Aquiling

One cool gun

2011-11-19T18:58:00.001Z

From Chad Love at Field and Stream comes a fantastic story about a 1941 Spitfire crash, the Irish bog the wreckage sat in for 70 years, and the Browning machine gun that, when recovered, worked flawlessly. Check it out.

Supermarine Spitfire. Photo from Wikipedia

On the Scottish moor where we fly the eagles there is also a 1941 aircrash site, this time a Defiant. I wrote about it here. In this case the pilot did not survive and the bulk of the plane was forced several meters underground when it smashed into the hillside. But there are large pieces of wreckage scattered about - weathering the snow, rain and storm of the moor for 70 years. If one could do a decades-long time-lapse video of the site, you would see the sun rise and set over twenty five thousand times, but only the occasional gamekeeper minding the land, the handful of grouse shooters in the fall, and a few falconers in the winter giving pause to consider the history of that small patch of hill.

Last year, I spent snowy November afternoons chasing rabbits with a red-tail around a former WWII training camp. It was surreal. The buildings still bore the marks of their war-era use. I wonder if some hawk-obsessed recruit chased blackbirds with a sparrowhawk or rabbits with a goshawk around those same mess halls and those same billets.

The force of history is everywhere.

Kestrels

2011-11-18T20:49:00.000Z

Many of the older falconers that I admire got their start with kestrels. Kestrels and sparrowhawks. It was typically after finding a forgotten falconry book in a library, seeing the film Kes, or discovering My Side of the Mountain. In Frances Hamerstrom's memoir, she recalls her 10 or 12 year old self stalking the woods with a kestrel and pocketing falcon-caught starlings.

But who says you have to start with a kestrel? Seeing children with eagles always made me double-take in Mongolia.

A 14 year old and his first eagle - we did some lure work with the eagles before the Festival

A young berkutchi at the Festival

Another young berkutchi. Photo by Nurbol Khajikhan.

When my eagle sustained a fox bite, concerned local children came to get a better look

That is not to say they disregard risk. Just before Kukan handed me my freshly-trapped eagle to start training, he hesitated. "Remember Lauren" he said. "An eagle can stop a wolf. A wolf can stop a horse. A horse can stop you. Therefore, an eagle can stop you. Be careful."

Mongolia's Resource Curse

2011-11-17T18:49:00.001Z

This video comes from The Guardian, via Axel at Birding Mongolia.

When I did make it to the cities, I was surprised by the sheer number of people connected with the mining industry at the ex-pat haunts. There is no escaping its influence.

The Gobi is one of those places that is spectacular in its desolation. I spent some time on the fringe of the desert at the Ikh Nart nature reserve, but also went to visit the camel herders in the deep desert. While I enjoyed riding horses, there is something that I found delightful about riding Bactrian camels. A mighty sandstorm kicked up a few days when I was there - battering the gers and leaving the sky in a red haze. The Flaming Cliffs, of Roy Chapman Andrews fame, transported me to the Red Planet. The endless dunes took me to Arrakis (trying to run without a rhythm in sand is hard!). Very different from the Altai where I made my home.

Woman on camelback pausing before going to retrieve the grazing camels

Bactrian camels in the corral

The wind shifting the dunes

A camel skeleton in the sand

On another note, I heard yesterday that the Peace Corps is pulling out of Kazakhstan. There is no offical statement yet, but the volunteers on the ground confirm it. Celia over at the Dumpling Cart has more. It is terribly unfortunate. The friendship and support of Peace Corps volunteers made all the difference to me in Mongolia. It will be shame to not have that network when I head to Kazakhstan next fall. While I suspect it is from a myriad of underlying issues, there have also been a string of strange terror incidents in Kazakhstan. I'm bewildered more than anything.

Update: While on the subject of Peace Corps volunteers, here is an excellent article by a former volunteer on failure. I can identify with what she says, and can see her experiences reflected in the experiences of my Peace Corps friends in Bayan-Olgii.

Hawking in Hungary

2011-11-16T17:33:00.000Z

Abby Duvall, a falconer of Cornell who is currently working at the Weill Cornell Medical College in Qatar, traveled to Hungary this past weekend to attend a meet and join up with my friend Dániel, a Hungarian falconer who is enjoying good success with his female golden eagle. I've been hawking in several European countries, but never Hungary. Abby is also a talented photographer and, clearly, she had a ball.

Eagle in pursuit of a roebuck . Photo by Abby Duvall

Young eagle and brown hare. Photo by Abby Duvall

A miss! Photo by Abby Duvall

Three happy falconers! Abby with Attila (left) and Dániel (center)

Handshakes all around - Dániel's female did well to catch the fox, it was a difficult slip!
Photo by Abby Duvall

Late night ceremony - with 19 hares, 17 pheasants and 1 fox, many of the hawks, falcons and eagles were successful. Photo by Abby Duvall

Typical eagle-on-kill pose. Photo by Abby Duvall

Thanks for the photos, Abby! If you have a hard time picturing what a roe flight in action may look like, this video (from December hawking in Austria) is one of my favorites:

Pale Blue Dot

2011-11-15T06:00:00.000Z

Check out this enchanting video of the earth at night, a time-lapse video captured from the International Space Station. The aurora flung high in the thermosphere, the illuminated veins of civilization, the vast swaths of darkness, the commonplace flickering of thunderstorms - how utterly humbling and lovely.

Earth | Time Lapse View from Space, Fly Over | NASA, ISS from Michael König on Vimeo.

When I was in the Altai mountains, far from any village or city, I took great comfort in the night time sky. No matter how lonely or stressed I may have been, there was always the Milky Way, Orion, Ursa Major and Minor, Venus and Mars. No matter how alien my surroundings, the patterns in the sky that I learned as a child remained the same. Without any light pollution, Mongolian nights were ethereal. Mars was a unmistakable red orb. The Milky Way was so prominent, so clearly a river of our galaxy's stars across the sky, so moving - that it seemed the only thing worthy of lending a name to my newly-trapped eagle. She was "Alema"- based on the Kazakh translation of the Milky Way, literally, "the sky's road".

The video above can only make me think of this one. If you have a spare minute, do watch it. If the view from the space station is humbling, take a few steps further back. Look at the pale blue dot. "That's here. That's home. That's us. On it, everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you've ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives." Nobody could say it like Carl.

Falconry on the Isle of Arran, part deux

2011-11-14T07:27:00.000Z

In 2006 I attended a falconry meet on the Isle of Arran. In September, it is a stunningly beautiful place. All 167 square miles of it. In the fall of 2010, I was lucky enough to return. I didn't fly a bird, but was a beater for those with hawks and eagles in hand looking for brown hares. Our hosts, Ian and Murray, never fail to show us a good time. There was plentiful quarry in the field and lots of venison, whiskey and laughs in the pub.

