Mid-afternoon and the storm arrived, right on schedule, with one vanguard gust dropping a dead maple branch narrowly missing the hood of our pickup. My husband, Bob, and I quickly shoved our camp chairs under the trailer and stashed the outside dog bed as the heavy rain and rumbling thunder commenced. We retreated into our cosy Airstream refuge, slamming the door behind us, snuggled tight in our wooded campsite in northwestern Florida.
The possibility of severe weather was real. I bravely declared my intention to run to the bathhouse if the tornado warning became a tornado watch – or was it the other way around? Not sure, so I bravely declared my intention to google the difference between the two.
Inside, we were warm and dry, enjoying mint tea and Yahtzee. Inside, our snoring brindle mutt, Mattie, was in hot pursuit of dream-squirrels. Inside we could check our phones for weather updates, and other very important things like knitting patterns, funny dog videos, basketball scores.
A thin metal membrane separated us from the surrounding sloppy storm and the small lake now blooming under our rig. We were so tightly insulated, beads of condensation formed on its inside shell. Our camper was sweating out the storm for us.
The racket of heavy rain, wind and thunder continued for nearly three hours. And then, abruptly … nothing. The storm seemed to stop just as suddenly as it had started.
Our ears and bodies still thrumming and buzzing with the weather’s percussion, we, too, were startled into silence. A quiet so rich and deep it ached to be filled.
For a few minutes, though, there was only a preternaturally hushed, dark evening. And then … a sudden trill of sound. Faint at first, but unmistakable.
Who cooks for you. Who cooks for you all.
‘That’s a barred owl,’ Bob said, grinning. ‘The storm must be over.’
***
If you live almost anywhere in the eastern United States, chances are barred owls are nearby. While they prefer mature mixed hardwood and pine forests, they are equally at home in a city park or a wildlife refuge. Their thriving populations are due in large part to this lifestyle flexibility.
As common as they are, however, good luck ever seeing one. Their habit of nocturnal foraging on soundless wings makes sightings a rare occurrence.
But hear them? Oh yes, if we listen, we can hear them.
These vocal birds love to call, connecting them with partners, marking territory, and perhaps simply celebrating a joyful owl life. Barreds are sometimes called hoot owls because of their very recognisable and easily-imitated call. Their sequence of eight or nine loud, clear hoots are audible for nearly one mile and are exactly what most of us think an owl should sound like.
***
We heard the hoots again. Now louder. Closer. The owl must be right outside the camper door.
who cooks for you. who cooks for you, all.
And then, a response. A second owl, likely female, a little further away, a little quieter.
She began with the standard set of hoots, and then quickly pivoted into a higher pitched snarl.
Who cooks for you, who haaaaah owwww yowwwwllllll gaagaaaalll.
An owl duet! I’ve read about these caterwauling courtship sessions, but never actually heard them.
While barred owls are believed to ‘mate for life’ – which has always struck me as an exhausting proposition – the pairs actually live independently when nonbreeding. Caterwauling sessions not only help to create new pairings, they also act as a reconnection for older couples after several months apart.
I love the thought of these rowdy courtship conversations to reconnect a life pair after a long winter. Caterwauling seems much more passionate than the calls of my long-term partnership: Did you feed the dog? What do you want to do for dinner? Have you seen my phone?
The late naturalist Archie Carr described owl duets as ‘jovial lunacy’ and our girl did not disappoint. She sounded like a screechy alien, a yelling toddler, a howling monkey. Maybe a strange combination of all three – an alien toddler monkey temper tantrum.
Her second response was decidedly louder and closer. who cooks hoooooo yaaaaalllll aaaaahhhh gaaaaa.
The persuasive calls began working their powerful magic on us as well, as Bob and I scrambled to find flashlights, coats and boots to head outside. With the door barely cracked open, our dog responded in the only way possible after the sequestered quiet afternoon – she bounded out into the pitch black hooting howling night.
Bob and I raced out after her, heading in different directions.
