Honey, We Have a Hawk!

When we spotted the hawk, it was sitting on a light pole over the freeway, not far from a Target and a Home Depot. The bird was peering down into the grass looking for prey. “Hunting hard” as falconers like to say. 

It was an urban bird, used to the sounds of cars and airplanes. It didn’t seem very wild, here on Highway 77, but it was exactly the kind of place red-tailed hawks like to hunt: big perch, wide open grass, and lots of rodents running around.  

By the time we saw the hawk, we had been driving around in his old Honda Pilot SUV for almost four hours. Jason had recently become an apprentice falconer, and he was trying to catch his first bird. According to state law, it had to be a “passage” hawk under a year old, its baby brown tail feathers not yet turned red. 

“Was that a juvi?” Jason asked. 

I had no idea. We were driving at 70 mph and I couldn’t tell the difference. Jason was wearing his usual sunglasses, but he could still see better than me.

“I think I saw a little red in its tail,” he said. “So, it might be a hag.”

This was not the first time we’d had this discussion. “Hag,” I’d learned, is short for “haggard,” meaning an adult bird. We’d probably seen 20 hags on this gray fall day, driving around Shakopee, past Valleyfair, circling an Amazon fulfillment center. But we hadn’t seen a single juvenile that stuck around.

Since getting his license from the DNR a month prior, Jason had spent every weekend, all weekend, and some weekdays, like this: driving around looking for a hawk. Hundreds of hours. Hundreds of miles. 

“I’m going to circle around for another look,” he said.

***

Jason’s revelation that he wanted to become a falconer arrived late in life. As a kid, he didn’t read My Side of the Mountain and dream of catching a merlin to help him survive in the wild. Nor did he study Helen Macdonald’s recent bestseller, H Is for Hawk, for advice on how a goshawk could help him grieve the loss of a parent.

Instead, Jason discovered falconry on a trip with his wife and three kids to Ireland. During a brief excursion, they’d met a falconer, who let each of them hold and launch the bird. Jason immediately started bombarding the falconer with questions. Before that, Jason had no idea this was something you could do, let alone that people had been doing it for thousands of years. But he did know, deep down, that it was something he had to do. (His wife, Cate, says she’ll be more careful in planning future trips. Think: cooking class.) 

Growing up in Cottage Grove, Jason had always loved being in nature. He was fascinated by the big guys: wolves, bears, raptors. But rather than follow that path, Jason fell into graphic design: a field where his talent outweighed his love. Now, as a 45-year-old—a father, a husband, a swim coach—his life was more than full. Yet here was a chance to do what he might have done in another life. 

By the time they got back from Ireland, Jason had already joined 80-some members in the Minnesota Falconers Association. After logging off from his job formulating marketing and branding strategies, he started reading everything he could about what it takes to become a falconer. City regulations about falconry can appear ambiguous (which is why he asked that we not mention his last name). But the DNR maintains a clear protocol: After about nine months of study, Jason took the licensing test and passed. Next, he needed a “sponsor,” which he found in Joe Hance, who lives in Hanover, and has been hawking for five years. Finally, he had to build a “mews” for his hawk in his backyard. When the DNR approved this structure, Jason became an eligible apprentice falconer (a period that lasts at least two years). 

All he needed was a bird. In Minnesota, an apprentice can only keep one bird at a time, and it has to be a “passage” (that is, wild-trapped) red-tailed hawk. This species is abundant in Minnesota, with an estimated 34,000 birds. (Master falconers in Minnesota can keep peregrines, kestrels, and even owls.) 

On a service road next to the freeway, we came up behind the hawk and pulled over. After some study, Jason thought its tail feathers appeared a youthful brown. So he went to the back of the car and brought out the trap. This was a heavy, circular metal cage, with looped fishing wire on top, and two live mice inside: one white (for visibility) and one gray (for verisimilitude). Then we turned around and, as the car rolled along, threw the trap out on a bike path. 

We parked down the street and watched. The hawk took no notice. Instead, it flew a ways up the road and landed on another pole. So, we took the trap, drove to the new pole, threw it out again, and drove away. The hawk dove right on it.

“Did you see how fast it hit the trap?” Jason said. “That must be a juvi.”

By the time we circled back around, the hawk had dragged the trap toward the freeway. We ran over and tried to cover her with a towel to calm her down. But she grabbed it with her talons. I ran back to the car to get a blanket. Once her head was covered, she began to settle, and Jason folded in her wings and cradled her in his arms. We walked back to his car and he called his mentor, Joe, who was on his way.

We cut the fishing lines off her feet, and put the mice back in their cage. Just then a state patrol officer pulled up. We climbed back in Jason’s car to move to a less public place. But as soon as we started driving, he turned on his lights. We pulled over.

