I have kept dogs all my life and have never been without at least one. But never in all those years have I ever had a dog that was so easy to live with as my old Brittany. He was not the most handsome dog in the world, but when he was younger he found game for the hawks and falcons. If you have read my articles on my ten years with my female sparrow-hawk you might have noticed that he was a huge part of that hunting team. Very few of the adventures we had hawking pheasants with the sparrow-hawk would have been possible without him. My male and female Harris hawks would not have put so many rabbits in the pot if it wasn’t for the four-legged one.

But time moves steadily on. I have a young Brittany bitch now that I bred. She is full of beans and mischief and my hopes for our future is that she turns out to be half as useful as the old dog was.

Tom.

 I lost my good female Harris Hawk “Martha” the other evening. It was five o’clock and the rabbits were just starting to pop their little heads out into the evening sunshine to feed. Just like I had done a hundred times before, I unloaded herself from the jeep, quietly closed over the door and snuck over the brow of a certain little hill to let her see the rabbits feeding below. The hill dropped steeply down to a laneway and there was a thick old hawthorn hedge bordering the grassy field where rabbits were plentiful. As soon as we peered over the hill a half-grown bunny high-tailed in across the lane toward cover and off she went in pursuit.

It was a typical downward glide flight. A couple of strong flaps to get herself in motion, then she set her wings and glided steadily on a direct course for her target. Not the most exciting of flights but it can be very effective, as from the rabbit’s point of view there is very little moving to catch its eye, and then it’s nearly too late as the hawk is upon it and the rabbit must act extremely fast if it wants to survive, and this is exactly what happened in this case. The rabbit ran, she tried her best, but she missed and I saw her standing on the ditch by the lane under a large sycamore tree.

And this is where things went wrong.

Usually when she misses a rabbit, she would rouse, or shake her feathers back into place, and fly back up the hill to me. It is a steep hill as I mentioned and she has to stop at least once on the way back as there is usually a downdraught that hinders her. As all the rabbits in view had already scarpered for cover, I decided to drive down, pick her up and continue along the lane in the hope of a more successful flight.

But when I turned the jeep and drove down to meet her, she was gone.

She would usually fly back in the jeep window to me, but as there was no sign of her, I stepped out and turned off the engine so I could hear her bell.

Nothing.

I walked along the ditch, whistling as I went.

Nothing.

I found a gap and climbed over the barbed wire fence and checked the other side of the hedge.

Again, nothing.

Strange.

I stood and listened for the tinkle of a bell, knowing she could not be too far away.

Nothing.

Very strange.

I walked the length of the ditch and up along the hill where she had often caught rabbits before. The grass was long now and could easily hide a hawk but there was still no bell to be heard. The nearest ditch was a hundred yards away on the other side of the field so I took out my lure and swung to call her back.

Absolutely nothing.

Then I heard crows. Mostly rooks which sounded upset at something and then I heard the familiar raucous calls of both hooded crows and magpies joining in. It has always been my theory that when these crows gang up together it is something well worth investigating. But the trouble here was that they were mobbing something hundreds of yards away on the other side of an eight foot high perimeter fence nicely topped off with a double row of barbed wire. And on the other side of this fence was a stud farm, where beautiful Arabian horses gambolled and grazed in the evening sunshine. As I mentioned earlier, Martha is my “good” Harris Hawk, probably the best I have ever flown, but there is one thing that she absolutely loathes, and that is horses of any kind.

I remember once she landed on a tree in a ditch and right below her on the other side, unseen by me, was a donkey that suddenly brayed its heart out and frightened Martha enough that she took off and would not return to me for half an hour. 

So there I was peering through tiny gaps in the perimeter fence and not being able to see a thing, so I brought the jeep around, climbed up of top of it and swung the lure.

Again nothing.

There was only one thing I could do and that was to drive the two miles around and find the closest point on the road to where I thought she was, or at least to where the crows were busy noisily mobbing something.

