Into the Mountains

It is several hours after sunset when we depart from our cabin on the outskirts of Frisco, a quaint mountain town in the heart of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. At 9,100 feet, the air is frigid enough to warrant gloves and extra layers, but I decide on a light fleece. The cold keeps me light on my feet.

I step outside and look north. Off in the moonlit distance are rows upon rows of peaks, rising like chiseled barricades from the valley floor. But in all their majesty, these snow-clad summits are relatively devoid of life. The creatures we seek are forest-dwellers, denizens of the mountains’ flanks.

The downtown is hushed as we roll through, cozy storefronts casting an amber glow on the street. Heaps of snow ten feet high are piled on the roadside; these relics of past storms will remain through May.

As we leave Frisco, the excitement builds. A forested mountainside takes form in the darkness ahead of us - it is the destination of tonight’s escapade. So what are we doing in these wild mountains on a cold March night, bundled up for an adventure? The answer is owls. Not the Great-horned of the lower woods and towns, nor the Barred of the eastern forests. We are in search of high country owls, namely the Boreal and Saw-whet. These birds, not much larger than a tin can, occur throughout the Rocky Mountains in low densities. They are enigmatic species; the Boreal was so poorly-understood that up until the 1970’s it was not known to breed in the U.S.

To find these elusive owls, we had to go deep into the Colorado mountains.

The planning for this trip was done via Google Maps. I had a vague idea of the appropriate habitat - lower aspen forest for the Saw-whet, higher spruce-fir for the Boreal - but beyond that there was no preexisting data to go off of. The Colorado mountains are a significantly under-researched area with regard to avifaunal distribution. It is a tribute to the region’s inaccessibility. Even the most ardent scientists can only cover so much ground in remote and snow-covered mountains during March, when owls reach their peak vocal activity.

Our first stop is a tract of mixed forest near the Alfred M. Bailey Bird Nesting Area, about fifteen minutes outside of Silverthorne. It is a longshot at best.

The beige Sequoia labors up a dirt rode riddled with potholes, our heads sticking out the windows like overjoyed dogs sucking in the cool mountain air. It is the thrill of the chase, of not knowing where or when you might encounter your quarry.

In the ink-black night, I struggle to ascertain my surroundings. There are no trees, just rolling sagebrush flats. We continue on for more promising forest, and soon the headlights find the ivory trunks of aspen. This might do.

Stepping out of the car, we turn off the ignition and a canopy of stars is unveiled above.

I pause and listen. The Saw-whet is our main target in this lower forest, but as far as we know, none have ever been recorded in the county. That doesn’t mean they aren’t here.

The forest is ostensibly quiet save for the din of a clear mountain stream below us as it tumbles down out of the high country. But owls seldom vocalize without some prompting.

I pull out the speaker and begin blasting a Saw-whet call: monotonous, monosyllabic toots delivered about twice per second. It is unmistakable; the only other bird that gives a similar vocalization, the solitaire, is a diurnal songbird. We listen for several minutes, then play it again, broadcasting the calls across a broad, forested gully draped in darkness. No response. I play the calls of several other owls - Long-eared, Boreal, and then Great-horned - but the mountains are silent. Staring into the darkness, I try to coax an owl from the night. I know it is holding something, but it will not relinquish its secrets yet.

We head back to the car, slightly discouraged. You never get it on your first try, I tell myself. Better habitat still lies ahead.

My dad turns the key, but nothing happens. He tries again, this time with more vigor, and the car hums to life for a brief moment before silencing. My brother and I cast nervous glances at each other. Cell service is as elusive as the owls here. If the car were to not start, it would be a long and cold night in the mountains.

He takes the keys out, shaking his head. The car has a history of troublesome mechanical problems, but this is a novel one. With the keys grasped tightly in his fist, he goes in for a third time. The car sputters, gasping for breath, and turns on.

We all exhale deeply, having evaded a potentially grim situation.

“That would’ve been bad,” my father says, and begins rumbling up the road again.

About a mile further and the forest has hemmed us in. Dense tracts of spruce and fir are on either side, their dark interior exuding an ominous feel in the inky night.

We tumble out of the car with renewed optimism and play a Boreal song. The elevation has climbed to about 9300 feet, the upper extent of the Saw-whet’s range but entering the domain of the Boreal. We play the artificial song twice and stop, waiting for the real one to respond. There is no response, and I begin to wonder if coming up here was a mistake.

Then I hear something. It is distant, perhaps a half mile away and muffled by the trees, but it is there nevertheless: a hollow, monotonous tooting unlike anything else in these forests at night.