The weather was perfect. Idyllic.

We lined up to walk the fields and flush brown hares.

Photo by Adrian Struthers

There were several good flights, the hares bursting at our feet and the hawks all business off the fist.

Photo by Adrian Struthers

Topaz, a male golden eagle x ornate hawk-eagle hybrid, took a few hares in fine style. This one involved a lovely pitch-up and wing over. He can turn on a dime.

Andrew, Topaz, and brown hare

The most enthusiastic member of the group, Mirran spent long hours trumping across the fields, flushing hares, and aiding the falconers in all ways. A future falconer, if we are lucky.

Photo by Adrian Struthers

Eagles and Dogs

2011-11-13T10:42:00.000Z

I was sifting through old files in my computer and came across this photo. I love it. It is of Roy Lupton's male golden eagle, who I would hazard a guess is in his fourteenth season, and several dogs in Scotland, loading up after a day on the moor.

Eagles can pick up on the usefulness and role of working dogs in the field as quickly as any other falconry bird. Waiting-on one can typically see the eagle's head cocked downward, watching the dog more closely than the falconer. When hawking blue hares in Scotland, a dog with a good nose is essential. Even without snow, the white-coated hares can disappear completely into thick heather. Although a young eagle, if not presented with adequate slips, may grab a dog in frustration, with time they can become a well-oiled machine. It is a pleasure to watch them take eachother's cues.

One of my favorite flights involved a golden eagle waiting-on at about 500 feet and a German wirehared pointer on solid point. When the eagle came into position, the hare was flushed and the eagle folded. Right overhead I heard the wind scream through his feathers. It was a beautiful stoop that ended with him reaching out and, seemingly effortlessly, grabbing the hare.

Not only are dogs useful in flushing the quarry, but in places like the American west, they can be used to keep hares moving through the thick sage. Then you have the sighthounds. There is a fascinating relationship between eagles and the tazis and taigans of Central Asia. That is another post to come.

Red Arrows

2011-11-12T10:08:00.000Z

I live near an air force base. Even though I'm in a rural area, I often hear military jets overhead. Having grown up on air bases, I rather enjoy the added noise. A few months ago, the air base hosted an air show. I think I'll always be a sucker for air shows. They are so damn cool.

The Red Arrows

The Patrouille de France

The loudest jet I've ever heard: The Vulcan

The Vulcan in particular was a treat, as it is the last airworthy Vulcan in existence. When the Red Arrows performed, although spectacular, it was on a somber note. One of their own had died in a crash not a month earlier; Flt Lt Jon Egging. They flew in the "missing man" formation and throughout the day, there were only eight Red Arrows instead of the usual nine. I was surprised and saddened to see that another Red Arrow pilot, Flt Lt Sean Cunningham, has died due to an extremely rare and unusual ejector seat malfunction. It is hard to think what could have happened, as ejector seats are "pinned" until just before the pilot is ready to taxi (so they don't accidentally activate while the pilot is getting situated and strapped in). My thoughts go out to the families.

Fire and Ice

2011-11-11T08:57:00.000Z

We've all been cold before. Sometimes, especially on a blue sky, crisp day, it's invigorating. Recently I was thinking about what it is like to be really cold. Mind-numbingly, bone-chillingly cold. So cold, that you can't think straight, can't concentrate, can't hold a thought in your head. I can acutely remember this feeling from Mongolia. In January and February, the temperatures plummet. Those months make November and December seem like pleasantly cool months. I know for sure that, during the day, it was as cold as -35 degrees Celsius. It is not so bad if you walking or running, but siting on a horse the pain soon starts to creep in. It starts in my feet. There is minimal movement in your feet when riding horses at slow paces up mountainsides. I loose feeling in my toes until my foot feels like one pained brick. Then I feel it in my left hand. To have the dexterity to continually operate reigns, jesses, leads, and handle meat - you sacrifice the warmth of a mit. If I've had to retrieve my eagle from deep snow, sometimes the snow creeps into the layers of my clothing, like sand. Then my head starts to throb. When the wind batters you from your vantage point on top of the mountain, even with several layers of insulating head protection and a fox fur hat, the cold can seep in. I can only think to call it "cold headaches". This doesn't affect me every time I head for the mountains in the new year, but sometimes. Especially if I've been chasing foxes all day, and I suddenly find myself under the mountain's lengthening shadows or watching the sun sink beneath the horizon. This pained state of cold can surprise you.

I remember sitting on top of a mountain, white all around me, hooded eagle in hand. It was one of those days. The sun had gone and I was utterly cold. Frigid. I sat still for twenty minutes on the mountaintop while the valley below was worked, waiting for a potential slip. It was twenty minutes of squinting into white nothingness and feeling nothing. Waiting for the slip isn't a relaxed state. You must be primed for action. Ready to spring into life at a moment's notice - to send the eagle on its way, in an advantageous manner, and gallop to its assistance. Keeping my body and mind coiled in the cold nothingness is exhausting.

Then, like a warm flame - the fox appears and runs. He is the only sign of life in the barren snowscape and his electricity is contagious. Almost immediately, I shed the layer of suffocating cold. The surge of adrenaline, the quick, powerful wingbeats of the eagle, and the artful dodging of the fox spur me on. I speed on my horse through the snow with sudden concentration, and yet I'm also up there with the eagle.

I can tell you that in this picture, I wasn't cold in the slightest. I only remember being happy. It's the power of falconry. The power of doing something that you love.

Glasgow Queenstreet to Edinburgh Waverley

2011-11-10T09:05:00.000Z

Edinburgh in winter

Can there anywhere be a more beautiful and beguiling city to arrive at by train early on a crisp, dark Novembery evening than Edinburgh? To emerge from the bustling, subterranean bowels of Waverley Station and find yourself in the very heart of such a glorious city is a happy experience indeed. I hadn't been to Edinburgh for years and had forgotten just how captivating it can be. Every momument was lit with golden floodlights - the castle and the Bank of Scotland headquarters on the hill, the Balmoral Hotel and the Sir Walter Scott Monument down below - which gave them a certain eerie grandeur.
-- Bill Bryson, Notes from a Small Island, pg 56

Perfect winter lunch; Bovril and venison roll

On this dark Novembery evening, I could not agree more. What makes it even more wonderful, is when you head from that dark, gritty, seductive city to the top of a moor. They are two extremes in an impossibly short distance. I learned to fly eagles by taking the train to Edinburgh Waverley, meeting my friends Neil and John Hunter at the station entrance, and then driving to a nearby moor to fly the eagles. We'd spend the day chasing hares, and then I'd descend back into Waverley station and be home in Glasgow by evening.

