the backcountry surveying for Spotted Owls. Until next time!
the Sonoran desert shot goes crazy!!! i feel like im in the desert sleuthing for owls w you
So so amazing Ash! I can’t believe this is your life!! It feels like a novel — so happy for you xoxo