- ( I have, since writing this piece, indeed heard owls at the camp.)
The old campground, once a girls’ camp, now a retreat center, is the only inhabited site on a pristine Adirondack lake. Wildlife abounds. In my seven years of coming here, I’ve seen deer shy off into the deep woods, watched loon parents present limp silvery fish to their offspring, seen muskrats nosing among the water lilies, and listened to the calls of a multitude of birds. But I have never seen — or heard — an owl in this place. Oh, I know they are there, those elusive birds. Others have told me they have heard their calls, even seen them. And it is not as if they are rare, especially screech owls and barred owls, both well-known in the north woods. I have just been missing them.
I have stayed in Cabin 5, the farthest lodging along the trail. It was lovely and remote. While there, I heard plenty of haunting loon calls, but no owls. On my other stays, I resided in Cabin 7, at the other end of the camp. Again, no owls. I have walked the trail out to Eagle Lake, almost two miles from the center of camp, and seen much along the path, but nary an owl. I have canoed though coves and bays of the lake and around its central island — still no owls. I have witnessed many wondrous aspects of nature: alabaster Indian pipes materializing overnight after a rain, red-threaded star moss spores, a black-winged damsel-fly lighting on bedrock, a chipping sparrow picking invisible insects off the branch of a white pine. But at this fine camp, I have yet to see or hear an owl.
Recently, I have realized that as I ramble around, whether in country or city, I have had an eye out for owls. They fascinate me — their night vision, their chunky shapes, sharp beaks and talons, their rapaciousness and beauty. A few years ago, walking my dog at sunset in a remote part of the local cemetery, I heard a screech owl, its cry, as the bird book describes it, ” a tremulous, descending wail.” Ever since, every time we walk that part of the cemetery, I listen for a repeat, and look up near the trunks of trees, hoping to see one. Still no luck.
The only time I actually saw an owl was long ago. One winter night, my father, driving us up the gravel driveway toward the barn that was our garage, suddenly stopped and pointed. There on the branch of an old cherry tree sat a tiny saw-whet owl, its eyes glowing in the headlights.
My mother’s sister, who fascinated me, collected owl figures. She and my uncle were genuine beatniks, who knew the famous ones — Kerouac, Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti. We visited them once when they were living in Old Lyme, Connecticut, in a rambling house that looked down on the Connecticut River. She had tiny wooden and ceramic owls balanced on every windowsill. During that visit I first read T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land and listened to the Beatles’ White Album. It left an impression.
Why owls? Such captivating birds, beautiful, dignified, dangerous. Their ability to see in the dark, their night vision, is undoubtedly one factor in the connection between owls and wisdom. Athena, whose avatar is the owl, is indeed wise — and ruthless. First daughter sprung from Zeus’s brow.
I’ve reached an age when I ought to have achieved some wisdom, yet I do not feel wise. For the first time, I’m feeling my age, using a cane and popping pain pills. I can see retirement approaching, though I do not have the owl-vision yet to know what that will look like. All I know is that the gulf between my world and that of my students grows wider every year. My patience with folly is thinner, my feathers more quickly ruffled. I am less inclined to step aside to accommodate others. I am become cantankerous. Having experienced injury, I see freedom of movement as a luxury, a privilege I’m not willing to give up yet.
Owls are sturdy birds, yet weigh only a few ounces, allowing them swiftness in flight. They live furtively, yet they are predators by nature. As I move into this next phase of life, may I find my night vision, enough wisdom to let go, my spine-straightening head-swivel, my inner predator. Let me take what I will need.