 So I took note of the landscape, particularly the electric pylons which lucky enough gave me a good landmark to work with, and hurried around to the place in question where they crossed the road on the other side of the farm, and guess what I found?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

Even the crows had stopped their chattering and had moved on. By this stage I was starting to worry and went over everything in my head that could have gone wrong.

I had seen her miss the rabbit, had not seen her fly but I had been turning the jeep and driving down to meet her.

Had she taken off again from the ground, flown the two hundred yards up and over the high fence, across the field to where I heard the crows?

Had she time to?

Maybe she had but it was so unlike her that I thought it strange.

I phoned a friend that lived nearby and he came to give me a hand. Now if you have ever looked for a hawk by yourself, with darkness looming and the thought that if she has caught another rabbit and is still on the ground when the foxes are hunting during the night, you know that another pair of eyes and ears and a fresh outlook can be only a good thing.

But it’s not just that. It is having company to stop despair from setting in. The thoughts of losing her were bad enough without thinking about a fox finding her in the darkness, still on her rabbit and chomping both her and the rabbit remains.

So with darkness fast approaching and having searched for five hours, I finally decided to call it a day. It was a beautiful evening; even my own personal black cloud over me could not hide that fact. There was still no breeze as I had a final look along the lane, under the sycamore tree where I had last seen her. She knew the area this side of the perimeter fence well and as I approached the tree for the last time, I had a mental image of her sitting there waiting for me, with a full crop of freshly eaten rabbit and one foot raised in contentment.

But it was not to be.

I drove home with that black cloud hovering over me, thinking everything through yet again, wondering if I had overlooked the obvious and hoping that suddenly it would all come clear to me what exactly had gone wrong and where I would find her. I thought too about the amount of hours and days, months and years I had spent training and flying her; of simple misses and the spectacular catches she had made.

I have other hawks; I even have other Harris hawks, but none like her, not one I would miss half as much as I was going to miss her.

I barely slept that night and after only a couple of hours of unsettled sleep I set off again to meet the dawn and resume the search. I knew I was in for a soaking as the dew was heavy on the grass and the sun had not risen enough yet to burn it off. I knew also that I would trudge the same paths and search the same places as I had the evening before and I also knew that with every step over the same ground, despair would engulf me more and more. The longer she was out and the longer I had no clue where she was, the deeper and blacker my mood would become. The more time elapsed giving her time to put more distance between us, the higher the chances were that I would never see her again.

I drove to the top of the hill where I had flown her from, looked out over the misty early morning landscape and said to myself “F**k, she could be anywhere!”

But I had to continue searching regardless.

The obvious place to start was where I had last seen her. So with the sun rising and my mood sinking I drove down the hill and along the lane.

Before I even parked up I could see she was in the sycamore tree; a black silhouette in the morning sun. Oh happy days!

I am not a jumpy around kind of guy; never one to shout or scream with joy, throw fists into the air and make up victory dances on the spot. But if I was, believe me that’s where the dances of jubilation would have taken place; in a back lane at dawn with a well fed hawk as an audience.

I called her down, and gave her some food as a treat, though she could barely fit in another bite. Even after her thirteen hours of feeding since I had last set eyes on her, she couldn’t fit in another thing and had a crop of food on her which gave her chest a look that the girls of the Hefner mansions would be proud to bear. Her crop was full to absolute capacity.

That she had caught a rabbit was obvious. But had she caught it immediately after I had seen her miss one?

Had she flown up the sycamore tree and dived on one below, which is what I think happened. But why had I not heard the bell in the ensuing scuffle?

Had she spotted a rabbit in the ditch below that was already dead maybe? 

Had she jumped up the branches of the tree in the dark to be found the next morning or had she come back from somewhere, looking for me with a full crop? I doubted it, but what were the crows mobbing with such enthusiasm a minute after I lost her?

Anyway I have her back now and I will never know. I can only give an educated guess.

If I had not made such an effort I might never have seen her again.

Maybe it’s what falconry is all about, or anything else we put our time into; when things go good, life is brilliant, but when things go wrong, it really does feel like the end of the world.

