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By now the sky was deep indigo, and every so often a bit of red reflective tape winked from a black bush in our headlights, signaling a calling station. He chose one at a high point on the ridge, with a good chance of a response.

At each station, Mike explained as he put on his vest (now sans mouse box) and pulled out his GPS unit and clipboard, he plays recorded spotted owl calls--hence the loudspeaker I’d noticed in his truck--and listens for a total of ten minutes. “You make a note of when you start and finish and if you heard anything or not. If you did hear something, you write down the time, the direction you heard it in, a qualitative description of the call, and you try to gauge how far away it was. I also like to make a note of weather,” he said, as he jotted down calm, scattered clouds, dry, 69 degrees. If possible, he lures the birds in to check their ankles for unique identifying bands; if that doesn’t work, he comes back the next afternoon or early evening and does a follow-up visit, traveling to the area he judged the response came from and using the mouse technique combined with a contact call to get a close look and an ID.

Although most of the owl calls are easily mimicked by humans, the $900 device that Mike uses, featuring actual spotted owl recordings, brings more consistent responses. It cycles somewhat randomly between silence and the four basic calls: the upward trending two-note whistle of the friendly “hello-I’m-here-where-are-you?” contact call; the basic four-note call, used to declare territory (“the cadence is the important thing here: one forceful hoot, then two close together, followed by one”); the agitation call, which starts off sounding like an upset monkey and ends in the four-note hoot; and the angry female “crow-bark,” which defies description (and, said Mike, defies mimicry as well)--but reminded me less of a crow than of a sick squirrel.

“This is the part of my work that becomes a job,” Mike said. “It’s a good opportunity to get caught up on your paperwork, but you also need to keep your eyes open, because sometimes the birds won’t respond but will just fly in to check you out. Being patient and persistent is key.”

The calls boomed out from our ridgetop stance. HOOT HOOT-HOOT HOOT! Monkey chatter. Two-note whistle. In the intervening silences, dogs barked. (“Yep, it gets them going too,” Mike chuckled. “Makes the job more challenging.”) Each station, whether there’s a response or not, is entered on a survey form, which the California Department of Forestry and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service use in THP development.

“Actually, when you think about it,” said Mike, “it’s amazing that you can submit a timber harvest plan in February or March, and then by June or July you can be harvesting trees. For the state government to turn something around that fast, especially when you’re involved with endangered species, stream crossings and stream alterations, a whole variety of plants, archeological surveys, geological surveys”--and of course the spotted owl surveys--"it’s kind of amazing." If, however, any of these surveys bring to light an impediment to the cutting of trees, the THP is denied. It’s one area where things are clear-cut.

Suddenly Mike stopped and listened. “I just heard an owl a little while ago, and it sounds like it’s coming closer.” The recorded calls continued relentlessly--but then yes, I heard the four-note hoot myself. And yes, it was coming closer. We stood in the darkness, looking at the silhouetted trees in front of us. Suddenly, a dark form swept into the upper branches of a Douglas fir. “Stay there!” Mike said softly as he rummaged for the plastic box and pulled out a squeaking mouse, then flung it onto the ground. After a few moments’ deliberation, the owl soared down and with pinpoint accuracy snatched the prey off the ground. Perching in another tree, he regarded us, then took the head off the rodent and munched it down.

Our visitor? It was the nesting male we’d tantalized with mousy morsels just a few hours before--identified by the white-on-black markings of the left leg-band. “That’s pretty impressive,” said Mike, shaking his head. “He came quite a ways for a measly mouse. But it’s better than nothing. And I’m glad to give him another--it’s kind of a peace offering.”

As we rumbled back down the road, Mike mused on the satisfactions of a job that many would consider boring--never mind what it does to your social life (Mike starts his workday shortly before dusk, and tries to get to bed by sunrise). “When you’re with the birds,” he said, “you’re forced to be in the present. We’re the only animal that doesn’t really live in the present--we’re always living in the past or future. So maybe the owls activate a different part of your brain. It does something to you, I know that. The closest analogy I have is playing music with other people: time loses dimension, and you find really interesting ways of nonverbal communication. For me, it’s like that with the owls as well.”

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