Owls of California

“Their appearance leads us to attribute owls with human traits and emotions: wisdom, stubbornness, intensity, and even quirky playfulness.”

“Their facial disks help to collect sound while special feathers filter sound towards their asymmetric ears. As the sound waves reach each ear at fractionally different times and intensities, their brain can use that information to generate an auditory map and pinpoint sounds with remarkable accuracy.”

“Deceptive in their appearance—bug-eyed, round, and perhaps even comical—make no mistake, though, burrowing owls watch over their domain with the intensity of a bantamweight boxer.”

A sliver of freeway lights blurred into bokeh as I focused on the silhouette of a large owl. The sun wasn’t up yet, but perched on a fence post, the shape of its large head and stocky body took shape against the pre-dawn glow. A group of photographers shuffled around in the dim light, composing their shots. I had traveled to a regional park looking for short-eared owls (Asio flammeus), but I heard someone whisper that we were in the presence of a long-eared owl (Asio otus), an uncommon migratory visitor to these parts. I hadn’t expected that revelation, but it seemed like I was the only one. No wonder there were so many people there.

As the sun rose and the horizon turned from pink to orange, the long-eared owl took flight and treated us to a masterclass in hunting. Incredibly, a short-eared owl and at least one barn owl (Tyto alba) soared over the fields, too, periodically dropping into the long grass in pursuit of prey. As one disappeared, another came into view. This was the first time I saw long- or short-eared owls and the first time I’d had the opportunity to photograph a barn owl in flight. I couldn’t believe my luck. 

As the owls traversed the landscape, I noticed that some photographers chose to run back and forth to maximize their opportunities. It seemed like a futile occupation to me as the flight paths of the owls were unpredictable, and they appeared just as likely to turn back the way they came. More to the point, I started to wonder how the owls felt about all the activity. While pondering this, I saw the long-eared owl descending into the grass. As it reappeared, I shot a long burst of images in a sweeping ark and hoped my focus tracking worked. Looking at the back of my camera, I was delighted to see it carrying a vole, which it took into the trees to consume.

As the sun rose higher, the owls disappeared, but it had been a magical morning. I decided to spend the day in the area and return to that location later in the afternoon. When golden hour approached, I was amazed to see even more photographers lining the road and setting up tripods. Most were very good-natured, and thankfully, the owls seemed entirely disinterested in the spectacle they created. Still, the atmosphere grew tense when a couple of park rangers turned up and started cautioning everyone to stay away from the protected marshland. I couldn’t see anyone deliberately infringing on those guidelines, but the rangers called in the local police to help. The police had no interest in getting involved, provided everyone behaved. A slightly uneasy peace was established, but the experience was less fun. And then the long-eared owl did something very unexpected. It perched right beside the road to rest on a very scenic log. 

Suddenly, everything changed. A group of people crowded around the owl to take close-range photos. I certainly wasn’t above taking a photograph, but I tried to hang back at a respectful distance. I have difficulty judging people for getting carried away in these situations because I know they’re genuinely excited. I was excited, too, but I contributed to the scene even by being there, and you have to consider the wildlife’s well-being first. The situation escalated when one lady ran before everyone else and kneeled within touching distance of the owl. Many people began yelling obscenities at her. I got the impression they were more annoyed that she blocked their view than by her proximity to the bird. 

The rangers decided enough was enough. They parked their truck right beside the owl and turned the sirens on. They were duty-bound to intervene, but it was far from a graceful solution as the noise and flashing lights scared the owl, too. Immediately, the crowd turned their anger on the rangers, and, again, it was born from a mix of concern for the bird and ruining their opportunity to photograph it. The whole scene turned ugly, and I decided to leave.

As I drove home, I reflected on what was simultaneously one of my best and worst days in the field. I was angry at how some people acted, but I had to face facts: even with the best intentions and reserve in my behavior, I was part of the problem by joining the crowd. Ultimately, that day produced some beautiful moments and was an excellent reminder always to keep calm, prioritize animal welfare, and be prepared to leave a good photography opportunity when it doesn’t feel right. I’ve tried to remember that ever since.