“I hear it, I hear it!” I say excitedly to my brother. He has gone down the road, but comes sprinting back with those three words as though chased by a bear.

The owl stops calling just as he arrives alongside me, panting in the thin air. Of course it stopped calling.

He looks at me dubiously.

“No, I’m telling you.”

“Alright, I believe it, but it would be nice if I could hear the bird as well.”

It calls again. We crane toward it, cupping our ears to amplify the sound. There is no doubt. A Saw-whet is somewhere in the woods ahead of us.

Northern Saw-whet Owl (photo by coniferousforest.com)

We return to the car and begin driving along a serpentine road that winds through open aspen forest, all the while measuring our proximity to the sound. Finally we are within fifty feet.

I take a tentative step in the snow, testing the rigidity of the surface layer. It seems strong enough. Gingerly, we begin walking into the woods, our flashlights fending away the darkness. The owl is now within twenty feet. Its tooting has a hollow quality, like a whistle. I can imagine the bird vividly now, perched up on a moonlit branch serenading the night.

We look at each other with anticipation, a broad grin spreading across our faces. This is the chance we have been waiting for, to catch a glimpse of the elusive Saw-whet in its native habitat.

Suddenly, a twig snaps to our right.

“What was that?” Ryan demands, his eyes darting around nervously in the dark.

“No idea. Hold on.” I tilt my head to the side, trying to pick up any sound. The Saw-whet drones on, but nothing else moves.

“I heard it again,” Ryan says abruptly.

Something is in the thickets ahead of us. We shine our flashlights into the forest, probing the velvety night for answers, but whatever it is lurks just out of sight.

We turn back toward the owl. “Must have been a deer or something,” Ryan remarks dismissively. But there is unease in his eyes, a sliver of fear that the night is holding a dangerous secret.

“Alright, let’s see if we can get closer,” I say, motioning for my brother to follow.

The tooting grows louder as we approach. It is somewhere in the aspens ahead of us. I scan the ivory limbs for a squat, brownish bird with a white “V” between its eyes, but the branches are bare. It must still be further back.

Just then, a piercing scream shatters the night. We look at each other, our eyes wide as dinner plates. There is a silent exchange between us. Intuitively, we know it is something not to be reckoned with.

I glance nervously at Ryan, who is already looking toward the road calculatively. Our eyes lock and we bolt, unsure exactly what we had heard but not wanting to find out. In the day, circumstances would have been different - when the cover of darkness is lifted, so is the mystery it holds. But it was pitch black except for the pallid radiance of snow underfoot, and there seemed to be no better option in our frantic minds.

My feet fly ahead of me, trying to outpace whatever we have heard. Ryan is close behind and gaining ground. Suddenly, the crust gives way beneath me and my face collides with concrete snow. The flashlight is airborne, and then comes the crushing weight of my brother on top of me as he goes down in the same tender patch of snow. I gasp for breath, sucking oxygen from the thin air while looking around for the car. Ryan is already up and running again with the same wild ardor as before. I get up and sprint after him, my face searing from the fall.

We reach the car in a chaotic frenzy. Our dad is dozing off in the front seat when we dive in, still sure that whatever we had heard is in hot pursuit.

“What is it?” our dad yells, frantically searching the dark forest ahead.

“There was something back there,” my brother says, wide-eyed with terror.

“I take it you’re not referring to the owl.”

We describe the scene through gulps of air, every so often casting nervous glances back at the forest. Our dad listens intently. With our minds now settled, we can thoroughly dissect the encounter. There were only a handful of things it could have been: a coyote, fox, or maybe even a mountain lion, the latter of which is most dangerous.

We return home exhausted. Now back within cell coverage, we can browse the internet to confirm our suspicions. I play a mountain lion scream, and it is identical to what we heard. The fox scream is similar, but has a different quality. If you have yet to hear a cougar yourself, I’d suggest looking it up - the sound is terrifying and almost otherworldly. And to hear it at night from less than a stone’s throw away, back in the remote Colorado wilderness in winter, there is no proper way to describe it.

Our father is disappointed that he hadn’t been with us, for he has yet to see a mountain lion in the wild. Neither have we, despite spending innumerable hours traversing across Colorado’s mountains. These cats are elusive; you can go your whole life without seeing one, even when several dozen have seen you. I have long wanted to encounter this incredible creature, but not under such trying circumstances.

Although utterly spent from the exhilaration of the mountain lion, we had accomplished our goal. The Saw-whet was, so far as we knew, the first ever documented county record. I was sure more were out there, hiding in the night. The Boreal had evaded us, but perhaps it was for the best. Now we would have to make another trip out into those lonely mountains, listening for an owl singing to the stars.