Another day in the life of an Irish falconer!

Tommy Byrne.

If everyone loved the same things, if everyone agreed on everything and thought the same the world would be a less colourful and interesting place, so this surely can only be a good thing.

Since the first Harris Hawks were introduced into the falconry circle just a few decades ago this species really has taken the world by storm, shouldering aside the Goshawk and the American Redtail to make a large space for itself in both Irish and world falconry. It is by a long stretch the most commonly flown raptor today. People that could not otherwise have the time to put into a daily hawking regime can now have a bird that can fit into their lives; with an hour spare here and there and a morning out at the weekend People that do not have the time to train and manage the old traditionals like Goshawks and Merlins can now classify themselves as falconers and enjoy their time doing it.

The old adage that if you don’t have the time you should not have the hawk, still holds true and always will, but what of these Harris Hawks that are not flown every day like the books tell us they should be?

I personally would be in favour of people flying their birds when they can. Every falconer knows that you get back from your bird what you put into it. Of course if the bird spends ninety per cent of its life tethered to a bow perch with nothing more to look at than a brick wall, this to me is wrong. If the same bird sits free in an aviary until it is weathered and bathed on the lawn, with visual stimulation such as a dog or even the crazy neighbours to keep an eye on, this is a major improvement. Harris Hawks are intelligent and need mental stimulation even more so than most raptors, because in the wild they live in family groups and getting constant stimulation from the other group members is very important.

Harris Hawks do have a reputation for being noisy. There are two reasons for this and both stem from the fact that they live in groups or packs. Firstly, in the wild they are constantly calling back and forth to each other to hold the pack together, and holding the pack together is important because as a group they work together and if there is game to be caught the chances of catching that prey is multiplied by being a member of such a group. Each member of the pack has a role to play, some entering cover to flush the prey while others wait on above to do the actual catching. Secondly, because the young birds live in a group they are able to mentally mature slower than solitary hunters such as Redtails and Goshawks. They stay with the pack, learning skills and techniques from the older wiser birds and if they don’t make a kill it’s not the end of the world for them as they can still feed from the kills the pack makes. This slow maturity in the hands of a novice falconer; if he keeps his mentally immature Harris Hawk hungry for too long, can and in most cases will, lead to him having a screamer on his hands. And unless you have experienced this first-hand, take my advice and try to avoid it at all costs.

As I said earlier the more time you spend with your hawk the better she will be. On my key-ring is the ring from my old male Harris Hawk that I had for over a decade. He came to me after his first owner could stand his incessant squawking no longer. He came to me and immediately shut up as we hunted nearly every day and lamped pigeons most evenings in the nearby trees when winter kicked in. It is because of this bird that my kids lick their lips every time pigeon is on the menu.  

There are bad Harris Hawks about. Being so easy to breed and hence so readily available, and the fact that they are often cited as being the ideal beginners hawk, the amount of ruined Harris Hawks about is bound to be high. If they are not taken and handled at the right age, they can be an absolute nightmare to work with. A totally wild goshawk would not compare to a Harris Hawk that has it in his head that he does not want to be anywhere near you. So if I can offer some advice to the potential Harris Hawk keeper (and I do this only because I have made nearly every mistake going), let it be this;  Firstly, don’t just get one because one is available, prepare and book your bird long in advance and make sure you take her at the proper age. And secondly, even after spending as much time out and about with other Harris hawkers, make sure you have an experienced falconer to hand that can help and guide you through the maze of training your first bird.

This species is very intelligent and so easily trained in the right hands.

This species is very intelligent and so easily ruined in the wrong hands.

A good Harris Hawk is an absolute joy to spend time with. Because of its different and varied hunting styles it can probably put more game in the bag than most other hawks after a morning out walking the hills.