Those were happy days.

Eagle on hare; describing the flight

Update: I've just seen this beautiful short piece by Rachel Dickinson on living in Edinburgh. As someone who ran away to Glasgow at 19 without knowing a soul, I found her writing moving.

Miles to go

2011-11-09T16:11:00.000Z

It's fall. The woods on the road home have suddenly changed color, and it is beautiful. I've seen, among many other things, foxes, roe deer, red squirrels, buzzards, spars, and possibly (perhaps it is me being wishful) a goshawk while traveling this road. It's long and winding, and our daylight hours are shrinking. Soon it'll be snowing. Sometimes I jog it. When I do, I always think of the poem by Robert Frost:

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening".

Whose woods these are I think I know,

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Were it not for the chase...

2011-11-09T14:01:00.000Z

Ah, it feels good to be back. So, what's a few years in the world of blogging? A lot has happened since my last post. There were foxes in Mongolia, hares in Scotland and deer in Slovakia. There were brilliant days in the field, with happy eagles and victory drams, and there were challenging days, with bruised egos and a few tears. I made new friendships, strengthened old friendships, and fell out of touch with a few dear friends.

As I've long said, I'm working on a book about my experience living as a 'berkutchi'. What an easy thing that is to say! That phrase says nothing about the intensely emotional and personal process of putting pen to paper. Writing about one's own experiences is incredibly enlightening and addictive, but painful, and sometimes, the self-discovery makes me uneasy.

This will be a book on running away to the wilds of Mongolia. About living as a Kazakh nomad. A nomad whose only cares are the wild eagle she flies, the loyal horse she rides, the clever foxes she chases, and her comrades-in-arms. Living that life, I've never felt so free, so accomplished.

So here I am to put this into practice. No more excuses. Rebecca O'Connor's wonderful post on falconry, writing, and her dreams coming full circle has spurred me into action, particularly this link to Jim Butcher's advice to aspiring authors (a post in which I rather uncomfortably recognize myself). Well, dammit, I'm not going to kill this dream! This book is getting finished.

This blog is to keep me honest. A place for my thoughts to coalesce and, when the words won't come, a place to write on familiar topics for a like-minded community.

While rooting around the library for old sources on falconry and coursing, I stumbled across this stunningly perfect quote:

"Were it not for the chase, there would be no pleasure."

(Which, I've learned, is appropriately written on the cover of the tome "Saluqi: Coursing Hound of the East".) It sums it up nicely. Whether in the immediacy of an eagle's flight, or running down a dream, there is indeed something about the chase. Now it is well underway!

Finally, Happy Carl Sagan Day! It's his birthday - he would have been 77 today. Here he is, famously explaining how to make an apple pie from scratch.

"It's a dangerous business, going out your front door...

2009-07-07T22:11:00.000+01:00

...you step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to." -- JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, peering off into the unknown. In a relatively short time, I'll board a plane for Ulaan Baatar - hop a bus 1055 miles to Olgii - and spend the next ten months with a horse and golden eagle pursuing fox across the lonely Altai mountains. Even typing such a sentence feels surreal. I've been loathe to say much until recently, as such plans have a necessarily tenuous air to them. Even though the end result is something everyone is familar with - an eagle pumping across the vast landscape to collide with a fox - there are endless small details that will go into making those few heart-stopping moments. All the feelings of worry, uncertainty, excitement, and adventure are starting to coalesce in me now.

But now I'm in Scotland - and incredibly grateful to be here. Sometimes, I can't help but smile when a plane touches down in a particular place. Scotland is one of those places. Whether we expect or not - certain spaces become part of us, ingrained in us. Coming from an Air Force family, I've never really settled anywhere long enough to truly call "home", but I have those feelings of contentedness and belonging here. I can't seem to stay away.

The road leading up to a friend's farm, esconsed in the hills of western Scotland.

This is a place I enjoy sitting. The creek winds across the valley to the base of the hills. Unfortunately, the air was thick with midges.

Characterisitc thistles

The sheep were sheared yesterday...

Falcons at hack, destined for the Middle East, play in the air over hack tower.

A young female crowned eagle, bred here in Britain, gives a penetrating stare.

The thought of holding my own in Mongolia scares me. Hell yes it does. I'm terrified. Often I feel little stabs of doubt. What on earth do I think I'm doing? I'm not good enough for this. I don't have the skill, or the talent, or the strength...

Then again, there are days like today. I was lazing on the lawn with Floyd, a male golden eagle. How much I would have loved to stand up in heather, in deep winter, with hills and hidden hares before me. How much I would have loved to have been hunting, breathing frigid air and tensed for the slip. And then I feel excitement - I feel those familar butterflies before what you know will be a great day's hunting. I think, I can't wait to get started.

Across China - Part II

2009-07-07T21:27:00.000+01:00

After a week and a bit in Xi'an, we headed to Kunming. Often called the "City of Eternal Spring", Kunming is a lush, rain-drenched city in south-western China and the capital of Yunnan province.

Incense burning at a Buddhist temple.

The view of Kunming, algal-blooms and all, from the Western Hills.

Some of the rich flora dotting the city.

The Stone Forest. As the name implies, large limestone pillars jut from the ground and appear to "grow" upwards into a labyrinth of sorts. To me, it was like a giant playground. Paths wound around towering stone formations and ancient trees. I felt like I'd landed on an alien planet. How a Star Trek episode was never filmed here boggles the mind.

Here stands a World War II monument to the Flying Tigers, an American volunteer group of the Chinese Air Force in 1941-42. The monument particularly commemorated the flights "over the hump". The Hump was a treacherous route over the Eastern end of the Himalayas, by which US pilots resupplied struggling Chinese forces.

A provocative painting on display at a local art museum in Kunming. The Bird's Nest stands in the background.

Interesting goblets on display at a local cultural museum. Made by the Yi people (a local minority), they are clearly supported on goshawk feet. Hmmm - can't say I'd fancy drinking out of that.

Across China - Part I

2009-07-03T04:58:00.000+01:00

When I first arrived in Xi'an, near midnight and bleary-eyed from travel, I noticed this quote, attributed to Confucius, written across our dorm building.

Xi'an is a sprawling, dusty city. The capital of China during the prosperous Tang dynasty (618-907) today Xi'an is in a constant state of construction and flux. Plans to build a subway cause debris to ripple down the center of many major roads and driving takes on a new kind of chaos.

I strolled down the ancient city wall, erected during the Ming dynasty (1368-1644), and peered across the city. The virtues and pitfalls of a rapidly growing economy could be seen here. Every direction saw buildings being rapidly constructed - and just as common were giant office buildings being torn down, those left half-built and vacant, or newly built and clearly abandoned.