“License and registration?” 

“I’m a falconer,” Jason said. “I’ve got all my paperwork here.”

“Do you always practice falconry on the highway?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “that’s where the birds are.”

After a long wait, the officer came back and said we could proceed. By then, Joe had arrived, so we fitted a leather hood on the bird. Jason and Joe put anklets on each leg, and her leather “jesses”—leather straps with a hole to attach to her leash.

She was huge. She was beautiful. Jason would name her Claudia. 

***

For a day and a half, Claudia didn’t eat. She stared at Jason when he took off her hood, which mimics the dark of night and settles the hawk’s nervous system. At three pounds, Claudia weighed down his arm. This meant her eyes were almost level with his and her beak rested just inches away from his throat. 

Her training began. First, she learned to eat off his glove. (Snack of choice: rabbit.) Then, she began to jump to his glove for food. Over the next few weeks, this jump became a short flight. Then a longer one, and longer still. At these times, Claudia remained tethered by a “creance,” a thin line that wouldn’t impair her flight. 

Claudia became part of the family. She got to know the neighbors (including me and my kids, who live in the neighborhood). She piled into the car for a weekend at the cabin up north. At night, Jason brought her into the house for family movie night. Here, she sat tethered to her perch watching Diary of a Wimpy Kid, while the family kept one eye on the movie and one eye on the bird. Early on, she got spooked, tried to fly away, and landed in the popcorn bowl, sending kernels around the room.

Meanwhile, her training progressed. Jason brought her to work, where she sat on a perch in the open office, staring out the window. Periodically, she “muted” (that is, defecated) on a sheet covering the floor. His co-workers considered this situation a little nuts, but Jason cared only for the bird. 

On his lunch break, they went to nearby fields to fly. Claudia beat her wings powerfully, just over the tops of the blades of grass, then just over the crust of snow, rising up at the last moment to land on his glove. She flew 10 feet, 20 feet, 50 feet, 100 feet. Finally, six weeks after being caught, she was ready to fly free. 

The sky was clouding over as we reached the field next to a parking lot, not far from The Raptor Center, just off Larpenteur Avenue. Jason removed Claudia’s hood.

“You think she’ll come back?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Are you nervous?” 

“Not too much.”

We walked across a small field to a metal trellis. Jason lifted his arm and Claudia flew to it. She was still on the creance, which I was holding. We walked a little ways across the field. He put some rabbit meat on his glove and called.

She came. Then Jason unhooked the creance and walked toward a light pole. As they got closer, he raised his arm. Claudia spread her wings and flew up to the light. It was strange to see her there, in the same kind of spot where we had first seen her just weeks earlier. Now, she was free again. There was nothing connecting her to Jason except the invisible bonds he’d forged over the last two months. He called. 

She stayed. A helicopter flew overhead. She looked up at it. 

He called again. 

She stayed. A truck rolled through the parking lot. She watched it pass under her.

Finally, he said her name. “Claudia!” 

She turned, looked at him, then raised her wings and soared in a long arc to his arm. By some magic, she had been transformed from a lone hunter to a hunting partner. 

That’s the appeal of hawking: It’s a way to hold something ancient and wild in your own hand. 

You don’t see them, but there are wild places everywhere across the Cities. A small patch of wetland tucked behind a parking lot; a narrow channel of trees in an industrial park; a remnant of forest along a railroad track.

These are the places falconers love. One Saturday, Jason and I drove north to meet a group of falconers at one of these strips. Their trucks were parked behind an industrial building. They were mostly outdoor types, dressed in long underwear, camouflage jackets, and jeans. Most were older white guys, although a falconer from the Hmong community had driven in from Green Bay. 

Falconers love to hunt in groups, because it’s easier to flush out rabbits, and because so few people consider standing in the snow for five hours, walking through bushes and buckthorn, to be fun. Fortunately for their families, hunting season only lasts from September to February. As falconers like to say, it’s a lifestyle, not a hobby.

When we arrived, the other falconers had already fanned out across the tracks, hunting with one of the goshawks—a gorgeous gray bird with a white stripe across its eye. Goshawks are thrilling woodland hunters that leap through the trees. This one was chasing a squirrel, which found a hole to hide in. 

Next, Joe brought out his red-tail, Cosmos, and sent her over a frozen marsh. Cosmos dove for a rabbit and missed. (Later, she nailed a vole.) 

We drove over to another patch of wood in another soulless industrial area. Now it was Claudia’s turn. This would be her first hunt. We walked into the woods. Jason sent her up into the trees, but she ascended too far, and ended up perched high over the railroad track. 