I have seen old school traditional falconers, men that would argue against these easy flown hawks, where the mere idea of hunting in a group goes totally against the grain and where the flying of falcons rules supreme. I had heard them putting Harris Hawks down time and time again. But I have watched them sit on a hilltop in Ireland on a breezy day and totally enjoy the spectacle of a dog below them working cover for rabbits while two or more Harris Hawks circled the skies above, diving and stooping down like a bullet to catch its prey or sometimes after every effort has been made and the bunny runs free, to watch a hawk climb on the rising air again and prepare for the next chase. Like the two old hecklers in the Muppet Show they had spent years shooting down any virtues of these “Mexican Chickens”. But out on that hill, these old falconers had to admit that maybe, just maybe, the Harris might have something to offer that is very special indeed.

Tom.

I am an avid bird-watcher, but I also like to catch hooded crows, and it’s not everyday that one gets a chance at this most wily of prey. Due to the fact that the two crows were feeding under the brow of the slope, this allowed me good sneaking room along the top.

Quietly I opened the door and slunk out, quietly I nipped ‘round to the back of the jeep and quietly took out the female Harris. As I ducked down and tip-toed along the top of the slope I could hear the Pink Panther theme tune in my head and had to glance around quickly to make sure no one was watching. After mentally gauging the distance and figuring I was in the right place with the two crows just below me I nudged the Harris over the edge.

She is a good bird and caught many crows over her two years, and has even taken large herring gulls on occasion, so I knew she was well able to handle either of the two corvids. Having kept hooded crows and ravens as pets when I was young I have a sneaking respect for both, but especially the formidable raven, so mentally I hoped she would catch the hooded crow and I would give her a good feed up before the next rain shower came.

The Harris Hawk went over the hill like a bullet. With a loud squawk of pure fright the hoody took off first. The raven, being bigger was just that bit slower off the mark, and with the hawk catching up fast it looked to me like a done deal with one less raven in the world.

 Ravens are an extremely aerial bird and are also seriously powerful on the wing as anyone that has spent time with one can confirm. This raven was no exception and it twisted out of the first grasp of the hawk. The Harris missed first time but it was obvious the raven was doomed.

Then it happened. The raven dropped whatever it was carrying; the thing it had been feeding on was still in its beak as it took off and my Harris suddenly changed direction and caught it in the air before it hit the ground. Of course the two crows shouted abuse as they flew of unscathed to feed another day. I was left thankful there were no other fellow falconers watching my feeble attempt at outwitting a crow!

As they say; “There is many a slip between cup and lip!”

Another day in the life of an Irish falconer.

Tom

I just happened to be out exercising a falcon some weeks back, when I noticed someone watching me from a distance. After the bird had flown and was back up and feeding on the fist, the person approached and commented on how graceful the bird was, and what a pleasure it was to see him being put through his paces.  

The sun shone on both events and you would not have seen such an array of cameras and lenses at a Paris fashion show.  My female harris hawk stole the show as usual, flying over the crowd and catching her pretend bunny pulled by a child that tried to outrun a hunting hawk!

Everyone enjoyed handling the hawks and having their pictures taken, so I think all went away happy after their day with the birds of prey. All in all a very good atmosphere and a couple of very enjoyable days.

Tom

Sparrowhawk

The black cloud is darker today. It’s August and the sun is shining but I can feel the weight of a cloud hanging over me as I take her up in my hands. I know she is gone as I hold her weakened body, her feathers perfect and her eyes once so bright and menacing are fading fast as she looks at me.
I have kept birds all my life, birds of all kinds, from Appenzellars to Zebra finches, but exactly ten years and ten weeks ago I climbed a spruce tree to select a young sparrowhawk, a couple of ounces of fluff and talons that was to give me more pleasure, pain, fun and adventure than all the other birds put together, and here she was dying in my hands. I gave her a broad base anti-biotic knowing it was already too late, as some part of her body was giving up and it could reasonably be put down to old age. I placed her back on her nest ledge already knowing the outcome. I looked in a little while later and she was dead, the musket sitting beside her, doing his high speed laps around the aviary as I went in and lifted her body again.

