Owlers Are Ordinary People, Eh?  

                                                                                                                   Owler: noun - One who pursues owls. A harmless eccentric, usually (but not always) middle aged, given to spending cold nights in early spring pursuing owls while his betters are warm and safe in their homes. (This definition is offered with apologies to Samuel Johnson, the creator of the first major English dictionary, who was given to writing sometimes creative definitions).  

           Generally I consider myself pretty ordinary. I don't think too much about the things that I enjoy doing in terms of how others might see them, but, on occasion, I am encouraged to see myself as other might  

           Owl surveys such as the one Jim Clifford and I run require us to follow a set protocol for each of ten stops on a predetermined route. This involves playing a CD with owl calls on it and quite a bit of just standing around and listening to the sounds of the night. However some of our routes are along quite well travelled highways and we are occasionally subjected to scrutiny. Most of it is concern that we might be having problems and a simple wave signalling that we are fine is enough to send most people on their way. Some stop briefly to make sure that we are alright, and I always try to express my appreciation for their thoughtfulness while shooing them along because, really, I don't want to talk to them, I want to listen for owls. On occasion, though, things do go awry, with rather hilarious results.  

            This was a particularly beautiful night a couple of weeks back. We were up on Route 180, to the east of the Mount Carleton Park entrance. We had already conducted our survey on six of our stops and had just gotten into the seventh, when a large pickup truck appeared from behind. I did my normal things as he approached; walking slowly back toward the van, eyes averted, not giving any particular signals to indicate that we needed help. As he slowed down, I waved dismissively, but he wasn't having any of that. Curiosity had bitten. He stopped, and rolled down his window.  

   "Ca va?"
   "Ca marche" I responded with a smile, "Pas probleme."
   "Que faite tu?"
   "Nous cherchons pour les hibous", I answered, using the generic wood for owls.
   "Hibou? Qu'est que c'est ''hibou.?"  

           At this point I realized that I had a little problem. Nevertheless I gave it a try. "Chouette rayee" (Barred owl)? "Petite nyctale" (Saw-whet owl)? Nothing doing. I tried English: "We're looking for owls." A blink and a shake of his head. "O O w l s" I tried again.  

           ""Ah, wolf" he exclaimed. Just then, the CD on top of the van blasted forth its cacophony of owl calls. My would be Samaritan jumped visibly. "No, not wolf, owl" I repeated. "You know, les grand oiseau de la nuit - les.. les Grand-duc d'Amerique." (Great horned owl"  

           As soon as I said the latter, I knew that I shouldn't. "Dat's OK, dat's OK, Thank you! Thank you!" he proclaimed as the window rolled up; he yanked the gear shift into drive, and spun on down the road.  

           I could him describing his encounter with the two old religious weirdoes back on route 180 who were standing around in the middle of the night, listening to crazy music while waiting for the appearance of a "Grand-duc d'Amerique" - some strange cult god,he must have figured. After all, no one in his right mind would be out there just looking for owls, would he?