His head moves slowly and methodically, the wings stretch out as he rebalances with his yellow taloned feet and the eyes flit and twitch. No longer passively consuming the landscape from the audience, he pulls you onto the stage. The breeze flattens. Birdsong scatters. Silence. The sound of the wild food chain. You begin to feel the pressure of every living thing in the earth on the back of your neck as you pace beyond the gorse, but even in this heightened state you are ponderous. Remaining sure-footed, his head plunges towards the ground, anticipating a vole’s movement, but by the time your gaze lands with his you are lucky to glimpse a shoelace tail vanish into the grass. Your shoulders broaden with anticipation and you untie the falconer’s knot that binds him to your glove with your right hand and lightly hold the jesses – the soft leather straps attached to his ankles – between the fingers and palm of your left. Hawks and falcons calculate unconsciously whether the energy required to catch potential quarry is worth the effort. You think of the astonishing triangulation these instincts perform when a flurry of feathers brushes your face. You instinctively open your hand, extend your arm and reel slightly. He’s off – coursing through the light.
This sensation of closeness between tamed man and wild bird has a lineage that goes back millennia. According to the written, or more often drawn, archive that we use to trace the route of history, hawks and falcons were first used to hunt for food in China and Mesopotamia around 700 bc. From the training to the equipment it requires, the essential elements of falconry are unchanged since that time. Practised by emperors, soldiers, commoners and men and women, falconry, or hawking, crossed the deserts of Asia, the Middle East and Africa before conquering the disparate realms of Europe and the New World. The practice graces the oral poetry and written pages of ancient texts in every culture it has touched along the way, popping up in the writings and stories of kings and emperors (most notably Emperor Frederick II, 1194–1250), a Tsar (Alexei Romanov, 1629–76), an Arabic astronomer (The Book of Moamyn, c.1200), Saxon poetry (‘The Battle of Maldon’, 991), our own Knights of the Round Table (Sir Tristan is a renowned harpist and falconer), monks (The Boke of St Albans, 1486) and, perhaps most exotically for a Western mind, in those of the warriors of the Samurai (Nihon Shoki, the Chronicles of Japan, 720). To learn that the feeling of setting out with a hawk on your fist in the hunt for food, partnering with a bird’s natural wild behaviour, is something that has been experienced by such varied ancestors adds a glint of substance to the myth of their forgotten lives. I like to think their shadows drift with you in the woods – the echo of a collective experience ingrained in our very species.
What the Samurai or the Knights of the Round Table would have made of my initial experience of falconry is harder to imagine. The first time a Harris hawk landed on my fist I was standing in the rain in the middle of a pine forest surrounded by wooden lodges in the dystopian eco-habitat of Center Parcs in Somerset as part of a group of seven people clad in bright waterproofs with arms outstretched, as a hawk did its duty and flew from the falconer to each of us in turn. But despite my location and the formulaic atmosphere, experiencing a wild bird fly towards me for the first time – so I could see exactly how the tail feathers push the air to slow the hawk to the point that it can literally step from flight onto my fist – was surely little different to the sensation it must have evoked for the first time in a squire in medieval England or a warrior in Jomon Japan. This was a spectacle, biology, sport, instinct, a privileged insight into wild behaviour and a philosophy of life all merged into one. In the ten years since that experience I have become an avid fan of hawks and falcons. I’ve gone on falconry experience days and holidays and read every obscure book on the subject I can trace. I’ve had barn owls, eagle owls, kestrels, lanner and peregrine falcons, all kinds of hybrids, a merlin and even a golden eagle perched on my fist. I drove for six hours one Saturday morning to the edge of Cornwall from Sussex with my friend Kev once – just on the off chance we might glimpse a snowy owl that had got lost on migration.
But while I love raptors in all their forms Harris hawks have always been my favourite. Known as the ‘wolves of the air’ because of their habit of hunting in packs of up to six, they are highly social, have the ideal temperament for falconry and a hunting style most accommodating to human beings. Their natural habitat is desert where one of them will scout ahead, others will walk along the ground in the hope of scaring something into movement, while those that remain wait above – preparing to strike. The group then share whatever is caught. Going hunting with Harris hawks is certainly the most self-contained, dramatic, inspiring and shocking thing I have ever done.
It’s important to appreciate that a trained hawk or falcon of any kind bears absolutely no relation to a domesticated pet. Birds of prey only remain with the falconer as long as he or she remains a more efficient food source than the bird could achieve out in the wild. It’s a relationship but by no means a friendship. Even if a hawk or falcon consented to remain with you for twenty years their wild instincts would remain intact. This is why the jesses are made from leather, or sometimes kangaroo skin, because eventually they will rot and fall off should the falcon one day decide it has had enough of you. Everything about the husbandry involved in taking care of a hawk is based with transience in mind. This is as true for a falconry enthusiast in the UK as it is for those who still rely on birds of prey for food and animal skins in the mountains of Kazakhstan. Go there today and you’ll still find men and their sons hawking on horseback with golden eagles on the fist. Sixteen-year-old boys are sent down a cliff face with simple rope to take a juvenile eagle from its eyrie. They train them for six months under the watchful eye of their fathers and then hunt with them for nine years. After that they release them, grateful for the work they have done (golden eagles can live over thirty years in the wild and up to eighty in captivity).
Despite often being bundled up with other country sports, falconry is also far more awesome and has little in common with fox hunting, or shooting pheasants or deer.
Instead of stacking the odds in your favour with technology or superior numbers you participate in natural behaviour to catch your prey. It might seem a little blood curdling, but I’d rather be a wild rabbit and take my chances with a Harris hawk than a chicken in a battery farm. As for enjoying the act of death? Well, to be honest, that’s my least favourite part but I’m of the view that if you can’t bring yourself to kill an animal then you have no right to eat it. Not that the food argument is relevant from a human perspective anyway. Whenever I’ve been hunting with Harris hawks they’ve been catching their own dinner.
Back in the woods he’s gone. Blending through a thicket of trees. The possibility of a squirrel or a resting bird perhaps. You hear the bell on his ankle tinkling and follow the sound, jogging and ducking through the branches. Cautious, you feel the eyes around you as the bracken folds under your feet. Then through the damp, newly fallen leaves suddenly the bell is louder. You spot him standing atop a tree, looking around with feathers rousing about his neck. His vision is tunnelled, seeking prey. You try and call yourself into his mind, tapping a scrap of meat on your left thumb with your right hand. He spots it instantly and embraces the air. His wings are flat but his head tilts, almost with curiosity, and he glides towards you. Minimum effort, maximum effect. From that vantage point he swoops below the line of your fist before adjusting and rising up again. The wings open, his powerful feet thrust forward and tail feathers break the air. Feet on flesh but with barely any sensation of impact. You grin broadly. His beak immediately pulls at the food on your hand and you tuck the jesses between your thumb and finger. Finished, he opens his wings to adjust and looks ahead. Concentrating. Still hungry. Looking for something else.
Becoming a falconer is not something to attempt on a whim. The training and hard work required is seldom appreciated by the hawk, but the most important factor is time. That’s why, for most serious falconers to do it properly, they have to be absurdly rich, unmarried and have no children, or they have to make falconry earn them a living. Being in the company of a falconer who has made it their career is always inspiring. It is hard work, with astonishingly long hours, but certainly not a mundane job. They enthuse and cajole newcomers by sharing their birds and their enthusiasm but offer plenty of stories of warning and danger too. They have no time for people who embark on the process of having a wild bird if they are not prepared to show the bird the respect required by learning how to care for it properly.
