APRIL 2000 V.64, N. 4 

     On a still, cold night, under a sky dense with stars, I climb a muddy path on Shaver's Mountain behind wildlife biologist Kevin Boyle, a tall man with a passion for tiny owls. I have never seen a northern saw-whet owl, a creature often described as "tame" and, as another biologist friend put it, "no bigger than a pop can." I have volunteered to help at Kevin's fall banding station, but I have really come to feast my eyes; to see majesty in miniature.

     As the trail crests, my steps quicken and the beam from my headlamp bobs. I know we are nearing the gauzy, black mist nets, invisible in the darkness. Strategically placed along a ridgeline in the seven-inch raptors' migration path, they stand eight feet high and stretch 150 feet long to gently snare the birds as they head south. The smallest and only migratory owl in eastern North America, saw-whets fly 1,000 feet above land, but are lured downward by the taped sounds of their peers. A continuous, high-pitched "toot, toot, toot," that sounds much like the warning signal of a truck backing up, pierces the chill air and echoes across the ridgeline.

     As we reach the nets, Kevin scans them up and down with a flashlight. The beam catches four small white and brown mounds in various positions of entanglement. "There they are," he announces. "Our lumps of owls."

     Like a child on Christmas morning, I steal toward a much-anticipated gift: my first glimpse at a creature whose small perfection speaks for all of nature. At once my awe gives way to regret at the indignity the bird must momentarily endure in the name of conservation. It hangs silently, perfectly upside down and motionless, like a stilled pendulum, but for the occasional slow blinking of heavy lids over oversized, shining, yellow eyes. Tiny feet with soft, yellow undersides and black, needle-like talons grasp the netting with a ferocity that speaks of the bird's role in nature's scheme. Still, it remains quiet and seemingly unperturbed as I lean in closer, peering. I whisper an apology and a promise that the ordeal will be over soon.

     I watch as Kevin adeptly untangles each bird, gently prying open clenched feet, extracting wings, and finally freeing the tiny, full-feathered heads, which are generally pushed straight through the holes of the wispy nets. Then, flapping wings and emitting clacks and chatter of protest, each bird emerges unscathed and is carefully placed in a soft net bag for the two-mile ride back to the banding shed. There they will undergo extensive examination before being released to continue their journey.

     There is still much to learn about the migration patterns and breeding habits of the saw-whet owl, so named for its breeding call, which resembles the sound of a large mill saw being sharpened. The tiny raptor is known to nest in West Virginia's remote, high elevation spruce forests. Their chosen territory makes nest discovery difficult. Thus, very few breeding records exist. Because so little is known about the status of saw-whet populations in West Virginia, the bird is listed among the state's species of concern.

     Kevin Boyle founded West Virginia's banding station on the outskirts of the Otter Creek Wilderness Area three years ago, when he was hired by the Division of Natural Resources' Nongame Wildlife and Natural Heritage Program to help manage the state's sizable data base of plant and animal species. Supported by DNR and the U. S. Forest Service, the latter of which donates the use of the banding shed, he continues a commitment to saw-whet owl research kindled as a student and volunteer at a banding station located near Frostburg State University in Maryland. Over the past seven years he has banded and released some 400 owls.

     While he has enlisted the help of DNR interns, students, and other volunteers, Kevin travels to the station every night for six weeks, from early October to mid-November, unless heavy rain or strong winds deter the owls' flight. Banding activities begin at dusk and often last until the wee hours of the morning.

     The saw-whet owls passing through West Virginia may have come from breeding grounds as far north as Canada. Preferring dense, coniferous woods, they may winter as far south as Georgia or Florida. Each year the number of birds banded in West Virginia has increased dramatically. In 1997, 23 birds were captured. The following year, the number jumped to 86 due to more strategic positioning of the mist nets. In 1999, 226 owls were banded.

     Bird capture numbers tend to increase with the entry of cold fronts from the northwest. Though it is not yet understood why, banding stations throughout the east consistently report significant increases in overall numbers every two years. Very large numbers in 1995 and 1999 may indicate another four-year cycle of population increase. Many more years of tracking and study are required to draw conclusions about these patterns.

     Data collected at the West Virginia station is sent to the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service's bird banding laboratory, as is data collected from stations throughout the east from Maine to South Carolina. By banding the birds, it has been determined that some have migrated via a coastal flight path one year and traveled inland over the Allegheny Mountains the next. Data also suggest that they prefer to travel discreetly, without the light of a bright moon.

     Back at the banding shed, we remove the birds, one at a time, from their bags. To my utter delight, Kevin places the first one on my hand and instructs me to grasp its legs gently between my thumb and index finger. The owl flaps in protest but for a moment, then settles on my hand. I marvel first at its composure under the circumstances, then, at the round, feathered disks of its face that frame alert and brilliantly yellow-gold eyes. Studying me quietly, it learns that human behavior includes high-pitched cooing and involuntary grinning. Calm and watchful, it is unaware of the further intrusion that awaits before its freedom is restored.

     Kevin first fastens a tiny silver band to the bird's leg, which is stamped with a number that will identify it individually, much like a social security number. Next, he weighs the bird and takes measurements of its right wing, tail and beak. He spreads its wings to examine the feathers, amid rapid snap snap snaps of protest that sound like knuckles cracking.

     Some of the owls we examine are hatchling year birds with uniform, glossy, dark brown feathers. Older birds exhibit signs of molting. They sport a mixture of dark, glossy feathers and lighter brown ones, which have been worn to a soft patina. Beak color (all black or white tipped) and eye color (varying shades of deep yellow) also are recorded. Females are larger and make up the majority of the birds banded. Fewer males migrate as far south as the Otter Creek station, perhaps to remain closer to breeding areas in order to establish prime nesting territory for next year.

     Next, Kevin carefully lays each bird on it back, opens the right wing, bends down close to it and gently blows a stream of breath, parting the fluffy mass of feathers to reveal red or white skin. The skin of the birds we examine is generally a deep, reddish-pink, indicating that most of their body fat has been lost during their arduous journey. Finally, their capture and release times are recorded. They are now ready to be set free to continue their journey.

     As we step back into the darkness, I murmur fond wishes to a creature I still cannot believe has allowed me to hold her, gaze at her, even gently stroke her head. As I regretfully lift my arm skyward, telling us both "time to go," the bird continues to sit squarely on my hand. She appears alternately to study me and the night sky with a calm reluctance I struggle to understand. Lest I consider my own charms irresistible, Kevin assures me that this is typical saw-whet owl behavior. For whatever reason, I am allowed to gaze for many more minutes and indulge in lengthy, one-sided conversation.

     All too soon, however, it is time to check the nets for more birds. I place my feathered charge amid the sheltering branches of the apple tree beside the banding shed. Like a queen considering her subjects, the owl gazes upon us, then poses graciously for several flash photographs amid my squeals of admiration.

     Finally, we turn to go, leaving this creature on her perch in a shroud of darkness. With slow steps I ponder how it can be that we are the first to part company.

     Sheila McEntee is a writer from Charleston and the owner of Words Worth, a small, home-based writing and editing business. She also is a member of the Nongame Advisory Council.