Barred Owl Rescue

In this podcast, Emmy recalls taking a risk to save the life of a barred owl in Texas.

"What a powerful story!  Beautifully told." SH, Ohio

"Completely and absolutely stunning!  This story is so touching, profound, called me in from the very first moment." TLS, Ohio
 
"Wow, I really enjoyed this one Emmy! It is such a vivid story – I felt completely transported to the banks of that rushing river!" NO, Oregon 

"I listened to your calm voice and soothing cadence as you told the story of rescuing this owl. I was right there with you as you realized the trouble you could get into, but you forged ahead and came out OK. Your storytelling helped me..." DR, New Mexico 

Photo Credit: Philip Brown on Unsplash

www.sacred-truths.com

Transcript

Barred Owl Rescue

This is Sacred Truths with Emmy Graham
In life, we have take all kinds of risks. Choices, decisions that change our course. Sometimes the risk we take is to benefit others. And sometimes when we take that risk, there is that moment of regret where we may think: oh no. I’ve gone too far and I can’t turn back now.  This is either really stupid, or I’m going to be really lucky.  This is a story of a risk I had to take to save the life of a barred owl. 

It was a beautiful day in early December in San Antonio, Texas. Cool, but sunny and I was very comfortable in just my jeans and t-shirt, when I got the call to check on an owl stuck in fishing line. I would soon turn 40, and I was in my fourth month of working for a wildlife rescue and rehabilitation center located in the Texas hill country about an hour north of San Antonio.  I was on what we called “Animal Rescue Duty” that day. That meant that I was the one who drove the Ford F350 truck around the city of San Antonio and its suburbs, responding to calls from the public who had called into the clinic, regarding wild animals who were trapped or injured. This was a rotating shift that I shared with other staff members; otherwise I worked in the clinic tending to injured or orphaned small mammals and birds, or I worked outside on the 200 acre ranch that enclosed larger wildlife that we tended to such as coyotes, foxes, and mountain lions. 

An owl.  Well I could do that. I know owls. I think.  I wondered what kind it was. We had injured ones at the clinic and I had learned how to feed them and clean their cages. I was not very experienced in this field of wild animal care. I was still a relatively new hire and it was a learn-as-you go sort of job.  I was new to the field and new to Texas. I had no formal training for ‘animal rescue duty’ except for a brief crash course when, the night before I was to go out on my first solo trip a few weeks earlier, I casually asked a more experienced co-worker, “So, how do you release a caged skunk into the wild without getting sprayed?” Because this was the bulk of the work we did.  The public was fond of humanely trapping wild animals in cages in their back yards (raccoons, skunks and opossums) and calling us to take it away.  Our job was to take the trapped animal to a green area near a body of water within a 2-mile radius, and set him free. Easy enough. Luckily, I knew how to drive a stick shift, and enjoyed zooming around the hill country and San Antonio in my big truck. After pulling into a person’s driveway, I felt full of great importance hopping out of the large intimidating truck wearing welding gloves and registering the look relief on the home owner’s face upon my arrival. The professional was here! In reality, I had very little idea what I was doing. Hint: if you ever need to release a skunk, take a large old, blanket that you don’t care about, hold onto two corners while you hold it up high over your head so that it dangles down to your feet serving as a body shield as you slowly approach the cage, and drape the blanket over the cage before picking it up.  This way, if the skunk sprays, it won’t get you. 

Once I was asked to remove an opossum that was in an outdoor closet located on the small porch of a condominium, where the owners kept their cat food. The couple who called were cowering fearfully in a corner of the porch as I reached to open the closet door.  I was wearing my welding gloves which made me look official, but with opossums, I was confident.  I really didn’t even need the gloves, they were usually such docile creatures. I had spent enough time with opossums in the clinic to know how they really do play dead when they feel threatened and are rarely threatening themselves.  The safest way to handle a possum is to lift him by his tail, which does not hurt him, and leaves him hanging in a sort of motionless, frozen position. So, after opening the door, sure enough, a possum, caught in the cat food, froze and stared at me with his mouth wide open, his only defense.  “What are you doing in here??” I asked him.  Then I picked him up by his tail and asked him again as he hung upside down and remained in that frozen position with his mouth open in a menacing way.  I quickly and easily placed him in a cage and removed him from the property. The owners were relieved and I left as some sort of a hero. 