Despite being enveloped in a city, there are always spots to linger. In fact, on the XISU (Xi'an International Studies University) campus there was a large park where students gather Thursday nights to practice their languages. There I noticed that Kazakhs were an important ethnic minority at the school. One could hear Russian, Spanish, French, German, Thai, Japanese and various dialects of Chinese coming from clumps of chatting students. Though they never hesitate to involve you in conversation, it certainly made me wish I had a knack for languages.

Men crowd around an intense game of Chinese chess.

Survival Chinese scrawled across a chalk board.

Hasty brush strokes during an introduction to calligraphy.

One bright and blue-sky (for China) day our class was challenged to a basketball game by local students.

The game began to draw quite a crowd from passersby. It was the week for sitting exams; there was already a certain tension in the air.

Very close - in the end we managed to pull it off.

Of course, one can not visit Xi'an without visiting the legendary Terracotta army.

I was particularly struck by the fact that the horses were as individual as the warriors.

One note: I knew China was taking the H1N1/Swine flu seriously, but hadn't anticipated men in a sort of Biohazard suit filing into our plane upon landing. We were told to remain still while they pointed 'temperature guns' at our foreheads in order to detect fever. If anyone was deemed ill – that person and everyone three rows ahead and three rows back was to be carted away to quarantine. There was one older man who evidently had a fever and they spent a further ten minutes running some on-the-spot tests on. When one of the suited men flashed the thumbs-up, declaring the passenger OK for entry, there was a collective sigh of relief and enthused applause. A strange experience to be sure.

Peasoup

2009-06-30T17:52:00.000+01:00

Weather is the master variable in falconry – it affects a raptor’s mood and motivation, their flight style and strategy, the behavior and location of the quarry, the difficulty or ease of the terrain, and quite importantly, visibility. One condition I had not been familiar with prior to my time in Scotland was fog. Often the hills in Scotland are beset by dreich weather, and not uncommonly, by thick impenetrable fog. It can roll in from seemingly nowhere and roll out just as quickly. Some hills you can hardly see your hands in front of you while neighboring hills offer wide clear stretches. Perhaps most frustrating in the perpetually overcast country, is that one never really knows what the weather is doing “up there” on the hill from the villages below.

There is always a lot of preparation that goes into a day's hawking. Our spirits quickly sink if, turning off the motorway and rumbling up the path to the moors, we notice the familiar hilltops hidden in fog.

Sometimes we elect to wait it out, crunched into the truck and listening to eagles shift impatiently in their boxes. Sometimes we admit defeat, pack it up and head home - vowing to take off school or work to return the next day. Other times, we stick a transmitter in the truck for safety, ready the eagles, and head out anyway. To hell with the weather.

We walk in clumps, in a bunched line spanning no more than twenty or thirty yards; there is little reason to flush hares if they aren’t visible to us all or could disappear into the haze in moments. In the wet weather they tend to sit tight, and require more pressure to leap from their forms in the heather. Covering flat areas, the person slipping the eagle walks in the middle – eyes strained and hand hovering over the hood. While normally a hare gaining a significant head start means little more than a longer flight, in this situation every second counts. Any delay on the falconer’s part could mean the hare is that much father and therefore fainter to the pursuing eagle.

I always found this very stressful. In a good sort of way. I remember vividly slipping an eagle and instead of temporarily rooting myself to the spot to watch the flight unfold, running behind in an attempt to keep the pair in view. Its pale form fading fast, the eagle corkscrewed downward. To me, it was just a silhouette - angles moving sharply against a gray sky – but it was fast and fluid. I stopped for a moment, saw he was back in the air, and this time could barely discern the eagle rowing upwards, half-folding his wings and again plummeting after the hare. The fog leaves just enough to the imagination. Big bulky golden eagles can maneuver exquisitely. Throw out the details and watch the shapes – eagles will surprise you.

Some flights can go awry, but others make for adventure. John slipped an eagle, which hugged the contours of the hill and followed a hare right off a sheer hillside into a winding creek below. As soon as the hill dropped off, the eagle began an arcing wingover into the valley. I peered over the edge to see John pulling an entangled eagle and hare up from the creek onto a grassy bank - and grinning widely.

These are often one-kill sorts of days. Goldens have good waterproofing, but repeated crashes into soaking heather in air so thick it is almost drizzling takes its toll. Not to mention the nagging feeling that you are pushing your luck. After retrieving an eagle, I’d look around and see nothing but monotonous grey. Shouting to the waiting falconers, I’d make my way back to the party. Similarly, the hawking party would look around and realize that little of the visible landscape gave clue to where the trucks were. Out comes the telemetry. We trudge back as Neil tracks the trucks, reveling in our few kills and recounting flights before heading home with a small sense of accomplishment.

Jetlagged

2009-06-29T11:19:00.000+01:00

After five weeks crisscrossing China – I touched down in Chicago on Friday night. I had intended to blog while away, but discovered that Blogger.com was hidden behind the Great Firewall. With the 20th anniversary of Tiananmen Square only few weeks ago, on June 4th, the government cracked down on western media, networking sites and Internet forums with renewed vigor.

In fact, they flipped a switch shortly after I arrived in Xi’an. While watching the BBC in my dorm room, as well as a pair of azure-winged magpies out the window from the corner of my eye, the picture suddenly flickered and dissolved into static. I clicked to CNN, Deutsche Welle, a few Spanish language networks – static. China Central TV clicked on, as obnoxious and nasal as ever. It remained that way for my duration in the country. I never heard any mention of the so-called June 4th incident.

On my way to pick up Elaine yesterday, my friend had a 45 day old jerkin bouncing around the house. He’s a mellow, playful, ungainly creature, with tufts of down swaying on his head and a taste for killing socks and shoes. Over the weekend, while readjusting to the thirteen-hour time change and reflecting on the trip, I took to socializing the alternately excited and exhausted falcon. As I gather my thoughts - I'll start posting on the meanderings of my class through Xi'an, Kunming, Lijiang, Bejing and Shanghai.

Graduation!

2009-05-18T03:28:00.000+01:00

Elaine is molting well this season. Her cere is yellowing up and those steely flecks of blue are finally beginning to overtake the immature body feathers.

Lazing on a Summer Afternoon

2009-05-11T02:00:00.000+01:00

Watching eagles find their wings is a wonderful way to spend your time during the summer. Eagles are notoriously ungainly and clumsy after they first fledge. A friend once compared casting off a young, unfit eagle to "lobbing a pillow" at quarry. Tame hacking is a falconry technique where just-fledged falcons, typically imprints, are given free-reign of the sky to learn to, as Tennyson puts it in his poem Rosalind, "Keep the upper skies" and "roam and wheel at will". At least, that is what they are supposed to do. The eagle in the video above preferred a kip.

