Nothing better than owling in the moonlight

VIC LEIPZIG AND LOU MURRAY

Vic’s most common excuse for staying out until 2 a.m. is owling. This

so-called hobby consists of a bunch of guys taking a tape recorder

into the woods at night, playing recordings of owl calls and

listening for owls to hoot back. Seriously.

Just to keep Vic honest, sometimes I tell him I want to come

along. The conversation we had last week went something like this.

“I’m going owling tonight. I’ll be back around two, so don’t wait

up.”

“I want to come along.”

“You don’t like owling.”

“I know.”

“You just want to make sure there are no women on the trip.”

“Yes, but that’s not the main reason.”

We both knew that the primary reason wasn’t a sudden interest in

owls. I was simply looking for yet another way to poke fun at Vic in

our column. Owling seemed perfect. And sometimes being out in the

woods at night can prove interesting.

The game plan for the adventure was to meet fellow owler Peyton

Cook at the fire station in Silverado Canyon at 11 p.m. and carpool

up the canyon into Cleveland National Forest.

Things got interesting just after Vic and I left the lights of

civilization behind on Santiago Canyon Road. An Orange County

Sheriff’s patrol car blazed past us in the darkness. A second patrol

car came up behind us and the deputy flashed for us to pull over.

I was driving and for once I was obeying most of the more

important laws governing operation of a motor vehicle. I was

surprised at the flashing lights. But birders are often subjects of

suspicion. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time we had been

detained for bird watching. I dutifully pulled over, but the patrol

car passed us by. They took more interest in Peyton.

Peyton had driven into Black Star Canyon off Silverado Canyon to

get a jump start on owling while he was waiting for us. He had

stopped by the side of the road, and was innocently playing owl

recordings and listening, when a car full of boisterous youths roared

past him. The kids looked like trouble to him, so he decided to

leave. He had just stepped back into his car when the two deputies

screeched to a halt in front of and beside his car, blocking him in.

One deputy began hurling questions at him.

Peyton was beginning to regret having parked on this lonely canyon

road with binoculars around his neck, when the other deputy said,

“That’s not him.” With a terse warning to Peyton to get out of there,

the deputies sped off.

Peyton was still shook up when he met us at the fire station and

relayed his story. Black Star Canyon has been the site of some

vicious crimes, so the sheriff’s department keeps a close watch. We

never did learn what type of suspect was on the loose that night.

We turned our attention back to the task at hand. We heard a great

horned owl hoot in the woods behind the fire station. After the

recent warm spell, night-flying insects were out, and so were the

poorwills. These nocturnal, insect-eating birds in the nightjar

family were calling their plaintive cries of “poor Will, poor Will”

in the meadow. They are the only bird species we know that hibernates

instead of migrating south for the winter. When the weather turns

cold, they hunker down in a pile of leaves and go into a state of

torpor. They spend the winter in hiding, depending on their cryptic

coloration to protect them from predators.

I was elated. We had already located two of our six target species

of night birds, so I hoped we could go home and avoid the bumpy drive

up the unpaved section of Silverado Canyon. No such luck. The early

success simply spurred Vic and Peyton on to additional adventures.

They wanted to add barn, long-eared, western screech and saw-whet

owls to the night’s list. I wanted to avoid getting attacked by

either humans or wild animals.

We then drove up four of the longest, loneliest, darkest miles of

unpaved road you could imagine, past tall big-leaf maples, big-cone

Douglas firs and huge sycamores. We splashed and bounced as the road

intersected Silverado Creek time after time at rocky fords. Every so

often we stopped and the boys walked down the road with the tape

recorder. I couldn’t get thoughts of marauding mountain lions out of

my mind, so I stayed near the car.

We heard one more great horned owl and saw three vehicles drive

past, plus some teenagers on foot who were howling like coyotes and

throwing beer cans. Presumably, none of them were owling.

A little after 1 a.m., we gave up and headed back down the

mountain. Choruses of tree frogs serenaded us in the moonlight. One

poorwill sat silent at the side of the road. And a barn owl flew

across our path. We didn’t get back home until 2 a.m.

We have great horned and barn owls here in Huntington Beach, but

those are easy finds. Birding boys will be boys, so I expect they’ll

go owling again in the boondocks in a few weeks, staying out late

while searching for elusive rarities. I’ll be safe at home catching

up on my sleep.

* VIC LEIPZIG and LOU MURRAY are Huntington Beach residents and

environmentalists. They can be reached at [email protected].