Sometimes people called because of an injured bird or a deer that I was expected to put in the back of the truck and take to the clinic.  Usually the public just brought animals directly to the clinic which was located in the Hill Country, about an hour north west of San Antonio, near the home of Lyndon B. Johnson, which is now a museum. But there was anxiety for me, when I had animal rescue duty, because you never knew what you might get. There was always a bit of fear that I would get a job that was too big for me to handle. 

One thing I did learn was my way around San Antonio.  We covered the entire city and the surrounding suburbs.  This was in the early aughts before cell phones were popular and I had to rely on an old-fashioned map. It didn’t take long for me to feel confident navigating the city and I loved fitting right in with all the other large trucks. I blasted country western songs from the radio because it was, well… Texas. 

We worked long days in the clinic and even longer days on animal rescue duty. Heading out by 6am, our duties included picking up food donations from the big chain grocery stores in addition to our animal calls, and we often returned to the clinic late in the evening, after 8pm or so. It took a long time to make all the rounds driving from one end of the city to the other. Periodically throughout the day, we stopped at pay phones to call the clinic to see if anyone had called in for more rescues. That’s when I learned about the owl.  It was midafternoon by the time I arrived at the location based on the vague description from the caller. The owl was outside the city limits, on a country highway and I was told it was located between two mile markers, a half mile past a bridge, on the other side of a creek. I was some distance from the city center when I pulled the truck over at what I thought was the spot. I was surrounded by woods and traffic was sparse.  The creek hugged the road.  Stepping out of the truck, I crossed the road and peered across the creek. Except for the sounds of gurgling water, all was quiet and still. As it was early December there were no leaves on the trees so I had a clear view of the owl, roosting quietly and calmly on the trunk of a downed tree on the other side of the creek. I could make out fishing line, yards and yards of fishing line, caught high in a tree overhead, and tangled around parts of the fallen tree where the owl perched. I could tell from where I stood, was a Barred Owl. 

Although they are slightly smaller than Great Horned Owls, Barred Owls are considered large birds for they are broad and stocky with a height of just under 20 inches. Their color is mostly mottled brown and white with dark brown streaks, reminding me of fudge swirl ice cream. They have round heads, big, dark eyes and yellow beaks. They usually hunt small prey such as rodents at dusk or night. I recognized this owl right away for I had tended to them in the clinic.

I thought I’d have a look and see his condition. I left all my tools in the truck, didn’t bring welding gloves, or scissors or anything.  I didn’t bring an empty cage in case I needed to bring him into the clinic. After I got a good look at him, I could come back to the truck and find what I needed. First, I had to get across that creek, which was running swiftly but was not that wide, maybe 12 feet or so. Clearly, in crossing it, I would have to get wet which is most certainly why the people who called us didn’t try to rescue him themselves. Although we were heading into winter, it was still pretty warm since this was Texas. I was still good in my t-shirt and jeans and carried a flannel shirt in the truck. I entered the woods and surveyed the creek, deciphering where the most accessible crossing point might be. 

On the east coast, where I’m from, creeks are relatively easy to cross.  I have much experience hopping from rock to rock or even the occasional wading up to one’s shins to cross through a swift flowing current. I feel quite confident navigating rivers and creeks of rocky bottoms of the northeast. Texas is a whole different world.  There were flash flood warning signs where I lived in the Hill Country.  Dry creek beds could fill instantly in the event of heavy rain and the rush of water could quickly wash your car away in places where the road dipped down, if you weren’t careful. I had spent my days off exploring the area where I lived, hiking and camping.  It was a different terrain from anything I’d known.  I learned to wear work boots to protect my feet from spikey plants and sharp rocks and to never sit on the ground for one could quickly be taken over by biting red ants.  So as I stood on the creek bed, studying the rushing water, my intelligent self told me this was too risky, too dangerous. It was not possible to cross this creek safely.  I stood there for some time debating what to do. Getting wet wasn’t my main concern.  I was more worried that I wouldn’t actually be able to cross the creek. But when I looked at the owl, sitting there quietly, tangled up in fishing line, my heart cried out with remorse at the thought of driving off in the truck and leaving him to die like that. Studying the creek once again I thought “It’s just a little creek. How hard can this be?”