We all climbed up to the tracks, then down the other side to a long strip of cattails. From the far end, we started flushing, and about halfway through, a rabbit shot out. The falconers started the call “Hohohohoho!” to alert the hawk to prey. 

Claudia heard. She looked down. She saw the rabbit. She dove. We all watched as her path and the rabbit’s converged at a log. Claudia hit the wood with her claws, but the rabbit escaped. 

After that debut, Jason went hunting with the other falconers a few more times. But he wanted to do it alone. He wanted to know that he and his bird could hunt as a team. It wasn’t just the bird that had something to prove.

So, on a Sunday afternoon just before New Year’s, Jason and I drove to a spot near Fort Snelling that had looked promising from the car. When we arrived, however, the only protective cover came from trash. Worse, there were four power poles stacked with transformers.

“I don’t like the look of those cans,” Jason said. “That’s the most common way for hawks to die.”

Back in the car, Jason called Joe, who steered us to a spot in Mendota Heights. We crossed the river and soon found ourselves in another business district, parked behind another windowless concrete building.

It was the weekend, so the lot was empty. Between the two factories ran a long channel of greenery. Half was covered trees; half was low brush. The only nearby wires looked to be abandoned telephone lines. And there were rabbit tracks everywhere. 

Jason took Claudia out of the car, placed her on his glove, and removed her hood. Up she went to the trees. We walked a little ways, then turned into the bushes and walked back toward Claudia. There weren’t as many rabbits as there were tracks. But soon I came to a small brush pile. Looking inside, I could see a puffy white tail. The rabbit shot out and ran straight under Claudia. She spotted the prey, dove through the trees, and hit the ground. But the rabbit was gone.

She was “in yarak,” as falconers say: that is, ready to hunt. Jason called her, she flew up to his arm, and he sent her up again. She landed, looking fierce on her perch. We walked ahead.

In the trees above us, Claudia followed. “Bumping up” is what they call this. She watched us like she knew exactly what we were doing—as if she had been hawking for years, not weeks. With no other falconers present, Jason glowed with pride. Today, Claudia had become his huntress, his hawk.

We kept walking. Another 20 feet down, a rabbit ran, cutting diagonally through the brush, right under Claudia’s perch.

She dove hard into the brush. This time we could hear the rabbit’s cry. We ran over to find Claudia spreading her wings over her prey. 

As we walked back to the car, Claudia kept trying to fly back to the site of her catch. She wanted to hunt more, and when we got to the car, I could see Jason didn’t really want the day to end, either. For a long time, he stood there, holding his arm out, admiring this beautiful, wild creature.

“This makes me so happy,” he said. “Good girl, Claudia.”

Jason took Claudia hunting a few weeks later. They traveled south to Mankato with a group of falconers who had years—decades—of experience between them. Again, Claudia hunted well, and landed another rabbit.

But this time, when Jason approached Claudia on her prey, she seemed a little stunned. She wouldn’t eat, but she wouldn’t let go. The other falconers remarked that this was strange. 

A couple of days later, as Jason was running his kids to their Montessori school, he stopped to check on Claudia. He looked through the mews window, and saw her lying still on her back. He ran inside, but there was nothing he could do. 

A falconer can trap two hawks in one season. After a few weeks of mourning—wondering what he missed, what he could have done—Jason decided to try again.

Being a falconer means being close to the end of life. All those rabbits with their innards yanked out. In H Is for Hawk, Helen Macdonald called her bird  “Thirty ounces of death in a feathered jacket.” 

The same rule applies to the birds. Most wild hawks don’t make it past their first year. There are many reasons for this. According to Lori Arent, assistant director of The Raptor Center (and a falconer herself), they can contract West Nile Virus and adenovirus. They get hit by cars. They land on transformers. Captive falconry hawks can live 20 years. But when they first leave the wild, some hawks develop a fungal infection called aspergillosis.

Whether it was trauma or a fungus, Claudia’s death opened a hole in Jason’s life. That afternoon, he unfastened her jesses. He removed her transmitter. He cut off her band and detached her bell. Then, when all that was done, he held her for a few minutes and cried. 

***

A falconer can trap two hawks in one season. After a few weeks of mourning—wondering what he missed, what he could have done—Jason decided to try again. So he and a cousin went out driving.

There on a light pole—just like Claudia—they saw a young bird. They circled around, threw a trap underneath, and watched it dive, then fly back up to its pole. 

Defeated, they looped around to collect the trap. But just as they did, the bird dove again. This time, it didn’t fly away.

Against all odds, he had another bird. 

They weren’t far from Bren Road, in Edina. So he named his new hawk Brenda.