A Great Horned Owl Saved

By Kathleen St. Clair-McGee

Photos by  F.E.B. Jones for AHWF

One morning not long ago, I got a phone call from a woman who had found a great horned owl that had been traumatized by a passing truck on a road near Sandpoint. It was a familiar story, as I’m a wildlife rehabilitator with many years of experience handling wild animals.

I listened to the rescuer, quickly gathered the assorted medical items that might be needed, and prepared an area to house the large nocturnal bird of prey. Unfortunately, no wildlife ambulance was available for dispatch on this day, nor could I locate a taxi driver. The rescuer understood, but she had to go to work. She recruited a family member to bring the bird to me.

It was a day off for my university student summer intern and there were no other trained volunteers scheduled for that day. The group I founded, the American Heritage Wildlife Foundation, has permits from both the state and federal governments, but I receive no salary and have a paying job elsewhere.

For one person to restrain, examine, and medicate a wild creature is a challenge that’s compounded when the animal has intimidating talons for survival and defense. Thankfully, the family member who brought the owl was able to help me with the examination.

If the owl could speak, I can imagine what it would have said about the evening of the accident. The air was brisk that night for summer. Neither moon nor stars shone because of cloud cover. Only the bright lights of nearby Sandpoint offered illumination. The black asphalt of the road melted into the night. Being attuned to the sounds of nature all around was a necessity for the owl. The slight breeze would not have disturbed it, but the sound of the highway would.

Listening for the subtle sounds of movement amidst the rumbling and roar of traffic had become increasingly difficult over the years. Fields were the best places to find food but the roadways often bisected them. Yet all types of animals had to cross the roads, which made prey more easily visible.

Just as the owl spotted a mouse and swooped down to capture it, an intense beam of light blinded it. Trapped in the middle of the road, its only possible response was to make itself as small as possible. The driver of the car went by, seemingly oblivious.

As the owl was about to take flight, the ground shook slightly and a horn sounded, accompanied by the rumbling of a large diesel engine. Once again blinded by the bright lights of an oncoming vehicle, the owl froze in place. The noise was deafening as the eighteen-wheeler passed over the bird. The driver had positioned the tires to miss the owl, but the gust of wind caused the bird to tumble and turn without control, like a leaf falling from a tree.

Stunned and in pain, it could not move. Then came a set of headlights, followed by the footsteps of a human walking toward it. The sound of a horn. A voice. Another car passing. Finally, a blanket was placed over the bird and it was gently picked up.

The owl was placed in a car and brought to the rescuer’s home. She secured the bird in a crate so it could settle down. It was not bothered by peering eyes or loud noises. The next morning, it was taken to a place with other wild animals.

The people there knew how to hold the bird so it would not hurt them. They knew what medication would ease its pain and ensure infection did not begin. The owl was given nutritious food and appropriate shelter. As it recovered from its injuries and grew stronger, it was moved into a larger area where it could strengthen its wings. It was not bothered except for a few times a day when the area was cleaned and fresh food offered.

The owl unhooded.

Readjusting to it habitat.

Watching the photographer.

Ready for flight.

Free again.

That’s a somewhat anthropomorphic description of how the owl might perceive its experience, but what about the person who rescued it? Of course, that’s easier to know. Late one night, when she was heading home from work in less-than-ideal driving conditions, she noticed an owl standing in the middle of the highway.

Uncertain if the animal had been struck or potentially fatally injured, the alert driver pulled over to the side of the road and walked back to check on the bird. She hoped perhaps it had just grabbed a rodent and was about to fly off with its dinner.

Just as she got near, a large semi-truck came up the road. The rescuer moved safely to the side and could only brace for what would happen when a two-foot-tall bird met two tons of metal and rubber. The physics was inevitable. The driver couldn’t stop or swerve without fear of losing control of the vehicle, and yet this driver expertly navigated his rig to straddle the bird.