I stopped thinking about it and wearing my work boots, took a step toward the creek bank.  The creek itself was about a 4 foot drop below me. As I stepped onto the bank my foot sank into instant mud. OK. This was hard, but doable. I trudged on and when I placed my foot into the creek bed, I sank up to my thigh in icy water. Yikes. That was surprising, for I was expecting the water to be about knee-deep. On my next step, I was suddenly in up to my chest.  The water was cold. Very cold. This was a deceptively deep creek! And it was swift.  Only two steps in and I was completely wet. I was not able to hold my balance.  The strong current pushed me downstream. I am a strong swimmer, but as I was wearing boots and jeans I was weighted down and I swam with every bit of strength I had to combat this fierce current. I prayed I would make it to the other side.  I envisioned being swept downstream for miles. At the center of the creek I was over my head. Still paddling with all of my strength to cross a distance of a mere 12 feet, and gasping from sheer exertion, fear that I might be swept away, and because the absolutely freezing water took my breath away, I wondered if poisonous snakes might live in this creek, or a nest of man-eating eels, or some other horrible Texas thing that I didn’t know about.  But before I could come up with any more horrific scenarios, I was at the other side. I had made it!

Except that I couldn’t get out. I was faced with that four-foot high, steep bank of mud. I slipped. I slid. I scrambled. The current was still pulling at me and I knew my foothold on the bank was a fragile one. The creek was lined with Cottonwood trees and I managed to get a hold of a root and hang on. More questions came to mind: what if I’m stuck in the creek because I can never get out? Who will ever know I’m here?  Soon the sun will set and I could freeze to death. But I found the strength to pull myself up just a little bit. My feet slipped in the mud until I found a foothold. I frantically grasped at the mud until I landed on another root, heaved and pulled and dragging my torso, scrambled my way to the top. Standing up, I was soaked from the neck down. My feet, hands, knees and my torso were completely covered in mud.  Now, I was very cold. I slowly walked over to the Barred Owl less than 50 yards away, my boots slogging with water and mud.

He was sitting calmly on the branch of a felled tree as if in meditation. He opened his eyes upon hearing my approach but he did not display any typical signs of stress that owls display such as widening of the eyes, or snapping of the beak.  He just looked at me, passively.  There was no telling how long he’d been there or how long he’d been without food.  As I got closer, I saw what a terrible mess he was in. 

Fishing line was wrapped around his neck 3 or 4 times.  It was wrapped about each of his legs 7 or 8 times.  He couldn’t move.  He was completely tied down to this tree branch he was resting on, a branch that was exactly in line with my torso.  Initially in trying to get out of the fishing line, he probably made matters worse for himself. 

It is a rule of thumb in the clinic never to approach a recuperating injured owl without wearing welding gloves.  These are very thick, protective gloves that go up to the elbow and cover the entire forearm. We cared for the wounded owls in our clinic in the hopes of releasing them into the wild again once they were restored. Their cages were cleaned daily, they were fed, and on rotation, they were periodically let out into a great room where they could exercise and strengthen their flying muscles. I had great respect for these birds and the other birds of prey we kept. I felt it was an honor to tend to them. It was a privilege to be that close to such a magnificent bird. They were fierce. They carried such dignity. They were pure power and it was unfortunate that they were at our clinic at all. I felt moved to say a prayer of humility prior to entering their chambers. The owls and raptors were on the second floor of the clinic, set apart from the mammals downstairs.  The clinic often cared for several Barred Owls among others and we fed all the owls a pureed meat that came in large plastic tubs. Because owls don’t know how to eat something that they didn’t kill themselves and/or because some of them refused to eat, we fed them the meat puree with tweezers. Wearing welding gloves, I learned how to hold them safely and securely and work their bills open (strong and sharp, those bills are!) and using a tweezer, place a small amount of pureed meat in the back of their throats which forced them to swallow it.  In this way they were fed.  All the while they stared back with large, hostile eyes, that always reminded me of my grandfather’s eyes which were greatly magnified by his thick eye glasses.  They also snapped their beaks, a sign of stress and defense. One day early in my training, I mistakenly wore a pair of short welding gloves, exposing part of my forearm.  In trying to hold an owl for feeding, the bird in my hands quickly placed his talon on my exposed forearm and gripped my arm intensely. It was very painful and I tried to think of how I could get him to remove it, when his eyes widened and he stared even more ferociously into my eyes, and to my surprise, tightened his grip even more.  I didn’t think it was possible. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt.  A Barred Owl is about 20 inches tall, and while its talons are smaller than a Great Horned Owl’s, he can exert about 28 pounds of pressure.  The crushing power of his talons are designed to crush small prey and I thought he was going to break the radius bone of my forearm.  I was in sheer agony, and he would not let up.  I must have eventually distracted him somehow.  Whatever I did, it made him jump off my arm. Once freed, I sat in the corner and held my arm for some time, whimpering. After that I had a new respect for an owl’s strength and how easily and seriously hurt a human could be from one. I made sure to always wear long welding gloves after that.