I really felt miserable, and if someone had walked into my yard today and offered to take the other birds away, the aviaries and freezers, my old weighing scales and my scruffy hawking bag, I think I would gladly have walked away from the lot. Alice was over a decade old it was obvious this day was drawing near, and I know I let it affect me where I should have been stronger. But the thing is, I really liked the old she-devil, and this is probably where I get laughed at, I know for a fact she liked me. Each day she would come down to me, taking her food from my fingers before flying back up to her nest ledge to consume her meal. Often times she would call from her ledge and fly to the front bars for me to caress her plumage.

Owning and working animals in the field can teach you so much. I grew up with terriers, lurchers and ferrets, I spent more time in a ditch than a disco. I have sat up trees late into the night waiting for badgers to emerge from their setts, crawled out of bed at four in the morning to watch fox cubs play until the vixen returns with food. I’ve watched stoats hunting and pygmy shrews fight over disputed territories. I witnessed a wild merlin ring up after a winter lark, each trying to outlast the other as the victor, one for its meal and one for its life. But the very best insights into the world around us were, for me, those days in the field with Alice. To see her hunting techniques in action, not just the Sparrowhawks amazing speed and agility of the straight forward snatch and grab flights, but the indirect pre-planned (this pre-planning took all of a second) flights that took her away from the quarry to make the most of the wind or some hedgerow or building or just about anything that could give her an advantage before the lightning fast and fearless strike.

One flight that sticks in my memory was many years ago when out on the hill behind my house. The dog had flushed and re-flushed a pheasant but Alice had only acquired feathers in the strikes as it was an old strong bird and after the second put-in there was no sign of it as the dog searched the area under where Alice had taken stand in a large beech tree. As I was extricating myself from the undergrowth I heard a blackbird cluck to my left and simultaneously the gentle sound of a hawk bell high up the tree to my right. I looked up to see Alice in a direct glide down to where see had spied the blackbird. This path took her right past my face and just before her wingtip brushed my skin I stared into her eyes, literally stared into her eyes as she came past, visually locked onto her prey. In those seconds she was totally oblivious to me and the rest of the world around her, seeing nothing but her prey and not wavering her stare even as her yellow eyes passed mine with only inches between. It was not until she had chased, snatched and missed her intended prey that I remembered to breathe again.

My hawking dog is old and deaf now; I have to stamp my boot on the ground to get his attention. His time will come too and I know I will miss him about the place just as sure as I know I will start all over again someday with another dog. Only this week I was offered a pup by a well-bred bitch that I like the look of. She belongs to a friend that I would never have even met if it were not for Alice. The smallest thing can change the direction of a life and I can only wonder where it might have led had that nest been empty all those years ago.

I dug a whole between two recently planted apple trees, their first fruit turning red as I break through the dry earth. Her plumage is perfect after her moult, a far cry from her early hunting seasons, catching crows, pheasants and magpies and smashing up her tail in the process. I jokingly referred to her as the Raggety-Hawk in those days as I endlessly imped and re-imped rook feathers to repair her tail. I also remember the first time she encountered sheep-fencing. It was stretched tight across the field ready and waiting to slice her up into a four inch square. I put my hands to my face to block out her obvious doom, but as I looked through my fingers I saw her fold back her wings and slip through to catch her prey, I needn’t have worried even if I had time to. My heart forever after skipped a beat when she performed this neat little trick.