Here a golden eagle at hack peers at thistles on the hillside
He leaps into flight, tail flaring wildly and wings overcompensating for the gusty winds.
The eagle begins to circle, gaining a little lift from the wind pushing against the hillside.

Already unsure, he scans the ground for a suitable spot to land.

Gray clouds encroach as he surveys the landscape.

Festival of Falconry

2009-04-11T00:22:00.000+01:00

An e-mail from Kazakhstan pinged into my mailbox the other day. I laughed out loud when I opened the attachment - a photo with newly-made Kazakh friends at the Festival of Falconry, held in Reading, England in 2007. My camera died shortly after arriving – and I had virtually no photos of my own.

One thing I love about falconry meets on the Continent, is the rich multiculturalism. Sitting at dinner with falconers from several different nations, discussing the day's sport and a myriad of other things as best one can through shared languages and fragmented translations, never grows old.

Oddly, fragmented though the conversations may have been, I never remember them that way - the translator is quickly forgotten and, when I think back on the memory, it is as though we were conversing quite fine on our own.

With that sentiment, I enjoyed myself to no end in Reading - the Festival is proof that falconry transcends age, socioeconomic status, and language - it is amazing the kinds of detailed flights that one is able to gesticulate and recount through a small universal vocabulary! In particular, I found it a treasure for eagle falconry.

Eagle falconers from across Europe and central Asia attended. I fondly recall discussing such things as the Velvet Revolution and its impacts on falconry with a Slovak, methods of hacking eagles with an Austrian, the homeryi race of golden eagles with a Belgian, the thrill of waiting-on flights with the Brits, and the virtues of passage eagles with Kazakhs.

Of course, there is much more than the eagle side of things, and far more to be said on the event in general. The second Festival is scheduled for July 11-12th, 2009.

One photo I did manage; Turkmen falconers.

Urban Merlin

2009-04-08T23:45:00.000+01:00

I'm in an ornithology class at the moment. I've taken and TA'ed a "Bird Ecology" course, but that was down at the university's Biological Station and only lasted the better part of two weeks. This new, semester-long course is proving to be good fun. As expected (and one would hope), we're often out in the field looking for birds.

I missed an excursion last week. I did have an excuse - I was watching a presentation on monitoring Peregrine populations in Scotland, but the next day I arrived in class to find everyone chatting enthusiastically about an unusual sighting.

Amidst the bustle of the enclosed city of Norman, the class had spied a Merlin. In a newly built neighborhood edition, there he was on a lone, gnarled and bare tree. Placid and accommodating, perhaps preoccupied with scanning the field that stretched out in front, the Merlin allowed a gaggle of college students get close.

A herpetology student in our class, Sam Martin, took these fine photos. I was delighted to see them; there is something special about Merlins. He also spotted the Eastern Bluebird pictured above and this Lesser Yellowlegs below. The latter was methodically working around the pond edge after a flock of Green-winged Teal had fled.

Eagles in Central Europe

2009-04-06T03:39:00.000+01:00

There is no shortage of junk of Youtube, but I stumbled across a worthwhile video today.

Here's a short video of golden eagles being flown on brown hare and roe deer in central Europe. It is quite good; the creator also made a brief video (that has already made the Internet rounds) of a well known "Christmas Meet" in Austria, where eagles were being flown in casts after roe through a snow-laden landscape.

There is also a goshawk hidden in there - which looks positively tiny in comparison. Many of these areas are devoid of rabbits, and even small goshawks become very proficient at taking brown hares. I particularly enjoy the final flight in the video, where an eagle overhauls a roe but just can't work her way up the head before being kicked off.

The video hints at the herds of roe that one can find in open fields in Austria, Czech Republic, Slovakia and Hungary. In many places the deer are considered pests, they are so numerous. The first roe I ever saw genuinely startled me. I was walking through chest-high, somewhat thick, rapeseed in Czech when I noticed something big shift in from of me. All of the sudden a lanky form sprang upwards and galloped out into the open. It was rather like flushing a pheasant at your feet - a characteristic explosion of movement that I had not anticipated at all.

Building Confidence

2009-04-01T01:39:00.000+01:00

“Don’t worry, Lauren. I’ll keep you right.” But I was worried. Neil and I rumbled up the winding path to an isolated patch of moorland, which we had dubbed ‘Hare City’. I stepped out of the truck and surveyed the landscape while Neil readied the eagles. The patchwork hills rolled into a clouded horizon. A low grey sky hung overhead and the air was filled with a thick, cold moisture. Bisto, the grizzled old wirehair pointer, carefully leapt from the truck and looked up at us expectantly. I pulled on my glove and Neil handed me a male eagle named Purdey.

Although I had handled and even slipped eagles in other countries, this was different. This was the first time I had flown a golden eagle; I wanted to do it right. The second eagle was left in the truck, so we could focus on the task at hand. I was surprised and delighted that Neil’s willingness to help me learn included flying his brother’s eagle. At the time, I hadn’t yet come to understand the very hands-on and trustworthy relationships between groups of eagle falconers and their eagles in Europe. Quite typically, the mark of a good eagle is that it can be flown and handled by anyone.

Setting off, my stomach was twisted in impossible knots. When we had taken precisely two steps into the heather, a white-coated blue hare sprung from our feet. I removed the hood and Purdey sailed off my fist, wide wings churning nosily in the heavy air. The eagle closed the gap, pitched up twenty feet, quickly glanced down over his shoulder, compacted his wings and collided with the hare not fifty yards from where we had began. Oh, I thought to myself, I can do this! With that the tension dissipated. I giddily sprang through the heather to the eagle, shedding my insecurities and feeling no different than when a hawk or falcon of mine had had a successful flight.

I was too excited to have reservations and immediately jumped in amid the entangled eagle and hare. “Good flight, eh? Here Lauren, like this.” I leaned over and Neil opened the chest cavity, “Now give him the heart and lungs.” I laughed as Purdey greedily ate the vitals from my fingers.

Over the next hour and half Purdey put in great effort, but did not manage to connect. The wind was blowing down, over the hills, giving the eagle great speed but little control. The flights were dramatic in this difficult wind; swift angles downward and short powerful stoops. At one point I was too focused on the dog and the next hare, that I stepped right into a thinly covered hole in the hillside. I disappeared; all anyone could see was the tips of eagle wings waving wildly above clumps of heather.

At last Bisto flushed a distant hare into a sheltered bowl. Purdey was off. These eagles aren't flown with bells. I must admit, I love the sound of an eagle lumbering into flight, of their thick, dark feathers forced through the air. After the eagle had pushed out a hundred yards and gained some small height, I saw his wings fold and his form drop with calculated intent. I was not sure of the outcome - they were so far off - but Neil was nearby and gave me the thumbs up as I bounded over.