Although the owl was tossed and rolled by the force of the wind, it was not severely injured. When the rescuer approached the bird, it was in shock. She covered its head with a towel, took it to her car, and made sure the bird was secure for the short drive to her home. She did not want this large predatory creature to get overwrought while she was driving. To promote calm, she turned off the radio and made no loud noises.

Once home, she did the right thing. She placed the owl in a box in a quiet area of her home, where it was secure and would not be stressed more than it already had been. She did not force food or water on the bird or continue to disturb it by checking on it. She understood that wild animals subjected to close confinement with humans are always stressed.

They are not calmed by hands touching and constant watching. This woman did not search the internet for how to care for a wild owl or what to feed it, but she did look for a nearby licensed and experienced rehabilitator. Most states don’t have wildlife response teams—native animals harmed by humans usually must rely upon private citizens with caring hearts. 

Finally, what actually happened once the great horned owl was delivered to me by the volunteer driver? I can tell you that part from memory. Everything we needed was put in place and the two of us donned our personal safety equipment. Only then was the owl removed from the crate. It was twenty-two inches tall, weighed nearly five pounds, and had a wingspan greater than four feet.

We used extreme caution, especially near the feet. The talons are exceptionally sharp, long, and can exert up to twenty-eight pounds of force. We covered the bird’s head with a towel to help keep it calm while I did a quick but thorough examination. I paid special attention to the head. Owls do not turn their heads from side to side or up and down. Any movement in those positions would indicate broken bones.

It was very important to keep the time of handling to a minimum to avoid further life-threatening trauma. This raptor was young, most likely newly out on its own. Its weight was within acceptable range. It was suffering from a concussion as well as “road rash” on the legs and feet. I administered oral remedies and put balm on the wounds.

I then placed the bird in a limited-flight cage for observation over a few days. This area gave the animal limited movement while also enabling us to capture it to treat the wounds and provide more medicine. The patient needed recuperation, not more strain.

I filled out an intake form that documented the location in which the bird was found, the trauma sustained and assorted wounds, the remedies and frequencies of their application, the condition of the feathers, pupillary response, heart rate, range of motion of the limbs, and signs of parasites or disease.

Based on the weight of the bird and plumage, I determined its approximate age. Miraculously, there were neither broken bones nor severe internal hemorrhaging. The federal and state wildlife agency forms were filled out, which acknowledged that the patient had been admitted for care.

This owl was the first of three to be admitted that day.

While the bird did not appreciate the nearness of the caregivers when we provided medical treatments, neither did it aggressively defend itself. But as the bird of prey gained strength and returned to its senses, it became more challenging to treat. Over the next several weeks, the owl required daily care: changing bandages, administering antibiotics as well as other remedies, providing appropriate food items and perches to ensure that a condition called bumblefoot did not develop.

We paid attention to details of its behavior and added them to many other factors before we moved the patient into a large flight cage, where it could start its own physical therapy.

The bird still had to have ointment placed on the leg wounds, which for me was the most challenging and exciting aspect of its daily care. Safety first—especially with a bird with powerful feet and large talons as well as a sharp beak. I made sure I was geared up and ready for potential battle.

The first few days when the bird remained grounded, it had been possible to kneel down and use a long swab coated with herbal balm to wipe the wound. This ensured infection did not set in.

We also could provide the oral remedies with minimal stress. As the head trauma healed, I was pleased to see the bird perch and make small flights. Its appetite remained good, and there was no cause for concern. The owl continued to progress and recover. 

Once we confirmed that the injuries were healed, we had to determine that its ability to fly and grasp prey were unhindered. Other birds would need to be assessed for “weather proofing,” which is making sure that their feathers would protect their body from moisture. But owls are different.

Their feathers are soft, without a hard sheen, which allows them to fly silently. Their prey can’t hear the predator, yet even when the predator is in flight it can listen to the prey’s movements. Such silent flight comes with a cost: the feathers do not have the structure to keep moisture from seeping into the skin. This is why owls frequent large trees with branches that can provide shelter from heavy rains and wet snow.

When the day came to return this patient back to its home territory, we were exhilarated. The rescuer met with our volunteers where the owl had been found. The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue upon the tall grasses, bracken ferns, and leaves. The crate was covered until it was time to open the door.