She really was a tough old girl. I unfolded her feet as I laid her down in the earth. These tiny feet had held fast to a herring gulls neck as the gull’s beak had encircled her body. I have seen her turn upside down in full flight trying to snatch at lapwings. I have seen her quickly grasp a swallow in mid-air. She regularly took crows down to earth, crows over twice her weight that took to the skies and thought they were safely away from the little menace.
I unfolded and extended each talon until I came to her damaged right outside toe. I often likened flying a Spar to sea fishing. Fresh water fly-fishing is like flying a falcon at a single prey, selecting your fly to match the seasons insect hatch, intending your lure for only your pre-selected trout or salmon and no other, specialised stuff indeed. When I was younger I spent hours throwing a baited line into the sea not knowing what was to come out, and this is what Sparrow-hawking is to me, you throw in your line, you cast off your Sparrow-hawk and after that you really don’t know what’s going to happen, all hell can break loose and you can forget your specialised pre-planned hunting intentions. I once came home after a day’s crow hawking with three pheasants that needed treatment for shock and a good feed! But Alice did specialise and if she knew more about one prey than any other it was crows, hundreds upon hundreds of rooks fell to her grasp, on the ground or from the air, if she was on form she was nothing short of lethal. Local farmers used to ask me to swing by if it was not too much trouble. She has caught hooded and carrion crows and I have seen her give a raven a slap before wisely turning away. But it was a magpie that cut her tendon. It was my fault and mine alone, as I removed her from yet another magpie to carry on the hunt for more exciting prey. When a Spar hits its victim the adrenalin rush must be enormous as the only thing that exists is the flight, the capture and the killing of that prey, and only as she plucks her quarry can you see the adrenalin subside and some kind of calm return. This day I rushed things and slid her clenched talons off the magpie’s head and along its open beak, and in the process a tendon was severed. It took me three courses of different anti-biotics to kill that infection and left her with a useless toe, but as far as I could make out it never affected her catching ability.

There is a very narrow lane near where I live, with a gate to a grassy field that usually holds a flock of sheep and where I got many a flight over the years. On one particular day I came to this gate and off she went after a magpie, (a quarry she found irresistible). She closed the gap quickly as the magpie sought refuge under the only cover available: a sheep. Now I don’t know about you but some flights I can see and remember every detail in slow motion, and this is one of them. The magpie closed the distance between itself and the sheep but knew it was losing ground. Alice was locked on like a heat-seeking missile and the magpie knew he was in trouble. He let out a final squawk as he looked over his shoulder at his approaching doom. If he hadn’t taken that look and concentrated on where he was going, he might have succeeded in diving under the sheep as he intended Instead, he hit the sheep right in the arse as Alice hit him. It was the combined force of the two birds striking the sheep in such a tender area and the obvious fright causing it to leave the ground all four feet at the same time that made me laugh that day, and causes me to grin every time I pass that particular gate.

Another day, out in the car I passed her to a friend and told him to fly her. We set up a flight at a flock of mixed crows and he rolled the car window down as we approached. His face took on an unusual expression and I asked him was he ok.
“My heart is beating out of my chest” was his reply.
I knew exactly what he meant as I had experienced it so many times. Nine ounces of calm brown feathers sitting relaxed but alert on your fist, and in a split second of her choosing, she turns into nine ounces of muscle, spit and venom, with a mission that lasts only seconds, knowing absolutely anything could happen as soon as she leaves that glove.

I know from the many days out hunting with her, getting her weight and condition just right, that even after all my planning we could still have a blank day or something unforeseeable could go wrong. She was a full imprint it was not uncommon for her to blame me when things didn’t go exactly to plan. Either way it was always exciting, I used to always say that it was these bad days that made the good days so good. But today as I laid her down for the last time and covered her little body with soil I wonder was it the good days that makes these bad days so unbearable.

Why do we do it to ourselves? Should we be hard as stone and just use creatures as tools for our enjoyment? The trouble is I could never do that, if I could I know the bad days would be easier but the good ones would not give me such a high. Seeing a bird I reared and trained, learning to fly, learning to use the air and wind, learning to strike and learning and improving with each miss, this is what does it for me, as I feel I am part of all this. I get pleasure in watching a falcon rouse in the sky. I get pleasure in seeing a hawk that last week could not stand to be near me now bobbing its head in anticipation of my company. Am I a foolish soft Git? Am I being overly sensitive or sentimental about a bird? Most likely I am. But some things touch some folk more than others and after a decade I find it hard not to be affected.

Alice was just a normal Sparrowhawk. They are all beautiful and fearless with an endless capacity to amaze, ounce for ounce, there is no other falconry bird to rival them for bravery and excitement.
I filled back in the earth and rolled back the grass sod, it was as if nothing had been touched.

