Bend News

Notes From The Cabin

Great Horned Owl Creates Deschutes-River Enlightenment

By Joseph Friedrichs, 3-27-08

The Great Horned Owl. Photo by Joseph Friedrichs.

My earliest memory of an owl comes from the film “Labyrinth.” I remember the bird making me feel uneasy. The discomfort wasn’t as strong as say, that generated by David Bowie’s tights in the movie, but it was on the same level.

I also recall an owl that lived for a stint in a red birdhouse at my house in northern Iowa. It was a small specimen, likely a Screech Owl, I presume. One winter’s afternoon I sat near the fence line under the birdhouse and had a stare down with the owl for about 20 minutes. Then I went inside and watched cartoons.

Over the years my fondness for owls has morphed into something more spiritual. From a monster-sized owl along the Lochsa River I came across in 2002, to the humongous Barn Owl that I shared a summer with along the Boulder River near Helena, owls radiate a sense of intelligence to me that no other animal can match, or even compare with.

This week I’ve had two encounters with an owl that reigns supreme over all my previous sightings. She’s a Great Horned Owl who lives right here in Central Oregon. And she’s the size of a frigging turkey.

I’ve spent the past week living about 35 miles from Bend in a small cabin. In addition to keeping the fire stoked, my main realm of responsibility has been to have fun exploring. The cabin sits atop a steep gorge carved long ago by the Deschutes River. Bulging rock formations and juniper trees line the steep terrain above the river. When the skies clear, the snow-covered peaks of the Three Sisters can be seen towering in the distance from the cabin’s deck. Red-tailed Hawks frequently glide with the breeze that brushes down the gully. Ducks, geese, woodpeckers and numerous other species of birds keep my eyes and ears entertained throughout the long days. This morning, while I was walking through the brush along the Deschutes, a Pine Martin squealed at me from his perch across the water. I whistled back and he fled for cover.

Yes, it’s been a week of solitude and comfort at this cabin. And despite the abundance of magical encounters I’ve had with the environment (last night’s winter storm nearly ripped a glass door right off the cabin), the memory I will carry the longest will be meeting the owl. The Great Horned Owl is not a rare species in North America. Its range spreads from Florida to Alaska, covering nearly all the ground in between. Anyone who spends even a minimal amount of time outdoors is likely to come across an owl sooner or later. No, it’s not the rarity of finding an owl I find so intriguing. What fascinates me with owls is their allure. Their tenacity. Their astuteness.

Owls have long been a trigger of awe in the American West. Some folklore explained that the brave and virtuous humans became Great Horned Owls in the afterlife.  Others said Great Horned Owls captured the souls of the dead and carried them to the underworld. And while some myths may be nothing more than campfire tales, there’s no denying an owl’s mystical presence.

My first meeting with the giant owl this week came not long before dusk on Monday. I was hiking alone up the canyon when I spooked her from a craggily, dead juniper. She flew to a nearby stand of trees. I slowly started to move and kept my eyes locked with hers. Because owls’ eyes don’t move, her head twisted as she observed my movements. After about 10 feet I stopped walking and slowly reached down to grab my camera from its black pouch. I glanced away for no more than two seconds, yet when I looked back to the trees the owl had disappeared. Gone. Just like that. I spent several minutes staring up at the thicket of branches. I paced about directly underneath where I was certain the owl had been sitting. Nothing. After several moments of feeling very confused, I considered myself to be fortunate for having seen such a fine creature and got on with my hike and my life.

I walked through the same stand several more times over the course of the following afternoons before locating the owl this morning. This time she didn’t jump when I first came into her immediate area. Rather, she roosted patiently on her branch, slanting her head down and staring at me once again. I had the camera ready, and snapped two quick photos before she took flight.

“Hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo,” she sang, vanishing beyond the trees.

In case you were wondering, I refer to this owl as a female based upon the bird’s size. Mature Great Horned Owls are typically 18 to 22 inches in length, according to The Owl Pages, a Web site dedicated to the birds. Female owls are often larger than males, and I estimate this one to be about 28 inches long. I’ve now seen her fly twice, both times down, and then up the narrow canyon. I would guess her wingspan is 60 to 65 inches, more than a foot longer than an average Great Horned Owl.

Whatever it is this owl has been eating, she’s obviously not shy about diving down for seconds, or maybe even thirds. I came across a rabbit den Tuesday while hiking not far from where I’ve seen the owl, and it’s likely she’s been feasting on them with gluttonous delight. There’s also no shortage of mice crawling through the loose rocks in the area, and because owls have such spectacular vision, there’s little doubt they’re a regular feature on the dinner menu as well.

Whatever the reason, be it a spin of good fortune or just blind luck, I feel incredibly blessed to have shared the canyon this week with a Great Horned Owl. Even now, back here at the cabin, I can feel her presence. She’s out there somewhere, waiting for nightfall to arrive. And when darkness falls, I know her giant yellow eyes will open once again. And she’ll sit alone with her wisdom, staring through the trees. For owls are the masters of waiting through the unknown.

Like this story? Get more! Sign up for our free newsletters.