On any given day, we’re surrounded by all kinds of birds, from the most delicate songbirds to specialized waterfowl, so why do we find owls particularly enthralling? Perhaps it’s the puzzling duality they represent. In What an Owl Knows, Jennifer Ackerman says, “We see something deeply familiar in them, with their round heads and big eyes, and at the same time, an intimation of a whole other kind of existence.” Their appearance leads us to attribute owls with human traits and emotions: wisdom, stubbornness, intensity, and even quirky playfulness. Conversely, they live lives we struggle to relate to, lingering in the shadows and moving through the dark with a velvety near-silence. Their ghostly hoots are hard to place in the pitch-black night, inspiring visions of ethereal spirits and reminding us that this world still holds many secrets. It’s no wonder many cultures consider them bearers of death, or as Sir Walter Scott called them, “birds of omen dark and foul.”

Owls are surprisingly common; over two hundred global species are found across almost every continent. Still, as many owls are reticent, nocturnal, and endowed with incredible camouflage, they can be tricky to study and photograph. As Paul Bannick says in A Year in the Lives of North American Owls, “You do not find owls—owls find you.” My first experience with a screech-owl (Megascops kennicottii)—one of California’s smaller owls with a melodic trill—was a testament to that challenge.

One damp winter morning, I was scanning the bare deciduous trees that lined the muddy trails of an East Bay park, looking for a roost hole. Thanks to some internet sleuthing, I knew at least one Western screech-owl was resident there, but finding its home was difficult. When I finally located the tree I recognized from other photos, the sun was high in the sky, and the owl was nowhere to be seen. I stared at the cavity in the trunk for almost an hour, but nothing was stirring besides a lone fox squirrel rattling along the branches above.

In the late afternoon, I returned to my vigil, secured my camera on a tripod, and waited. It was cold, and as sunset drew closer, my hope dwindled along with the light. Standing alone in the damp, gloomy woods, part of me just wanted to go home where it was warm and safe. I thought about how comfortably owls move through a world we humans avoid. They understand the dark in a way we never will, so it’s no wonder they’re such potent symbols of otherworldly knowledge in many cultures.

Almost at the exact minute the sun dropped below the horizon, something gray filled the dark recess in the tree. Squinting through the viewfinder, I finally saw it: my first screech-owl. For almost fifteen minutes, the owl barely moved, and its eyes remained firmly closed. It appeared to be waking very slowly. The conditions were difficult for photography, but I tried every trick I knew to capture some acceptable images. For the duration of blue hour, I cranked up the ISO on my camera and reined in my zoom length to increase the aperture. I shot hundreds of images, with only a handful of usable photos. That was all I needed: a less dramatic but thoroughly more enjoyable experience than my first long-eared owl. 

By the time I got back to my car, night had fallen. As far as I knew, the sleepy little owl was still in its roost, considering its next move, but under cover of darkness, it would surely be transforming into a ruthless killer. Most species of owls are perfectly evolved for such a role—predators of the highest order. Imagine for a second you’re a mouse, a tiny creature, moving cautiously through the grass in the faintest moonlight. Your footsteps are light, and the safety of your burrow is mere inches away. Then, with no warning, talons and tendons descend from the black sky with deathly precision. They’re immediately followed by feathers, piercing eyes, and a sharp beak. You wouldn’t stand a chance. 

From their near-silent flight to exquisite hearing, each attribute contributes to owls’ reputation as “wolves of the sky.” And if you’ve ever tried to place the location of an owl’s hoots, even vaguely, in the darkness, you’ll find an appreciation for exactly how skilled they are to pluck a tiny rodent from a dark field. Let’s look at some of the reasons why.

An owl’s ability to accurately place sound starts with their feathers. Their facial disks help to collect sound while special feathers filter sound towards their asymmetric ears. As the sound waves reach each ear at fractionally different times and intensities, their brain can use that information to generate an auditory map and pinpoint sounds with remarkable accuracy. At the same time, the structure of their feathers and a low wing load mean they often fly slower than many other raptors and approach their prey with ghostly stealth.