T Byrne 2006

‘Hello, my name is …………, I want to get into falconry and I was half thinking of getting a …….

(in this space put anything from a bat falcon to a lammergeyer), but, the only birds available seem to be redtails and harris’s. Are these good beginners birds?’

This type of phone call is getting more common (which is OK by me), but before giving my usual answer of yes and no, I’ll try to explain.

The following is written for those contemplating their first Redtail or Harris Hawk.

These two have become the most popular hunting birds in Ireland today and have largely replaced the more traditional goshawk for a few good reasons:

1. They are easier to breed in captivity than goshawks (eunuchs are probably easier to breed than goshawks and tend not to eat their partner).
2. The quantity and quality of handling at the start, to properly man or tame the bird is not so intense with a Harris or redtail. They are very calm and relaxed compared to goshawks and spars.
3. They suit most people’s modern lifestyle and don’t have to be flown every day, although obviously the more hunting the bird does the better the bird will be.
4. Harris’s and Redtails can be flown and hunted over any type of terrain available in Ireland.
   Like the goshawk and sparrowhawk and unlike the common buzzard (which was the traditional British bird for the beginner) the Harris and Redtail will catch things, edible things, game for the kitchen.
5. Rabbits, pheasants, partridge, grey squirrel, ducks and moorhens are some of the tasty items on the menu for these two hawks.
6. These two species are opportunists, you go hunting but you don’t know what’s going to end up in the bag at the end of the day. (I’ve recently seen my old female Harris dive like an osprey from thirty feet or more into a deep pond after what I presume was a frog).

If you want to fly a sparrowhawk or goshawk don’t get a Harris or Redtail as a stepping stone, a bird to make your mistakes with and then pass on to some poor unfortunate. If you want a Gos, get a Gos, if you want a spar, get a spar, (be very careful here with weight control and diet). The enthusiasm of a serious beginner for his or her first bird should not be wasted on a bird they are not going to keep. Young Harris’s and Redtails are not very fast to mature, lack the size and weight of the adult and so are rarely at their best in the first year. In other words they only get better and better.

Let’s take for granted you are going to choose one of these two species and keep it forever or until one of you expires.

Redtails.

This species is orientated mostly towards ground quarry. The braver females can take hares, but don’t count on it; the Irish hare is no sissy. Both sexes will take squirrel (not everyone’s first choice for main course). Both will take pheasant and other birds if they spot them on the ground, but in Ireland this species really excels at rabbits. The females will usually hold every rabbit they come in contact with, but being bigger won’t be as quick off the mark as the smaller male. The male won’t hold every rabbit it hits, but if you are going ‘rough shooting’ with the chance of the odd rabbit, pheasant, squirrel or moorhen then the male may be the more exciting option.

Redtails are said to have two bad faults, being moody and being footy. The so-called ‘moodiness’ (sitting up a tree and refusing to come down) usually comes after a failed attempt at quarry. A Redtail in the wild may sit for hours on a tree or post waiting for some creature to pass below, it will then dive down and try catch it, and if it fails goes back up on the post to wait for it’s next victim. So you can see where they get the patience. Good initial training and giving large rewards after each failed attempt will keep this problem to a minimum. The other problem is ‘footiness’ or striking out at your ungloved hand. This is something you definitely want to avoid, as the Redtail, so the experts tell us and I agree, has a stronger grip for its size than any other bird. A lot of the time this problem arises from food association, the bird is tit-bitted from the right hand or it sees food being passed to the glove. In other words don’t let the ungloved right hand be associated in the bird’s brain with food.

