“I please myself with the graces of winter scenery, and believe we are as much touched by it, as by the genial influences of summer”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
When I was young, my mom would read her favorite books to me and my brother before bedtime. One story that always stayed with me was “Owl Moon”, by Jane Yolen, about a father who takes his daughter owling on a cold winter night. My dad, always aware of, and familiar with nature, started taking me owling during the late fall and winter months on the land behind our house in Green Harbor. Before the Adelaide Way development off Webster Street was built, it was vast conservation land, previously owned by the world-renowned opera singer, Adelaide Philips. In the 1860s, and throughout the years, she and her extended family created a large estate with rare, elegant flowers, and several vegetable gardens and orchards. A garden conservatory on the property was also used to cultivate flowers for the outdoor markets in Boston. The Philips family employed cooks, housekeepers, coachman, and housed dogs and other animals on the property at any time. The Phillips’ were famous for the parties they hosted in their orchards, where attendees ate, drank, danced and listened to music. After the Philips house burned down in July, 1990, the land remained undeveloped and the landscape returned to its original state, making it the perfect place to go owling and escape with nature, as it had become an overflowing habitat for songbirds, white-tail deer, coyotes, red foxes, and turkeys.
One Friday evening, after a snowstorm in late December, my dad and I decide that it was a perfect night to go owling, the moon full and bright with a silverfish hue reflecting on the recently fallen snow. After a beef stew dinner and with no time to spare, we assemble our belongings. While sitting on the “Hitchcock bench”, as my dad always called it, we quickly put on our jackets, wool socks, snow boots, hats, and mittens. Ready to head out into the elements, my dad wisely puts extra logs in the wood stove to provide heat for my mom and brother while on our owling adventure. With the fire roaring, I remember being hesitant about leaving the warm comfort of our home, but my dad persuades me otherwise, and we head out the front door into the blustery night.
Windy and raw, with snow drifts up to twelve feet in some places, a scene reminiscent of the Hoth landscape in “Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back.” We maneuver through the snow, my dad making a path for me to follow with his footsteps; my two feet fit in only one of his deep footprints. Out on Putnam Street, we head toward the entrance of the Phillips land and High-Ts (utility power lines). We trudge by our good friend and neighbor’s, Steve Pineault, noticing smoke coming out of his chimney and bright Christmas lights attached to the trim. Through their glass window, we see a lively group enjoying food and drink.
The snow on the trail is pristine, undisturbed by humans, but we note a few traces of deer tracks. Following my dad closely, as windy snow wisps from swaying branches blow on my face, we zig-zag along the trail, doing our best to avoid the gully on the right shoulder. As I get too close, my dad pulls me back to the center of the trail, reminding me again to be careful, noting that a steep fall would be very unpleasant! Trekking deeper into the woods, the actual trail looking like a vast wilderness, my dad points out that my boot is untied. We stop to sit on a log that presumably serves as a bench, and I tie up my boot tight. He informs me we are looking for the Great Horned Owl, also known as the Hoot Owl, often heard around this time of year (December to February) calling out into the night “hoot-hoot” as they look for potential mates. Heading out for a clearing fifty yards away, I notice my dad cup his hands together, then begin shouting “Whoo-whoo” in a rhythmic fashion. Excited, I run up to try to copy his hoot and he moves his arm out to stop me in my tracks, putting his finger to his lips in silent communication for me to be quiet. Another “Whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo.” We wait a few minutes and move on, all the while listening to the stillness; the only sound the crunch of our boots as we compress the light fluffy snow into a compact wafer. Continuing on the trail into the open fields of the High T’s, he motions again to halt as I hear him rhythmically call out “whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo”; a moment passes, and another “whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo.” Again we wait and listen. Finally, like magic, I hear a faint “wooot-woot-woot-woot” in the distance. My dad looks at me, a satisfied smile on his face and I know he is asking me without using words if I heard the Great Horned Owl. I answer back with a smile of my own.
Sounding as if it was near the baseball fields, we follow the call of the owl toward Marshfield’s Webster’s Wilderness trail. Excited that the owl called back to us, we move quietly on to a hill at the power lines, leaving us with no woods or brush cover. With the moon shining brightly, reflecting off of the snow, the landscape looks peaceful and quiet, with no artificial light from cars, houses, or streetlamps. We look up at the stars, so clear and bright. My dad points out the Big Dipper, North Star, and a reddish orb in the distance that looks like a small marble, presumably Mars. Leaping ahead of me to a larger hill for a better view, he looks north and then south down the long stretch of power lines, stops for a moment and motions north, leading us to a stream and thick brush. Hidden momentarily from view now that we are backed up against the tree line, and muffled by the stream, my dad whispers, “I will start the call and when I am done, you try.” “Whoo-whoo.” One deep breath of fresh, crisp wintry air and then I cup my hands around my mouth and belt out “Whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo!” We wait. And then, still faint but closer this time, a return call; “Hoot-hoot-hoot-hoot” Again: “Hoot-hoot-hoot-hoot. My dad motions for me to follow, finally leading me on to the Webster’s Wilderness trail which abuts the youth baseball fields. Hiking through brush, iced over vernal pools, evergreens and oak trees, we find a clearing that brings us on to the official trail. A wooden marker with an arrow affixed to a tree reads: Marshfield Conservation Commission: Warren Harrington. The snow on this trail is different than near our house as there are a large number of animal tracks. Without cell phones, and the fallen snow making the ground indiscernible, we try to find our place on the trail. Spying the small pond where my dad and I used to catch painted turtles, the moon now shining on the crisp and sleek ice, my dad starts, “whoo-whoo-whoo!” Almost immediately we hear a return “woot-woot-woot-woot!” It is much closer now, and my dad motions me to follow. We are silent as we trudge to a clearing dotted with oak, maple, pine, and birch trees. He points to one of the tall pines as I try to make out a large pineapple-gargoyle like shadow perched on one of the highest branches. My dad gives me a quiet mitten high-five as we stare at the stoic figure until it lifts itself silently off the branch into the moonlit darkness.
We are lingering in the clearing, full of admiration for this rare and beautiful creature, until the eerie howl of coyotes that seem “too close for comfort” give us goosebumps. I glace at my dad, and without saying so, I know it is time for us to head home. We move quickly and quietly, back tracking our steps off of the trail and working through thick underbrush. Hearing the howls again I become nervous about the coyotes, but my dad assures me that they are likely farther away at the Daniel Webster Audubon Wildlife Preserve. My dad explains that they are more afraid of us than we are of them but hands me a walking stick, just in case. We pass the stream and after ten minutes make it back to the original Adelaide trail. We work uphill, minding the ledge and gully, retracing the footsteps made from just an hour ago. Finally, I see the faint green and red Christmas lights from the home of our good friend and neighbor, Steve Pineault. We pass the rock and are back on Putnam Street as we race to the front lawn and run up the front door. We are home, back to safety, comfort, and warmth.
Our cheeks red and out of breath, we find my mom rocking my brother to sleep and our dog Ben wagging his tail, presumably anticipating a treat. My dad throws some logs on the fire which hopefully, will keep us warm and toasty throughout the night. He opens a beer as we relax in comfy chairs, gazing up at the stars through the skylights. My mom brings me hot cocoa and I tell her of the Great Horned Owl and the coyotes, talking dreamily about going owling again. She is reading “Owl Moon” as I drift off to sleep.