Mattie, Mattie, Mattie! became our six-hoot call.
No response. No dog in sight.
Mattie’s got lots of hound dna in her mutt mix, so when she’s on a scent, nose to the ground, we are invisible to her. She can’t see us and she definitely can’t hear us over the instinct to track.
After a few frustrating minutes, I ran back to the camper and grabbed her treat jar – rattling it as I searched, hoping the extra clamour could get her attention.
Mattie, Mattie, mattie, louder now, C’mon girl!
The night sky was still thick with clouds. No moon, no illumination other than our flashlights and a few dimly glowing camper windows. It was hard to see where we were going – dodging trees and stumbling over roots – never mind spot a running dog.
mattie, mattie, mattie!
No answer. No return.
We were the storm now, disturbing the night with our racket. We became the calling animals, hoping for a response.
With so many dark spaces to fill, time expands in the night. What would have been barely enough time to enjoy a daylight cup of coffee felt like hours, easily enough time for a dog to get lost.
With a tightening chest and heavy shoulders, I felt the creep of resignation. She’s gone, off into the wild. A wolf memory tapped, a primal urge scratched. Mattie would venture too far into the wilds before she shook this hound urge. And then …
‘I got her,’ Bob called just then from the darkness to my left. ‘I got her.’
Another storm safely passed.
Back inside, we cocooned under down blankets. Our camper was quiet except for a low refrigerator hum.
Outside, our barred owls were silent as well. No more dating or mating calls. Prime hunting time, they perched and waited. With so little light tonight, listening would be key.
Careful attention to sound can separate a hungry owl from a sated one.
Specialised feathers funnel vibrations towards the owls’ ears, which are unevenly situated and pointing in slightly different directions. This asymmetry allows barreds, without even turning their heads, to determine the precise location of their mouse dinner, even when it’s hidden under leaves.
Listen, the owls tell us. Listen, they show us.
***
Luck somehow protected and separated us from the surrounding tempest. Sure, Mattie returned and we missed the worst of the storm. But only a few miles to our west, we learned the following day, wind flattened a boat storage building. And somewhere in that battered range perhaps a beloved pet didn’t return to its owners.
So what really separates us from the natural world?
Airtight campers and good roofs fool us. So do full pantries and air conditioning. Fool us into thinking we can fully control our environment. Fool us into thinking we don’t need the natural world. That we live separately from all that messy ecology.
Perhaps the more interesting question isn’t what separates us, but what connects us to a larger wild? What makes us want to hoot and howl? To look at stars and listen to owls. To give thanks for the tides and remember that we are part of something larger. Something wilder.
Attention. Observation. That’s what can connect us. What can open the door and pull us outside.
It’s amazing what we can hear if we only listen.
Renowned neurologist Oliver Sacks writes that ‘music can pierce the heart directly; it needs no mediation.’ And no Spotify subscription is required to listen to the tenor hoots of barred owls, a soprano wind keening through oak and maple leaves. Percussive rain on a metal roof. Pollinators humming, and howling mutts harmonising.
Hear it. Feel it. And respond.
Could it be as easy as that? Could it be as easy as simply listening to what is around us?
These sounds fill us, lift us, and beg us to pay attention. They tap us on the shoulder: Hey you, with your head in a screen, something important is happening out here. Look up. Listen up. Pay attention.
Call, and we can respond.
But only if we are listening.
Patty McLaughlin
A retired educator, Patty lives on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, a rural peninsula separating the Chesapeake Bay from the Atlantic Ocean. She’s a dedicated observer of the natural world, and enjoys anytime spent outside – whether it’s gardening, hiking, paddling, bird-watching or just sitting and enjoying the breeze. She lives with her husband, Bob, and rescue mutt, Mattie, and visits her children and grandchildren whenever possible. Writing is a new adventure for Patty. This is her second published essay.
- ‘Nature Writing Competition Winner: “Listening” by Patty McLaughlin’ is published in Anthology Volume 23. Read more features from this volume or buy it now.
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