Most Americans choose the Redtail as their first bird, their only other choice is the kestrel (which can be trained to hunt starlings and other small birds, but won’t fill your larder). They have to trap their own ‘passage’ bird – a bird strong on the wing and killing for itself. The bird’s next stage is to be tamed by man, one of its only enemies. These passage birds always carry a slight fear or respect for man, aviary-bred eyasses have never had this initial fear. So the American’s tame their already hunting hawk, whereas we try to teach our tame hawk to hunt.
What you are trying to achieve with your aviary-bred Redtail is:
1.Reduce her (or his) weight as quickly as possible to get her trained and killing for herself and to stop looking to you for food.
2. Reduce her weight as slowly as possible to avoid sudden hunger, sustained hunger can bring on bad habits. So you can see, as with any other hawk, it’s a fine balancing act.

Flying Redtails is an under-rated past-time. They have a bigger heart and crash into cover that would deter most other raptors, when they go for it they really give all they have. Some of my best memories have been with my female, hunting rabbits on the mountains of Wicklow, with the dog working below us on a bright and bitter winter’s morning.
I was once quoted as saying ‘flying Redtails is like puberty, everyone has to go through it’. I don’t believe that anymore.

Harris hawks.

Named by Audubon after one of his cronies, also called the bay-winged hawk, this hawk has picked up a few other names along the way, like ‘Mexican chicken’. The Harris is taking over as Ireland’s most popular falconry bird. It can be the nicest of birds – I have a photograph of my three year old daughter sharing a bow perch and hugging my female Harris (don’t try this at home folks, you’ll get chocolate all over your hawk). It can also be the nastiest of birds – a friend has a nice little scar under his eye after a Harris hawk took a definite dislike to him.

The one thing the Harris has in its favour is the fact that in the wild they hunt in a pack. Now, this is no small thing, it not only means that you can fly two or more Harris’s together, it also means that you are viewed as a member of the pack as is the ferret and dog (be careful here and socialise all together first). It also means that the Harris naturally follows when you’re walking (to keep up with the pack), where the Redtail (usually a solitary hunter) needs a little bit of training to do this.

Most people that put Harris Hawks down (usually those that haven’t flown one), say they only fly half-heartedly at quarry. There are two reasons why it might seem to be so. With a well trained Harris hawk there is a big difference between its actual hunting weight and its top safe flying weight (up to 12% in my two birds). So the Harris that looks as if it’s putting every effort into catching, only to refuse easily taken prey is usually a bit high in weight and doesn’t want the struggle all on it’s own – if this was a pack situation it would have all the help it needed. So weight control needs careful attention if you want to catch dinner. The other reason Harris’s fly half-heartedly is a simple but effective hunting technique, soaring away, minding her own business, (impersonating a vegetarian), then suddenly performing a spectacular wing-over and diving on some unsuspecting prey.

Like most other creatures that hunt in a pack, Harris Hawks are vocal, from near silent to downright noisy, so the age to take your Harris can be a problem. Cut a very young bird’s weight too low too quick and you could have a screamer on your hands, (a noise that can drive you over the edge), leave it in the aviary too long and you will definitely have your work cut out just to tame the beast. Some breeders leave young with parents until November, twenty five to thirty weeks old. No thanks!

Tom and Jennifer Coulson, who hunt a pack of Harris’s say that 15 to 20 weeks old is the perfect age. Martin Hollinshead says very soon after hard penning (all feathers fully grown). My female was taken at this latter stage, was noisy for her first season (which I had to cut short to save my sanity), she is the sweetest bird to handle and quietly vocal only if anything strange is about.

Female Harris hawks are powerful enough to handle any rabbit or pheasant, but in woodland the smaller faster male really shines. Where he might refuse that big fat rabbit sitting in the sunshine, a Harris can’t ignore anything moving about in cover. Some of the best fun I’ve had is in mature woodland with the male and female in the trees waiting for the Brittany to go on point, after the flush it is pure chaotic fun!

Harris hawks at the right weight are lions in lamb’s clothing, my male and female have both taken cats, something to avoid for the birds’ sake. I know of two instances where females have struck large dogs; assault with intent.

So as you can see, Redtails and Harris Hawks are a force to be reckoned with, but are they a good beginner’s bird?
Well…….. … yes and no!

Tommy Byrne 1998.