Now, as the December sun was making its initial descent in these quiet woods, I approached this owl, without any gloves at all.  I was not going to hurdle that creek again, just to get welding gloves out of the truck, and I couldn’t imagine how I would manage the creek holding a pair of welding gloves over my head to keep them dry. I approached cautiously, and took hold of the fishing line that was wrapped around his head between my fingers.  Keeping one eye on his beak, I slowly unwound the line from his neck, once, twice, three times – he didn’t move. Now that his head was freed he looked at me in such a way that I was certain he knew I was there to help him. He showed no signs of distress or defensiveness. He was as calm as a Zen monk at meditation. 

Now for the feet.  Those talons. And me with my bare hands. While I gently lifted his right foot, he actually helped me by shifting his weight to the left foot. I tenderly held his foot and unwound the line. Like a good patient, he held his foot. He was gentle.  He did not squeeze those talons. Once done, I released his foot. Now the other foot.  He knew what to do; he shifted his weight and lifted his left foot which I held lightly as I unwound the fishing line here a total of 7 times. He was completely docile.  I was looking for more places where he might have been caught in the line but he, knowing exactly when he was free, immediately hopped from the branch onto the ground. He took two hops away from me, turned to look at me and that’s when he snapped his beak at me, telling me to stay away. He hopped two more times, turned, and did it again.  That’s when I knew.  He couldn’t fly.

How could an owl in such a weakened state who can’t fly ever eat I wondered?  If only I had brought some pureed meat, I despaired;  he could have regained his strength if I had fed him. But I never carried that in the truck. Now that I’ve freed him, will he just die because he’s too weak to fly up to a tree?  Too weak to swoop down at prey?  I was distraught realizing how vulnerable he was. Still, it was clear he wanted nothing more to do with me. And I had no meat to give him, anyway.  It would do no good to chase after him. I could never get him across that creek and into the truck. I watched him hop further away from me and into the forest.  I’d read that when young Barred owls are still learning to fly, they know how to climb up a tree and I wondered if he had the strength to do the same. I didn’t know if I had saved him at all, but at least he wouldn’t die in that state of confinement, that prison of being tied to the tree branch and starving to death. I wished him well and hoped to God he would make it.

Heading back to the creek bank, I dreaded what I knew was now before me, and once again I wondered if I’d even make it across and back out.  There was no other way but to swim back. The sun was setting and it would soon be dark. I was concerned about the prospect of being carried off by the creek just as night was approaching. But what choice did I have? Sliding down the muddy bank, I jumped in once again, shivering and struggling to swim with every ounce of strength I had. Once I reached the other side, I struggled out in much the same way as I had going over.  Dripping wet and covered in mud, the sun was low in the Texas sky as I crossed the quiet road over to the truck.  Back in the truck I shivered in the cab with the motor running, waiting for the heat to warm me up.  I was almost out of gas so eventually I drove back to town to fuel up at a gas station. I was an hour and a half from the clinic where I also lived.  Really, I should have called in.  There might have been another animal to rescue or bring back to the clinic. But I was done.  I was shivering and wet and filthy, and hungry, and rather than call at the gas station phone booth, I headed the truck north on the now familiar highway back to the hill country. 

On the drive home, I marveled at how the owl seemed to accept its fate.  I’m sure he struggled, like any animal would, when he was first entangled in the fishing line.  But when I got to him, he was exposed, in full view, only 5 feet off the ground – not a comfortable or safe place for an owl.  He was motionless and seemed to be waiting for death. He seemed to be at a place of calm acceptance. Starving and weak, he slept. He gave me a lot to think about. Will I meet my own death with the same acceptance?  Even if it is due to someone’s stupidity? Did the owl have enough resilience to survive? How do any of us get the resilience to survive our own struggles, the things that happen to us that are out of our control? Sometimes when we are resigned to our own fate, somebody risks their safety to help us. Sometimes we are tangled up in our own messes, sometimes we are tangled up in other people’s messes. And sometimes, in the most unlikely of circumstances, when we’ve run out of hope, someone comes.  Someone who has the courage or the stupidity to swim the creek. It’s a good feeling to help an innocent and magnificent animal, and maybe I did help that owl. I like to think that the owl’s strength returned, that he was eventually able to fly and hunt.  That he put it all behind him and was able to live and mate in the spring and thrive. And if he didn’t, then I like to think that at least he was able to die on his own terms. Either way, the victory is his.