I like this photo. There is nothing particularly striking about it, but it is what I saw as I reveled in the moment. I was tired, catching my breath in the frigid air, sitting aside Purdey as he finished his day’s ration on the ground. Importantly with captive-bred eagles, large quantities of food are never fed on the fist. Neil was there, checking the telemetry, and the flat heather stretched out in front of me. After the eagle delicately picked the last few morsels from between his talons, he gingerly stepped back up to my glove and bent to feak his lovely beak on my arm. Once hooded, he roused thoroughly.

We walked back to truck to fly the second eagle, this time waiting-on.

For me, that day set the foundation for countless other such enjoyable days on the hill. That's when I started to fit the pieces together. The world needs more teachers like this.

Getting Away. . .

2009-03-29T18:04:00.000+01:00

A few weeks ago I set off on a short trip across the west. I tend to get somewhat claustrophobic in Oklahoma. Norman in particular is cramped, crowded with trees and clustered buildings. It was a relief to be in the desert, in sage brush country, amid mountains and open spaces.

Despite the snow that has recently swept across the country, that week was pristine, still and almost warm. New Mexico and Wyoming were two of my stops, and in both Steve and Dan’s house, contented raptors were sitting, slightly fluffed and preening, on living-room screen perches. What a welcome scene! It was easy to melt into their mindset - and loose my mundane frets and worries.

Dan's passage eagle, hard-muscled and near fly-weight, was particularly serene, peeping gently when I went to feel his keel and pick him up. I was taken back to the small adobe-esque house of a Kazakh falconer I had visited, who had similarly trapped a two or three year old berkut. At night, she would sit silently inside on her squat wooden perch - just as this eagle Eli did. While Yntan had fox skins hanging in the room, Dan had photos of his eagles on fox. Suffering the end of season blues, I enjoyed listening to Dan's stories of soaring eagles along Wyoming ridgesides and calling in predators across the desolate landscape. Friedrich Remmler's (a German eagle falconer born in the late 1880s, known for taking wolf) old equipment was propped against the wall - I couldn't help but picture the old female eagles that had stood atop them, and wonder at what game had stained the well-worn hawking bag.

A visit to Steve and Libby's is always a joy. Ever since I wrote Steve an old-fashioned letter, years ago, the Bodios have offered continual help, advice and encouragement. Magdalena is such a splendidly unique place, that it is easy to get lost in thought, or lost in a good conversation. Little things have changed, for example now I am old enough to order a drink at the Golden Spur - but the same things still fascinate me. On the winding road there, I always pass a swath of mountains that look strikingly familiar - as if they'd been plucked right out of barren Bayan-Olgii and grafted into the landscape. Although Francis Hammerstrom, an eaglewoman whose books I devoured, died when I was just 12 - I love knowing that she has sat at that same table in Casa Q as I, enjoyed the same game dishes and engaged in the same talk of flying golden eagles. Even where I stay the night, the "cranky house" of a typically-traveling musician, there are more stories than I'll ever realize.

For those who are familiar with Casa Q - I found endless entertainment from the "puppy channel". I would love to see such a dog run with an eagle here in the states. Tazis would be invaluable in keeping the oft-freezing jacks moving through the sage.

Here are Jhengiz, Shunkar, Kyra and Irbis indulging in puppy antics with their mother, Lashyn.

Finding Inspiration

2009-03-03T00:13:00.000Z

Over winter break I took a condensed class entitled “History of Jazz”. Primarily, it was to fulfill a lacking course requirement, but I’ve also always been peripherally interested in (and very ignorant of) the subject matter. While researching for a paper on Kind of Blue, I found an NPR podcast on the famous Miles Davis album. The podcast opened with a jazz musician describing his reaction to the music, when he first heard it as a budding artist in 1959,

"My ears popped when my roommate played it for me. I was 17 years old, and it made me want to quit college right then.”

He wasn’t alone, Kind of Blue remains the best selling jazz record of all time. But that kind of feeling, immediately I thought – I know that.

I was on a windswept, snow-pocketed steep hillside (perhaps ‘mountainside’ would be more appropriate) in Glenshee, at the head of the highlands a few hours drive north of Edinburgh. Over a dozen falconers were scattered down the hill, several with golden eagles hovering near the top waiting for a slip. Two brothers, whom I had just met, had taken me to this field meet. Although each had an accomplished eagle with an impressive head count, I was nervous for them. I didn’t know what to expect. At that time, I had hardly seen any eagles flown in the UK. The landscape seemed too dramatic, the distances too far. I fretted over whether we’d be able to orchestrate this.

Soon the call went up – a hare was on the move below. It was Neil’s slip. Unfortunately the news didn’t travel well up the line. Due to the unevenness of the mountain, the hare was hidden from the sight of those trudging above at the hilltop. By the time the hood was off and the eagle in the air – the hare had vanished. But this eagle had gained his wings waiting-on. He soon swept over the mountain and found lift. Pumping into the wind, with tail adjusting wildly, his figure dwindled as he sailed out of sight over a neighboring mountain. I held my breath. I had been told to expect this. Just like a wide-ranging falcon, the eagle was kicking out to gain height and would be back. The minutes ticked by. I fidgeted. And then, just like that, there he was. The small silhouette was working his way back downwind towards our crowd, roughly 700 or 800 feet up and above the mountain.

Suddenly another hare appeared, skipping down the adjacent hill, into the valley and out in front of the line. The eagle was still many hundred yards behind us - but instantly became compact and angled - pumping hard several times and leaving the rest to momentum. He skimmed down the vast mountainside, wings half-folded and wind propelling him further. Despite the distant start, all at once I heard the wind screaming through his feathers as he rushed past me in the shallow stoop. At the end of the flight (the total ground covered I daren't guess) the eagle overtook the sprinting blue. There were no final jinks, the golden simply swept in from the side and cut the hare off it's uphill path, the flight one long unbroken, amazingly swift stoop.

That was my moment. I couldn't sleep that night. I couldn't sleep for days afterward. I was 19 years old and I wanted to quit college right then.

Falconry on the Isle of Arran

2009-02-27T02:42:00.000Z

Yesterday I visited an eagle breeding project. The birds and enclosures were immaculate. Throughout the day, one could hear a pair of Bonelli's eagles calling to eachother periodically in the background. High-pitched but strong, the sounds suited the lanky, long-legged Iberian birds. As we ate lunch in a lovely greenhouse-esque room, a pair of pied crows fluttered down from the rafters to investigate. I had not experienced captive corvids before, they are wonderfully curious creatures. The day got me thinking about a unique falconry meet I attended.