With my hands heavily gloved, I reached in and removed the owl from the transport crate. I held up the large bird to view its surroundings. The usual response from a wild animal upon release is of complete focus on the habitat. Conversely, this bird remained focused on me for much of the time.

I remember a biologist talking about a fellow researcher who had tossed a great horned owl into the air only to have the bird come back at him with talons extended. “Intimidating” was the word that came to my mind.

But when this owl seemed to realize its holder was not the enemy and recognized the habitat, its talons loosened on my gauntlet gloves and it took flight. Our group watched it make a loop, curve to the left, and continue over a large open field toward a stand of tall evergreens.

Unless you have observed great horned owls in flight, it’s nearly unfathomable that wings of almost five feet would work in virtual silence. With a few flaps of its powerful wings the bird was aloft in the blue. It did not look back as it flew off towards the open field. We all watched until it was out of sight. We continued to wait for the low frequency vocalization, the whoot whoot, to carry over the vegetation, but it was not to be.           

The weeks of recovery, the cost of medications and food, the time spent on traveling to and from the facility, and all the other countless necessities to rehabilitate a wild animal injured through no fault of its own were forgotten. The sight of watching the great horned owl fly away removed all sorrows.

The act of returning a wild animal into the ecosystem where it belonged was a soothing balm for the broken hearts of all we have had to witness in the profession of wildlife rehabilitation.

This is the burden of a rehabber: we don’t cause the trauma that creates injury or orphans, but when we fail to find a cure, we accept the blame. When we cannot save that one individual, we have failed the planet. Thankfully, positive cases and stories of miraculous recoveries and family reunions do allow us, if only for the briefest moments, to replace the pain of failures with utter joy and awe. Nature heals. Nature connects.

Being a wildlife rehabilitator is not a glamorous path. It is not even a paid career for most who answer the calling. The people who make time in their lives to help wild animals who have been injured or orphaned are called saints by some and crazy by others. The reality is that ninety percent of all patients accepted for care are harmed from human causes.

The majority of the roughly five thousand people nationwide with the training, permits, and experience are volunteers. To accept the responsibility of caring for a wild animal, they must be available all day every day.

They become members of rehabilitators associations and councils, and they attend training courses and symposiums. Wildlife rehabilitation organizations are nonprofit and do not receive funding from state or federal government. In Idaho, there are only eight such rehab groups. Very few grants are available.

The only way these wild animals are helped in their time of need is by caring citizens who give their time, talents, and treasure. Those who care for mammals, reptiles, and amphibians must have state agency permission. Those who help birds must also obtain federal wildlife service migratory bird department authorization. There must be suitable enclosures for the patients, including areas that encourage normal behaviors. 

Wildlife rehabilitators are important for communities. They not only are the sole lifeline of a wild animal in need, they also offer answers to questions about wild animal behavior and resolve conflict situations. No other agency provides solutions on how to humanely evict or cohabitate with our wild native neighbors.

Live traps are not the answer. Wildlife rehabilitators collect data, contribute to research and collaborate with biologists. We are on the front lines in identifying population trends and emerging diseases. It was a wildlife rehabber who first recognized that the avian influenza virus can cross over and infect mammal species.

The act of caring for one single animal and returning it to nature may not have value to some, but to us, when that one individual is allowed to again contribute to the ecosystem, it’s priceless. It takes a village to save a life. Your local rehabber needs you.

But rather than me saying so, let’s give the last word to the great horned owl of our story. It didn’t know how many days had gone by, but one day the humans entered its area with a net. They captured the bird, placed it in a crate, and covered it with a blanket. It was loaded into a truck and the crate was carried into a field.

When the owl’s head was uncovered, it looked around and recognized the field where it was raised and called home. The people standing nearby were respectful. They kept their distance and didn’t yell or crowd up for endless photographs.

The gloved hands held up the bird and showed it around. It wanted to get away as fast as possible. As it silently flew away, the owl did not look back. It once again was wild and free.