The Owl and I
By Neil M. Travis, Montana
I have come to know that angling is so much more than
merely a numbers and size game. Those whose prowess and
self esteem are measured in numbers or inches that they
earned in piscatorial conquests with creatures whose total
brain mass would not fill a thimble are not to be honored
but pitied. For those who have arrived at that point in
their angling experience to realize that angling is a means
to an end rather than an end in itself I dedicate the
following piece.
I have a propensity to do most of my best angling in the
final moments of the fading day. There is something special
about those magic moments in the gathering darkness as the
western horizon turns from pink to mauve, or the flash from
distant lighting highlights the bottom of glowing cumulus
clouds framing the mountain peaks. In the gathering dusk
the creatures of the evening begin to emerge; deer materialize
from willow thickets and bats whirl and twist as they pursue
their evening meals. Trout slide from beneath the weed beds
and undercut banks to feed with confidence in the gathering
darkness.
There is a sense of urgency about these twilight moments,
and perhaps it is this very quality that makes them so
appealing. Nature itself senses this urgency as creatures
of the day make haste to complete their necessary tasks
and snatch just a few more moments of the fading day. As
the last rays of light fade from the western horizon the
hurried frenzy fades into the gathering darkness, and
creatures such as us, with senses that function best in
daylight hours, are left to ponder the wonders of those
creatures that prowl the night.
I do not know when he appeared or from whence he came but
suddenly I felt that I was being watched. Standing waist
deep in a heavy run I slowly turned my head to see who
or what was watching me. Sitting atop a fence post a
Great Horned owl with fierce yellow eyes met my gaze.
From my youth I have had a great affinity for owls having
raised orphaned Screech owls and Long-Eared owls that had
been delivered into my care. They are the most remarkable
of birds, and the Great Horned owl is truly a magnificent
example of all that makes owls so fascinating.
With two large feathered horns held erect over its head
the Great Horned owl is an impressive bird, and while not
normally associated with trout streams, they are common
residents along riparian areas. During the day they could
easily be overlooked as they sit silently perched close
to the trunk of a large tree. Sitting on the top of a
gnarled fence post my unexpected guest was hard to ignore.
As a lover of all things wild it was hard to decide if
I should watch the owl or continue attempting to fool
the brown trout that was rising sporadically at the head
of the pool. I returned to the rising brown, but I
continued to glance over my shoulder between casts to
see if my large feathered friend was still there.
Although I was only about 15 yards away from his perch
he seemed to be in no hurry to find leave, and seemed
generally disinterested in me and my activity. For long
moments he sat perfectly motionless except for the
occasional blinking of his large yellow eyes.
Intermittently he would slowly swivel his head until
he was looking directly behind his back, an achievement
of physical contortion which always leaves me with a
sense of awe.
Fly casting to a rising fish is not well suited as a
multi-tasking activity, and during one drift I turned
to check out the owl when the Brown decided to take my
offering. I felt a sharp tug as he took my fly,
and my untimely response left my finny friend with a
new fly for his collection. My exclamation of disgust
had no obvious effect on the owl except for an exaggerated
yawn and a ruffling of his feathers. Perhaps, I thought,
I am boring him.
I reeled in my shattered tippet and dug through my fly
boxes for another fly. When I finished selecting one fly
and knotting it to my tippet I glanced up at the owl and
he was gone. As silently as he had appeared he had moved
on in his evening quest for a meal. What had he thought
of the strange creature standing in the water waving a
stick around? Had I enriched his life to the extent that
he had enriched mine?
Over the many years that I have spent casting bits of
feather and fur I have been blessed with many such
encounters. The memories of woodcock twittering over
a Michigan trout stream, the stately countenance of a
great blue heron stalking the shallows, a white-tailed
deer timidly stepping from the shadows to drink; these
and so many other similar encounters are etched on the
window of my memory more indelibly than the number or
size of any fish that I have ever caught.
As I set at my computer keyboard recording this memory
I am once again waist deep in a Montana trout stream in
the cool of the evening. The water is like an oiled sheet
of steel broken only by the occasional rise of a trout,
and a Great Horned owl is sitting on a fence post in
quiet contemplation. I am truly blessed. ~ Neil M. Travis, Montana/Arizona
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