Two years ago, I was eating lunch with a friend at another eagle breeding project. Andrew and his family had very kindly "taken me in" that season. It was September, and no Bonelli's were calling to eachother, but a male was perched out in the garden, methodically preening in the perpetual Scottish drizzle. "Would you like to go to a falconry meet this weekend?" I hesitated, it was quite early in the year, and I was supposed to be attending orientation activities at Glasgow University. "It is on the Isle of Arran." That did it; the thought of hawking on a Scottish isle was so foreign and different to me. A few days later, I was locking up my flat and hurrying down the steps to catch a cab, and then a bus back to Andrew's.

After loading up and a short ride to the west coast of Scotland, we drove aboard the ferry. It was only an hour long jaunt across the Firth of Clyde. The isle was utterly green and the air full of a salty humidity. It was the antithesis of what I was used to hawking in; flat plains with dried grass, skeleton brush and bare trees. A group of longwingers, who had been flying red grouse the day prior, were already there and soon joined us. Brown hares were our quarry today. They had been introduced to Arran some time ago. We assembled on a gently sloping hillside, which rolled down into the firth. Holy Island could be seen just offshore. The conditions were incredibly pleasant all around.

Harris hawks, red-tails and this Bonelli's were flown off-the-fist and (some) out-of-the-hood. While some hares would spring from our feet, many would get up thirty or forty yards out and make for longer, exciting flights. The Harris hawks were quite successful, as the hard-flown birds typically are. The Bonelli's would launch, all wings and legs - picking up speed with rapid-fire wingbeats and folding at the final moment before impact. The eagle possessed an almost accipiter-like agility and could turn on a dime without committing himself, as a golden would be forced to.

While walking along in our line, a resident falconer told me about the success of flying golden eagles waiting-on over such ground in years' past. I could picture this - the breeze off the sea against the hillsides, or in some places, the cliff faces, ought to provide wonderful lift for an experienced golden. Falconry for me had always been practiced in some landlocked scape. But now, the thought of watching an eagle hang above on an onshore breeze, was certainly appealing. The falconers were characters, and returning to the hotel in the small, clustered village for dinner offered great food and banter. I even learned a few words of Gaelic ("Slàinte mhòr agad!"). A lot of ground was covered and several hares were taken over the course of the weekend. It had struck me very oddly yesterday, the sound of the calling Bonelli's, and suddenly brought the memory of this field meet rushing back.

Snowswept

2009-02-24T02:14:00.000Z

In Oklahoma it is often said, "If you don't like the weather, just wait five minutes." There is another place where this is true. The first time I was up on open moorland with eagles, just as we set out, I snapped the first photo above. An hour later, after Neil and John had made a circuit around the hill, we returned to the trucks caked in fresh snow. I quickly took the second photo before gratefully leaping back into the heated truck. The rapidity at which conditions can change is startling, and often bares no resemblance to weather on the lowland. When windy or foggy on the motorway below, it could either be compounded or non-existent on the hills above.

During the early part of the season, it is easy to gravitate towards the areas of thick heather where hares are most likely to be hunkered down. In the latter part of the season, when the now white-coated hares are more active, and often found romping about in the open - one can easily spot small white forms dotting the landscape. In both cases, though a dog certainly makes things easier, it is possible to get by without one. Snow however adds many variables to the equation. Once the landscape is blanketed in snow - a reliable dog becomes invaluable. The land is uniform and the hares are hidden. One can walk within inches of a snow-bound blue hare and never spot the black eyes or black-tipped ears.

If the dog catches the scent and the hare flushed - it leaps from its fragile chamber in a in a shower of powder and sails across the hill. The eagle is slipped and powers away in pursuit. But the falconers struggle. With the undulating landscape, there is no telling where the snow is shallow or deep, strong or weak. I recall once slipping an eagle and running to retrieve him after a miss in such conditions. Although things started out steady, I soon found myself shoulder-high in a drift, sputtering snow and red-faced as I struggled to get out and make my way towards the waiting eagle. After I managed to trudge back onto firm ground I was exhausted. (Certainly snowshoes would help in this matter!)

While in normal conditions, a fit eagle can bounce off the heather and back into flight after a miss, in the snow the impact has consequences. It may take a few seconds for an eagle to extract itself, by which time the hare has found the uphill course and secured its safety. Or if the flight has carried on a few hundred yards it can be difficult to determine visually whether the eagle has actually taken the hare. The sight of a golden on an invisible hare, pushed beneath the top layer of snow by the weight of the bird, is a unique one. These days are particularly memorable not only because of the pristine winter aesthetic, but because the transformative effect of snow shifts the dynamic between hare, eagle, dog and falconer to ensure success is hard won.

Inquisitive Imprints

2009-02-22T06:03:00.000Z

A few summers ago, I receded into the curious minds of imprints. Quite unexpectedly, I ended up with a fourteen day old peregrine in my Glasgow flat. She was to stay with me for a while, before being tame-hacked and hunted. In no time, she became an excitable and moody half-feathered falcon, with an entertaining desire for exploration. Teetering on blue feet, her toes so long and thin they seemed a caricature - she raced across the ground. Often I would take her to a wide-open park, ensconced in the center of Glasgow, and lounge in the grass. After precarious sprints she would collapse near me and doze in the sunshine, a ball of fluff and pins.

Some of the very first articles I read on eagles in falconry detailed the experience of hand-raising young eyasses in the home. They left an impression on me, and I often thought of what it must be like to have an eaglet clamber about. What was their mentality really like? When a friend acquired a twenty-two ounce, two-week old male for hare hunting, I saw opportunity. I spent many, many hours with the young bird. Most of the time he would stretch out his feathered tarsi, curl his thick toes and drift in and out of contented sleep. Predatory eyes and a bright yellow cere shone from beneath a mantle of fluff. The feathers that soon peeked beneath the thick down were nearly jet black. The sun would lighten them before too long, but for now they created a fitting contrast. The downy eagle was a stoic bird. He possessed a reserved intelligence and seemed content to observe the world around him. Unlike the peregrine, who would quickly bound on unsteady feet, standing up was quite a calculating ordeal for the eagle in the beginning. Similarly, churning his wings in an evening breeze was only done after some consideration. To the astute - which I am far from - there is much insight into their mindset to be gleaned from the fuzz-bucket stage. As we get our first glimmers of spring – sharing those lazy summer days with an ever-growing eaglet is something I reflect fondly on.

"Whither fly ye, what game spy ye..."?

2009-02-21T21:14:00.000Z

Before duck season closed in Oklahoma, I had one flight in particular that remains framed in my mind’s eye.