And then there’s those incredible, stereoscopic eyes. They may not enjoy night vision with the clarity of some other nocturnal animals, but their sensitivity to movement and subtle changes in light perfectly complements their auditory system to generate impressive spatial awareness. If you’ve had the privilege of making eye contact with an owl, you’ve likely experienced a deep intensity in their stare. I believe that’s because their eyes are immobile and huge. 

We’re lucky to have so many owl species in California, including the barn owl, northern saw-whet owl (Aegolius acadicus), and the endangered northern spotted owl (Strix occidentalis caurina). This diversity is partly due to the spectrum of habitats available to them, from towering redwood groves to arid deserts, open grasslands, and even urban neighborhoods. Still, even with such an abundance of locations, photographing owls can be challenging, thanks to their camouflage and proclivity for nighttime appearances. The species I’ve had the most luck finding and photographing is the stalwart great horned owl (Bubo virginianus). 

I often think of great horned owls as a stereotypical owl with their unmistakably strigiform silhouette, big yellow eyes, tufted ears, and ghostly hoot. There’s nothing mundane about this species, though. With a potential wingspan of over four feet, they’re one of the largest owl species in California and a superpredator, too. 

A few years ago, as winter turned to spring, I was checking out a place where I’d seen owls before. It was a perfect location for photography because the trees stood beside a small hill, so if the owls were in a suitable spot, I could climb the hill and photograph them at eye level. I immediately saw a pair of great horned owls in the tree. One sleepily watched me while the other hopped around the branches. I began to compose some images when something white caught my eye, and I realized two fledglings were huddled together on a second tree. They stared at me with great interest, and I returned the favor. It was my first time photographing juveniles, and I was struck by how exposed they looked with their stark, creamy feathers. That spring, I returned many times and created a lot of images. Both parents played an active role in raising the owlets, and it was a delight to watch them develop and grow in confidence.

If great horned owls align with our typical perception of their order, burrowing owls (Athene cunicularia) are quite different and much harder to find. In fact, they’re so discreet you could spend a lifetime in the Bay Area and never see them. However, as winter returns to the region, so do burrowing owls, and if you keep your eyes peeled when scanning fields and rocky outcrops, you might catch sight of one.

Burrowing owls reside in parts of California all year, but they’re migratory visitors here in the Bay Area. Typically, they arrive in the fall, winter here, and return to their breeding grounds in the spring: a short window of opportunity to witness these elusive creatures. And speaking of short, these diminutive assassins exist on the smaller end of the owl spectrum. At less than a foot tall, they’re tiny but tough. Deceptive in their appearance—bug-eyed, round, and perhaps even comical—make no mistake, though, they watch over their domain with the intensity of a bantamweight boxer. In The Hidden Lives of Owls, Leigh Calvez describes the burrowing owl as having a “meerkat-like charisma.”

As the name implies, they live in burrows. They’ll dig their own in places like Florida and Brazil, but in California, they typically repurpose the abandoned dens of badgers or ground squirrels: a strategic choice, providing them an ideal vantage point to hunt rodents, beetles, and other insects at ground level. Their preferred habitats include wide-open grasslands, agricultural expanses, and even shorelines. Golf courses, airports, and military bases have become surprisingly perfect territories for these owls as other open spaces are lost to development.

And burrowing owls aren’t exclusively creatures of the night. In the Bay Area, you can see them at all hours of the day. Moreover, migratory owls often return to specific locations year after year. So, while they’re hard to find, if you do locate one, there’s a chance you’ll be able to witness their activities again next winter. A word of caution, though: if you’re fortunate enough to spot a burrowing owl, give them some space, especially if they appear scrunched up and low to the ground—they may be scared.

As I write these field notes, there are a few species of owls I’ve yet to find in the wild, including great gray owls (Strix nebulosa) and northern pygmy-owls (Glaucidium californicum). Many species, however, are declining in number despite the best efforts of wildlife biologists. Habitat loss and invasive species are partly to blame, but the misuse of rodenticide has had an unfortunately outsized impact on our owl population as poison travels up the food chain. No matter how irregularly we may see owls in the wild, they are essential in controlling rodent populations and maintaining our shared ecosystem. I hope this article inspires others to appreciate these incredible creatures and to champion their conservation.

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