The Hawk's Way by Sy Montgomery

Author:Sy Montgomery
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2022-05-03T00:00:00+00:00

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Weeks progress. Thanks to Nancy’s clarity and patience, slowly I am beginning to know how to move, how to watch, how to think around hawks.

At first, it seems like a lot to keep in mind. As in all new endeavors, there are strange little injunctions to remember—like never say Shhh! to a hawk. (It’s similar to the warning hiss they give before biting.) There’s a lot of equipment to learn how to use—never my strong suit. There is a certain amount of technique—how to hold the bird (always higher than the rest of the arm), how to “load” the glove (without letting the hawk see you remove the bait from your pocket), how to attach the tether to the jesses (quickly, before the bird “foots” you—the falconer’s term for when a bird tears its talons through your flesh).

Getting things right really matters. If you make a mistake, you can be hurt. But far worse, your bird can die. A hawk’s wings, tail, feet, and eyes are so delicate they can be easily injured when you take the bird out of the mews. Even an unexpected wind can lift, twist, and sprain a wing when a bird is tethered to your glove. You must be careful, especially with Harris’s hawks, who are native to warmer climes, not to fly a bird on a cold day. Even mild frostbite on the feet can kill. Infections can be lethal. Tangled jesses can break a leg. The list of hazards goes on and on.

Because they have regular food and access to veterinary care, hawks used in falconry generally live much longer than those that are free: eighty percent of wild hawks die in their first year; a falconer’s might live to thirty. But even with human care, a hawk’s life is fraught with danger. One of the greatest heartaches a falconer can know could happen each time you take your bird out of its mews: a wild hawk in the sky might attack and kill your bird.

Nancy knows this sorrow.

She was out hunting with a young peregrine falcon named Witch. Nancy had raised her from a downy, helpless chick. The name was short for Kitchen Witch, because during her chickhood, during the day, the kitchen was where Witch stayed, to be near Nancy all the time. At night Witch slept by Nancy and Jim’s bed. Young raptors are irresistibly ugly babies—fat-bottomed tripods of fluff with unnaturally huge feet that chase Coke cans across the floor, scream at you with eyes full of wonder, and then fall on the floor, facedown, legs out, asleep. To raise a bird from this endearing, silly-looking chick to a powerful hunter demands a huge investment of love and work. And now Nancy and Witch were out hunting, cementing their partnership.

Witch flew over an orchard after game—and flew back with a red-tailed hawk in pursuit. Again and again the big redtail hit the young peregrine. Witch landed in a tree, and though Nancy tried to call her to

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