On an almost warm, blue-sky and thermal-laden day, I spotted a secluded pond with a dozen gadwalls. Walking out in the field, my falcon was pumping her wings in anticipation. Without so much as a mute or rouse, she left the fist and began to mount. She kicked out a half mile and came back overhead at about 500 ft. She was still climbing, but in my impatience I went ahead and flushed. Down Elaine came, amid a tight bunch of gadwalls. To my surprise, she missed. She might've put a foot on one but certainly didn't definitively knock one down. They scattered and she stooped past a drake as it turned suddenly and skidded back into the water. Elaine began to remount, but there was little chance I was going to get the lone duck to fly from this medium-sized pond. I was in great need of a dog.

Several minutes went by as I tried in vain to cleanly flush this duck and contemplated what to do. Elaine was now up 800-1000ft and looking good. The gadwall might flit from one end of the pond to the other – but that was assuredly all. After a few more minutes I glanced up - and couldn't see my falcon. The telemetry suggested she was still up and nearby. I scoured the sky and spotted two red-tails soaring far up, circling in a thermal. Then even higher, I spied a slight dot. “Surely not”, I thought. Once I centered my binoculars on it, I could barely discern Elaine, her tail fanned out and wings spread on the thermal. How high she was – I have no idea. Very, very high.

I couldn't squander this pitch. As I stood on the edge of the pond, I wondered aloud whether I should jog to another pond a half mile west. Just then, in an incredible stroke of luck, I saw a large duck a few hundred yards off flying this way. He was coming closer and flared in surprise when he saw me. Suddenly, I caught from the corner of my eye a plummeting teardrop. My heart in my throat, I watched the silhouette, completely vertical, streak against the sky for what felt like ages. I had never seen such a flight from my peregrine before. Down, down, down – she dropped just beneath the mallard before curving upward with all that speed and momentum - and binding. Feathers sailed into the air. The entangled pair tumbled onto the ground. After a stunned moment I began to run across the field. When I arrived, Elaine had a weakly-protesting drake mallard by the head, a streak of feathers across the ground.

Longwinging still remains a steep learning curve for me, but I felt as though I had glimpsed something special. The weather and variables had conspired for a truly enjoyable day. I walked back to my truck twenty minutes later - all in all muddy, frozen and with a newly sprained ankle – but I could not stop smiling.

Kazakh Song of the Steppe

2009-02-21T20:13:00.000Z

Yntan, an Kazakh eaglehunter of western Monogolia, strums a dombra and sings a song of hunting far from home. There were only a few candles alight that night, and my camera could not capture any light for this short video - but the song captures the timelessness of winter life in Bayan-Olgii. Yntan, now in his late seventies, has been flying eagles since his teenage years, taught by his father, and his father by his father before him.

Memorials

2009-02-21T17:48:00.000Z

Falconry is a highly personalized sport. We each tend to identify elements that excite us, be it the otherworldly agility of a sparrowhawk, the wraith-like stoops of a peregrine or the supremely reckless crashes of a red-tail, to cultivate and refine. For me, falconry is flying golden eagles on open moorland after the enigmatic mountain hare. It continually causes me that ache in my bones and wonderful knots in my stomach. Whether from the fist or waiting-on, whether the hare flushes from your feet or is first spotted loping hundreds of yards away in the far distance, flying eagles in that windswept and beautiful place is endlessly variable. I could be confined to those hills for a lifetime, and the flights would never loose their surprise and magic. After a year of doing such things in Scotland, I now make an annual pilgrimage to the moors to continue this facet of falconry that I’ve come to love over all else.

In January, I found myself knee-deep in heather, with a hooded eagle atop my fist. It was my slip. Below walked another falconer with a male golden eagle. Further down in the valley was another friend and his enthused sprocker, which was excitedly darting amidst the heather in search of hares. The wind howled. For the time being the sun was aloft in a blue sky. Ominous clouds rolled on the horizon. As I pushed higher on the hill, to gain a sufficient height advantage in the dramatic terrain, I reached a monument. On the crest of this particular hill was a stone marking the death of a young Australian pilot. Atop a cracked stone stood a simple marker engraved with a cross. Twisted metal littered the heather around the stone. Larger pieces, clearly recognizable as aircraft parts, lay at its base. We had passed this stone many times, but I was suddenly strongly reminded of the nameless graves in western Mongolia; clay-colored rocks piled high on the utterly flat steppe. This Royal Australian Air Force pilot had been hardly older than me. Anthony Dominica Cyril La Gruta was but 23 years old when his aircraft plummeted into the ground. It gave me pause as I stopped and watched the ground below for hares.

According the Air Crash Sites Scotland website:

On 29 August 1941, the pilot, Flt Sgt A.D.C. La Gruta, was sent out to conduct a series of 'homing tests' in a Defiant aircraft. It is thought he lost control of the aircraft whilst flying in cloud. The exact reason he lost control remains unclear. The aircraft struck the ground at high speed in a very steep dive. The bulk of the aircraft ended up buried nearly 5m (16ft) underground. The MoD decided the aircraft and pilot could not be recovered.

This day I was tense, like a coiled spring in anticipation of the slip. The eagle shifted in wind, shaking his tail and rubbing his hooded head against the sun-bleached feathers of his shoulder. I recalled a female eagle, with an eagleowl plume on her back and a braceless hood, shifting similarly as a Kazakh friend explained the purpose of the gravesites to me in the empty Bayan-Olgii province. In a place of extremes, where there is either mountain or steppe, any man-made structure was eminently noticeable. The memorials were nameless, but powerful in their antiquity and isolation. It was a curious thought, that these long-dead soldiers, left in lonely lands, were now visited only by such peculiar people as eagle falconers.

Soon that flash of white fur appeared, cascading across the hillside, stark against the thick red heather. I removed the hood; immediately the eagle pushed off the glove in pursuit. With the wind at his back, a downhill course and deep rowing wingbeats, he soon attained fantastic speed. The hare made a wide turn, with the intention of heading uphill. The golden eagle banked around, still pumping hard. A hundred yards passed in what felt like the span of a few blinks. As he closed in the eagle tucked back his wings and quickly folded. Eagle and hare collided, tumbling end over end before coming to a rest. I sprinted downhill to his side, exhausted far too soon and smiling far too big. My friend with the sprocker, to whom this eagle belonged, came walking over. We crowded round as the eagle was fed the vitals and the hare tucked away in a bag around my shoulder. The eagle was soon hooded and back atop my fist. He bent to feak on my arm. It was now the other eagle falconer’s turn. Grey clouds had begun to encroach and the occasional snowflake hurled down. I was both contended and electrically alive. Those simple memorials may only be seen by quiet hunters, but they certainly give one pause.